Outside the tent: a heavy susurration of sound. Metallic groans replete with squeaks and clanks. The ground throbs.
Inside the tent: a nylon floor covered with forest detritus. Ammo tins heavy with unspent rounds near the flap. A sleeping bag rolled up tight as a gymnast. Another sleeping bag, unrolled ... with a man named Ray in his boxers sprawled on top.
He's a sergeant. His fatigues are crumpled in the corner, but the bright yellow Seventh Cav patch gleams in the dark. His black hair is streaked by gray -- the effect is of stars newly appeared in the night sky. It's plastered to his skull from sweat. Ray's looking down past his erection, towards his mud-streaked boots laying discarded by the flap.
A big man, with a big erection. The thickness of the meat strains the fly to the point of ripping. The cock throbs in time with the tanks. The naked head steams with sweat. Pubic hairs leak through, snarling the base.
Sweat trickles down his face as he stares at it.
This is Man: broad shoulders, hard pectorals, nipples nearly invisible behind the black C's of wet hair, biceps like cantaloupes. A smell -- potent, energetic -- wafts from armpits. A hard tower jutting proud.
But Ray's not jacking it. He holds it motionless in his hand. Fascinated. His cock rears up. Big balls shift under the yellow-stained cotton boxers. He touches the naked cockhead with a finger from his free hand, a scientist examining a glowing gram of radium. A gold band encircles that finger.
He lets it go and it smacks into his belly. Ray gets up on an elbow. His eyes shift back and forth. Hulking M-1 Abrams still rumble outside, but with sharp ears he hears twigs cracking under boots.
He tugs on the boxers, stretching a week's worth of piss stains. He shoves his hardon back inside the boxers.
Now his groin bulges massively, but he's acceptably civilized. For a horny man.
"Master Sergeant, I -- " The voice, from outside, squeaks like a startled rat.
"Shut the fuck up, Jackson, and get it done!" The voice sounds clearly over the tanks' reverberation.
Ray grins.
The tent flap opens. A man comes in -- body big as Ray's. He's tagged MADSEN and his stripes proclaim him a master sergeant. A man happy to be prime stud meat. A clipped mustache clings to his lips. Stubble descends down his neck, merges into the curls of hair under his tee-shirt.
"Trouble, buddy?" Ray asks.
Madsen starts unrolling his own sleeping bag. "Fuck! That goddamned idiot Jackson. Stupid as a goddamned jarhead." He flings himself back on the bag, kicks off his own boots and socks, starts to peel off his fatigues. "Got a friggin' jeep stuck in the mud up on the fucking mountain and he wants to fuckin' sleep before he gets his sorry fuckin' ass up to fuckin' get it!"
"His dad was a marine." Ray laughs.
Madsen kneels down, undoing the laces on his boots then pulling them off. Sweat-wet socks follow. "And his goddamned mother too."
Ray's eyes glitter like moonlight on a dark sea.
Madsen reaches up, unfastens his fatigue shirt, pulls it off. He "Yeah, me too. Kept popping boners right and left. Hell, I about broke my dick off in one of those." He nods towards Madsen's swollen jock. "That's why I wear boxers." He snaps the elastic against his stomach.
"You gotta learn how to pack it in, Ray," says Madsen. "You gotta get your balls situated first. Then you tuck your dick in." Madsen demonstrates, pulling down the waistband so that his equipment shows. Long cock, foreskin hanging loose over the head by several inches, balls shifting nervously in the big sac.
Ray's eyes don't even widen. He sees such monsters every day in the barracks. Or swinging between his own thighs. Ray always shows crotch. His meat never really shrinks. >From time to time it just looses the rigid, unyielding urge, but it never really shrinks.
Madsen finishes tapping his gonads into his jock. He's done it with the ease of someone putting fine tobacco in a pipe.
Ray says, "Let me try that."
Madsen looks over. "You got a strap?"
"Naw."
Madsen shrugs, arches his back. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband, yanks them down. Cock and balls flap and shift again; the smell of cockcheese is pungent. He flips the strap over to Ray. "Try it with mine."
Ray grabs the jock. He holds it up by an elastic ass-strap. Dark hairs line the pouch so thickly that it looks like Madsen's shedding for the summer.
Ray slips it on, adjusting it in an easy mimicry of Madsen's routine. He shifts his meat around, coiling it to fit it inside. Now he really shows crotch -- his babymaker's enormous -- the pouch actually frays and his balls spill out on either side.
"Damn, Ray, you do have problems."
Ray laughs. He yanks the jock off and tosses it back. Cock flails like a striking rattlesnake. "Hell, when I played center, those 'straps made me show so much crotch our quarterback didn't know which ball he should grab."
Madsen tosses the jock down to the other end of the tent. It was too hot to be wearing anything. He grabs his meat, stretching and pulling on it. The drying sweat makes him itch, and the motion gives him some relief. "I can believe it, Ray. You were looking pretty big in my jock." He winks. "I bet Karen likes it."
"You know it, buddy." His hands remain on his prick, adjusting it, cooling the flesh. He grabs it by the base, swings it through the air like a lasso.
"You get it often?" Madsen's eyes cloud over.
