Sailorboy

And I remember him nonsensically asking if I had a bedroom, and me equally nonsensically telling him we should use the guest room. I didn't want to be doing this in my own bed. I already felt I was betraying both Chad and myself, what I had resolved I would do to control my life.

I remember not making it to the guest room that first time—Ron pushing me down on the floor of the hallway on all fours and mounting me and fucking me like a dog. And me loving every stroke of it. Suddenly not wanting control. Taken up in the hedonist glory of being fucked on a hallway carpet by a beautiful young stud like a bitch in high heat. Being wanted like that by a perfectly manned young sailor.

And then on the guest bed, me on my back, hanging onto the slats of the headboard with all my might, as he plowed me hard and deep and looked down into my eyes with those dark eyes. Full of lust. Making me spout at the sheer knowledge that I would make his dark eyes flash with lust—that his cock could get hard for me, would want to be deep inside me, pumping, pumping, pumping. Chad, Chad, I kept thinking. Magnificent chest, both of them. My hands couldn't get enough of groping, rubbing, grasping. And his kisses, when he bent down to me. Tongue pushing in—fucked at both ends—as he swabbed and tongue flicked and possessed me fully.

He was young, virile—and insatiable. I don't know if he went soft the entire afternoon and evening. And night. And the next day. In the shower, at the kitchen sink, on my patio—thankfully protected from view from the neighbors. Again and again on the guest bed. On the living room floor and sofa. From the rear, standing and on all fours. From the front. On the move in circles around the dining room, me plastered to his pelvis, arms wrapped around his chest and legs around his waist. In the bathtub. And that first night—in my bed. Taboos and resolve being shattered, erased, cast aside.

On Sunday afternoon, belly flat on my bed, I moaned my last surrender to Ron, who rode my hips, me totally exhausted and unable to resist or contribute or anything else. I'd never been taken like this—so long or so often or so deeply.

"God, sorry, Ron. Don't you ever give out? I can't go with you any farther. I'm done in. And sore, oh so sore."

"First time with a sailorboy, what?" Ron asked as he pulled out of me, slapped my butt playfully, and lay full length on top of me. "We can all fuck like this. It's part of the recruitment test." Then he laughed. The happy, easy laugh, of a young man at the top of the world—no worries, just doing his thing. Getting his rocks off. No harm done; just a bored young man having fun.

"Almost the first time with anyone," I answered with a groan. "I asked you to go slow. If this is what going slow—"

"Fuck as good as that Marine did?"

"What?"

"I asked, do I fuck as good as that Marine, Chad, did? Sailors can top Marines in anything?"

"God, Ron. I didn't tell you that—" This was just a competition thing with him—best the Marines.

"You didn't have to tell me. He fucked you, didn't he?"

"Yes." It was as much a whimper as a formed word. My mind was screaming for him to take the hint that this wasn't as much a lark for me as it was for him—that he had gone over an edge of sensitivity. He was scratching at hallowed ground.

"And when you said you'd had enough, did he do this for you?"

"Oh, god, no, Ron." He'd wrapped his arm around my belly and was pulling me up on my knees, my chest plastered to the bed. My head was hanging over the side of the bed and I stared at the accumulation of spent condoms Ron insisted on gathering there on the carpet beside my bed, as he, hard once more, slid into me. "Oh, Fuck. oh, shit, oh FUCK!" Ashamed that I couldn't put him in check—that I still wanted the dick so badly that had dug into ground I didn't want disturbed.

Largely spent himself after that taking, he lay there on top of me.

"I gotta be back to Naha soon."

"I don't know how I can manage to move a muscle. I know I said I'd drive you back, but—"

"You don't have to. I'll be off on Wednesday too. I can take the Z4 now, and then you won't have to come back for me Tuesday night."

I didn't exactly say yes—but I didn't exactly say no, either. I felt the walls of my fortress life tumbling—all for a tumble in the hay. I had no defense to field against his exuberance—and his master cocking.

He was back as promised Tuesday night. It was like there were two of us living here now—except that one of us was eating the other out of house and home and not doing a share of any chores. For a couple of weeks he was in my house whenever he wasn't needed down in Naha—which seemed to be often. And he was driving my convertible. He said, not unreasonably, that I had another car and if he drove one, I wouldn't have to be carting him back and forth.

He veritably took over my life, keeping me busy catering to his every need and keeping me royally fucked.

To escape him from time to time, I was spending more time at the office than I needed to, and I took on a volunteer class at the USO, teaching beginning Japanese to any serviceman willing to take it. The military students for these classes didn't have to pay, Uncle Sam thinking that knowing the language would acclimate them better to the island culture.

I would have gone out to dinner parties more, except that I found that Ron was intercepting my calls and turning invitations down. It didn't seem like it was because he wanted me to himself. It became almost as if he didn't care if I was there or not—but that if I was there, my function was to provide for his needs, to spend time on the tennis court help him improve his game, and to open my legs to him whenever he was in the mood—which was constantly. He was perpetually randy, and I rarely saw him without a hard on.

There was no escape at the language classes, either. Ron signed up for those and brought a couple of his buddies along with him. They would sit in the back of the class while I was trying to teach and whisper among themselves. And I'm sure from how they were whispering and how the other two sailors—near carbon copies of Ron in youth and muscle power, although one was black—looked at me during the class time that Ron was telling them of the extent and nature of the control he had over me.

This was borne true two weekends later. Ron had asked me about the military beach rest area on the northern coast at Okuma. The houses there were identical to the officers housing here on Kadena. It had originally been built as a Voice of America base but eventually turned over to the military and then used as vacation houses for general-rank officers. VOA, the spooks, and the consulate, though, each kept a house. I didn't have to tell Ron about the exclusive resort. He'd heard about it on his own. He wanted me to take him there for a weekend, saying he heard it had the best, and most isolated beach on the island. I had stupidly revealed that the consulate still controlled one of the house.

So, I signed up for the consulate's Okuma house. When the time came to go there, though, I found I had to work on the Saturday morning.

"No problem," he said. "I'll go on up in the Z4 Friday night, and you can come up in the Toyota on Saturday afternoon."

When I arrived, there was no one at the house, but I counted three duffel bags rather than the expected one. I walked out to the verge of the beach and watched Ron and his two sailor friends from the Japanese class cavorting in the surf of what, indeed, was the most pristine and private beach on Okinawa. They were all gorgeous, carbon copies of each other in musculature. They were all wearing Speedos that left little to the imagination of what they were packing. The black sailor, in particular, was hardly contained in the pouch of his suit. If they noticed me watching them, they showed no indication of recognition. Just watching them horse around and run into the sea and swim straight out vigorously against the current and then let the surf carry them back in only to attack each other on the sand and wrestle left me exhausted. I assumed they would all just shower and drop off to sleep when they returned to the house.

It was almost dark before they left the sand, and I had left them to their play some time ago. When they came back to the house and had showered and donned gym shorts, I'd fixed dinner for all, after which Ron made clear he wanted to fuck. I'd put his duffel in the master bedroom along with my bag and one duffel in each of the other two bedrooms. I did a double take and told him I couldn't imagine how he had energy left over for that following his day on the beach. He laughed, asking me if my Marine guard had lacked the energy under these circumstances, and I had to turn away from him to keep him from seeing how that hurt me.

And Ron wasn't the only one who wanted to fuck. I was laying on my back, butt at the edge of the bed in the master bedroom with Ron standing between my thighs and plowing me hard, when the other two sailors entered the room, naked—as magnificent in body as Ron was and with hard cocks in their hands, the black guy's a stunner—and stood patiently, in line, beside the bed until Ron was finished. And then the other two took their turns. None of them asked me what I was interested in.

The second sailor, the big, black stud, was thicker than Ron—thicker than Chad, thicker than anything I'd had before—and he thrust inside me so hard and fast and then started pistoning like a jackhammer. He thumped my chest with closed fists on alternating thrusts, oblivious to my grunts and groans of objection, assuming I was loving it—which some aspect of me was. To them I was a older man who had discovered a gold mine—three young studs to service me. I reached out to his hard belly and tried to push him away, but Ron was climbing up on the bed and behind me, forcing his knees under my shoulder blades and trapping my arms in a full nelson. The third guy was up on the bed then, straddling my chest and feeding his cock into my mouth as the black monster pistoned on. By the time the third guy was ready to fuck me, I just laid there and moaned, not putting up any resistance at all.

Ron told me that I loved the cocking. I murmured my acquiescence, wondering if he would have even been listening to me if I told them how alien and denigrating this was to me. I'm sure Ron thought and had told the other two that this is what I did—preyed on young sailors in search of the constant plowing. And then the three of them left me there, spread-eagled on the bed in the dark, and went into the living room and played video games and drank the beer I'd brought for the weekend.

I lay there alone, in the dark, thinking on how I was being used and ignored, in a seemingly never-ending cycle. Wanting any one of them to come back in and hold me and hum softly to me as Chad had done. They were just overgrown boys, of course. It wasn't anything they intentionally were doing. Sex was sex to them—all three of them. They assumed, I'm sure, that I was having a good time. There wasn't anything more than surface relationship. It didn't mean any form of relationship. It didn't even acknowledge the sex partner. They were just oversexed fucking machines, getting their rocks off as often as they could. I was just a malleable vessel for their semen to them. Someone who had pursued and picked up Ron—to get exactly what I was getting. I might as well have been a rubber blow-up doll as far as they were concerned. Except I could also give them privileges and food and drink they couldn't get in their sailorboy world.

And what about me? What did I want out of this? Why wasn't I just sending them packing—beyond the edge of fear of what they might do to me if I did object? I enjoyed the fucking, I had to admit. Not as often, perhaps, as I was getting it. Certainly not as impersonally as I was getting it. But even the black stud, the cruelty of his taking, had me climbing the clouds when we got into the rhythm of the plowing. But I wanted more. I wanted some tenderness. I wanted what Chad had given me in the sex act.

No one came into the bedroom in the evening. None of the three popped his head in to ask how I was doing, if I was OK, if I wanted a beer too or to come out and play their video games with them. Early in the morning hours, Ron came into the room, and, without a word, turned me on my belly, mounted my hips and, with hands palming my shoulder blades, fucked me to his ejaculation. Then he just stretched out on top of me, without withdrawing his flaccid cock, and started to snore quietly. I didn't begrudge him the fuck—I'd wanted it, moving my hips with the rhythm of his taking and sighing for what he was doing inside me. And I went to sleep, pretending that he was holding me in a loving embrace rather than just flopped on top of me.

I was awakened Sunday morning to three randy young men wanting to restart the relay. Luckily they also wanted to get back out on the beach that day as well.

They left—three of them stuffed in the Z4 and laughing and playfully punching at each other, not a look of farewell in my direction—early Sunday afternoon. After cleaning up the house, I left for Kadena three hours after they did—exhausted, sore, and, yes, frightened about what had become of me and how I seemed almost to be a prisoner and a sex slave and a provider of provisions and privilege. I knew there was no reason I should put up with this. But I was cowed. And I enjoyed Ron's fucking—and even that of his friends—if there just wasn't so much of it. If it didn't degrade me so much, have me being just an object for their lusts and wants.

The Z4 was parked in the driveway when I drove the Toyota up to the Kadena house, and I was met at the door by all three of the sailors—who had ravaged my refrigerator and panty—and who manhandled me back to the master bedroom and ravaged my body as well for the rest of the night.

At last I wasn't the only one who was exhausted. I managed to force myself awake and quietly get out of the bed and to the front of the house before any of the sailors wakened. My suitcase from the weekend was still by the door. The first thing I did was to move the Toyota to the other side of the compound, to in front of the house of one of the CIA contingent, a man I was beginning to become friendly with before Ron appeared in my life. I put the keys in an envelope, writing a request on the envelope that he have someone deliver the Toyota to the consulate. Then I returned to the house and drove away in the Z4—all the way to a hotel in Naha, where I checked in.

The next morning, right after arriving at the consulate, I asked for permission to take my R&R early, as I had urgent business in the States. The consul granted it, with the comment that, although I'd been doing my job well, he'd noticed that I was on edge and seemed distressed. I knew that he wanted to chalk that up to my recent tour in Baghdad, and I didn't say anything to disabuse him of that notion.

I then called the Military Police for Kadena Airbase and told them I thought I'd seen some men approaching my house as I left for work and decided that maybe it would be best if an MP met me there in an hour to check it over—that, unfortunately it hadn't really hit me as a possible problem until I was well on the road to work. The dispatcher said he understood, and an MP would meet me there. He asked me if I could tell if the men were servicemen or Japanese civilians, saying there had been a spate of break-ins on the base recently. I hedged, suddenly concerned that this would explode on me—that Ron and his friends would be found there and would start talking about what I'd done with them. But I knew they said they were all expected back at their ship by now.

When I arrived, the MP was already there. He was a young black man and was well-muscled and stood at least six-and-a-half feet tall. My mind immediately raced to wondering what he looked like naked. How powerful his equipment was—was it true they were all built huge? Ron's friend certainly had been—what it would be like taking him back to my bedroom when we entered the house. Would he be willing? Would I have to pay him? But then I shuddered—he probably thought I was apprehensive about what we'd find in the house—and I castigated myself heavily for what I had allowed myself to think, to become. Even my weaknesses were developing weaknesses. I had to get away from here. There was too much young, desirable man flesh here. I needed a country where all of the men were old and ugly, fat and wrinkled.

The house wasn't trashed too badly. A few things had been broken—three young, randy men could be counted on to do some innocent roughhousing. But mostly it was surface, beer bottles and dirty dishes tossed around—and towels in the bedroom and beds unmade. If the MP saw anything in this, he wasn't saying anything. For all he knew, I was a bad housekeeper. Other than that—and the pile of spent condoms on the floor by my bed, which, thankfully, I got to before the MP reached the bedroom, and pushed under the bed—there was no evidence of the three sailors.

The MP took the report and called in for a locksmith to get over there pronto because I said I'd feel safer having the locks changed. In reality, wanting the locks changed right away was my motivation for bringing the MPs in on it. Foolishly, I had given Ron a key to the house.

I waited until the MP and then the locksmith were gone before I left. As the locksmith worked, I tidied up the house and packed my suitcases. I didn't plan on coming back here. I didn't want to be here when and if Ron and his friends showed up again. I knew I was weak. If Ron came to my door—and even if he brought more than just the two friends—I knew I'd let them lead me back to the bedroom and would lay on the bed and open my thighs to all takers. I was probably the most conflicted person I knew. I wanted the intimacy of the fuck—even while realizing that what I was getting here wasn't intimate at all. That it was hollow, not what I really wanted.

I checked around the loop to see if the office Toyota was still there, but it was already on its way back to the consulate. Before returning to the office, I stopped at the Naha hotel to leave my bags and to extend my room reservation until I could get a plane out for the States. I was done with Okinawa—and with this form of trying to find someone to love to replace Chad.

My urgent business in the States was to go right to my personnel officer at State and request an immediate transfer anywhere—yes, Afghanistan or Egypt or Mexico, it didn't matter where. Okinawa just wasn't working out for me. I no longer thought that Chad would be my one and only, of course—I couldn't deny that Ron had given me a taste for it—but next time I would move slower, be smarter—look for someone who showed some sense that they knew it was me—a real person with needs and desires to be accommodated—that they were fucking.

I probably wouldn't be here at all now—certainly I wouldn't be able to write this—if my personnel officer at State hadn't instantly seen that I needed another lazy-life post. Malta is just a two-man post. We do what we want, the consul general, Stanley Stevens and I, with little worry of what the rest of the world is doing or sees us doing. It was my good fortune that Stan's family is wealthier than mine, that his Harvard trumps my Princeton, that he's a worthy tennis opponent, that he is ten years older than I am, but still in magnificent form. And that he wanted me and makes gentle and complete love to me and has a cock that can reach my depths and sing love songs to me. Controlling me, as that's the major thing Ron taught me—I did want to be controlled—but doing so without overwhelming me in the process.