Cockpitting

After two years in the male-male paradise of Bangkok, a short assignment to Okinawa, Japan, seemed, for most of my tour, like entering a monastery. I was supposed to rotate directly back to the States with my SR71 supersonic photoreconnaissance unit, but the North Koreans were acting up on the DMZ, and the government wanted an intense look-see at whether or not they were building their troop strength up near the border. The flying from Kadena Airbase was fine, but, as far as sexual release, Okinawa seemed pretty much a wasteland compared to Bangkok.

Neither the local women nor men were all that attractive in general and they were wholly unsophisticated and unimaginative in terms of pursuing the options for self-satisfaction. There were some luscious soldiers, airmen, and sailors about, but the U.S. authorities kept them on a pretty short leash, and I wasn't going to be on "the Rock" long enough to develop many liaisons.

If it hadn't been for Keith, another photorecon jet driver on temporary assignment from Bangkok, I definitely would have felt sexually deprived. We had been in the same group of "fuck buddies" back in Bangkok, and we managed to get on the same shift rotation at Kadena. Pilots were put on call for 24-hour shifts, which meant that when we were on duty rotation, we ate and slept in a Quonset hut attached to the hangar housing our two Blackbirds, just waiting for the call to leap into the air and shoot pictures of suspected North Korean troop movements.

A couple of times a week, Keith and I would find ourselves alone in the Quonset bunk room, and, on these occasions, we never needed more than one bunk.

One night Keith had me on my back, sidewise on the bottom bunk, with my feet lodged wide apart in the railings undergirding the upper bunk and my hands hanging on to the tailings of the sheets and covers of the upper bunk, while Keith stood on the floor next to the bunk, hunched down, and with his cock pounding away at my chute. He was a real moaner and must have been enjoying his plowing of my ass immensely that night, because we attracted the attention of an airman doing some late-night maintenance on the SR71s.

The airman was a big muscular blond, and he had a grin that went from ear to ear as he draped himself in the Quonset hut doorway and watched Keith fuck me. He wasn't the type who was satisfied with just watching, though, and in short order he had saddled up behind Keith, and the heightening of the decibel rate of Keith's moans let me know that he was being plowed from behind while he was mining my ass.

The airman must have taken a particular fancy to me, because as Keith was finishing, the airman had pushed his head over Keith's shoulder and was in a lip lock with me.

He hadn't cum when Keith shot off and collapsed beside me on the bed in a panting heap, and he disengaged from Keith at that point and sat down on the other side of me and continued kissing me and pulling at his engorged rod.

"I wanna do you," he was whispering to me.

"So, who's stopping you?" I asked. I liked repeated fuckings by multiple men.

"Not here." he whispered back to me.

"Where then?" was my reply.

"In the bird, man. In the cockpit of the bird."

I was skeptical as to whether we really could do it in the cockpit of the SR71, but we managed. It was a tight fit—in more ways than one. There is very little room for my thighs beside his on the seat as he sat in the driver's seat and I faced him and lowered my ass on his rod. In addition to that, his dick was so thick that this was a tight fit in my ass as well.

I pole danced for a short while, sliding up and down his pole, but then he took control. He lifted my legs up around and behind him onto the cowling of the plane behind the cockpit, with me leaning my back against the instrument panel, and he rode my ass hard in deep upward thrusts that had the jet rocking back and forth on its wheels.

This was every bit as good a fuck as I had been getting in Bangkok.

I learned that my well-hung and horny airman technician's name was Pete. I didn't learn this because he said anything to me that night. He, in fact, left me bent over the cowling behind the cockpit of the SR71 and gasping for air that night, never having identified himself.

But he apparently knew my name, as I was to learn later.

I was fascinated with the medieval castles that could be found in ruins on the small Pacific island. Okinawa had long been real estate that both China and Japan had contended for and, in turn, had forcibly occupied. But the castles of Okinawa were eerily similar to those of medieval Western Europe even though those two cultures apparently never made contact. Before I left the island on my short tour there, I wanted to explore those castles, and the opportunity arose when the Kadena AFB Outing Club posted a tour of one of the best-preserved castles near Bolo Point, on the island's west coast, nearly at the halfway point from north to south.

I didn't think anything of it when the tour leader called me to tell me there needed to be a change in the tour date. I didn't even think twice when he went out of his way to ensure that I could go on the tour on the new date and time.

On the appointed day, I appeared at the recreation building in the Quonset hut near the Koza City Gate Number Two to the air base.

That's when I got my surprise. The tour guide was Pete, the guy who had flown me a couple of weeks earlier in the cockpit of the SR71. He was even hunkier in the daylight than he had been in the airplane hangar late at night.

He introduced himself to me quite politely, acting like he hadn't known me already in the biblical sense, and told me it would be just the two of us riding out to Bolo Point in his jeep—that the rest of the hikers would meet us at the castle.

It was a good thing we took the jeep, because the castle was on top of a craggy outcropping accessible only by a narrow track through a sugar cane field. There weren't any other vehicles on the small cleared apron in front of the castle gate when we arrived; nor were there any other tour takers in evidence—or anyone else for that matter. This was really a remote spot of the island.

When we entered the shadows of the small enclosure between the outer and inner gates, Pete pushed me up against a crumbling, gray stone wall and placed strong hands on the wall on either side of me.

"I have a confession to make," he told me in a low, husky voice.

"Oh?" was all I could manage. I was breathless with anticipation. That night in the jet cockpit had been the best sex I'd had during my Okinawa tour. I was his for the asking.

"The tour wasn't really rescheduled. I saw your name on the roster, and I wanted to give you a private tour," he said, brushing his hand against the side of my face. "Do you mind?"

"No, not at all," I answered in a hoarse voice.

"May I kiss you?" He asked

I assented with a nod and by turning my head to him, and he kissed me deeply and tenderly.

"I haven't thought of anything but you since that night," he said when we'd come up for air. "May I fuck you again?"

My answer was a foregone conclusion. I'd already acknowledged to myself that I was his for the asking, and he'd asked me politely, which hadn't always been the case with my lusty partners. I did, however, make him give me at least a perfunctory tour of the castle first, as my interest in that was genuine, as was the expertise of his tour guiding.

What was most striking in the comparison of Western castles and those of ancient Okinawa was the fundamental difference in their plans. The stonework, towers, and battlements were all quite similar, but whereas a Western castle tended to be fortified from the edges in, with the most precious holdings located at the center, the Okinawan castle invariably was built against a precipice, as this one was, with the holy of holies being a sacred grove and ruling family altar at the rear of the castle, hanging on at the top of the cliff.

After a brief tour of the outer works of the castle, Pete guided me back to the sacred grove, which was just that, a grove of pine trees at the very back of the castle walls on a small apron of land suspended over the boiling surf at the foot of the cliff. Here there was a grassy area in the middle of the grove of trees and a stone altar—the center of the ancestor worship for the family that once had ruled the castle and the surrounding fields and had acted as the sentinel for invasion from China to the west or the Japanese islands to the north.

Pete laid out a khaki army blanket on the ground in front of the altar, and after pulling me to him in a standing position and fondling and kissing me into a lustful mood, he undressed me, pushed me down on all fours, prepared my asshole with his tongue and saliva, and covered with his body and fucked me to paradise. As he pumped me, I listened to the roaring surf at the base of the cliff and the wind sighing in the pine trees, and I added my own sighs and moans of ecstasy to the sounds of nature.

When we both had cum, Pete pulled me over on my side within his arms and we both merged with the wild beauty of the setting until our breathing had regularized. We then kissed and worked each other's bodies with our hands until we were in full rut once more.

Pete pulled me up from the ground and took the army blanket and draped it over the stone altar in the middle of the grove. He then pushed me onto my back on top of the altar, spread my legs wide, and we worshipped the exuberance of our youth and vitality and our healthy, lustful bodies at the altar with merging and rhythmic thrusts and counterthrusts and with me crying my passion to the tops of the swaying pine trees.

In Pete I at last found my escape from the somewhat tedious routine of the Okinawa assignment, but I had hardly found him and started to be introduced to a very active male-male underculture on the island, when my government decided that the North Koreans were just rattling rockets they didn't actually have, and I was on my way east across the Pacific Ocean, leaving Pete and the fascinating Okinawan castles behind.