24 Hours - Chapter 7: ‘Jarhead’ Revisited

Dave’s forced labor in the backyard continues with some encouragement from the banker and his strap while the two discuss Dave’s experiences in the Marines.

24-hours-7a

24 Hours - Chapter 7: ‘Jarhead’ Revisited
by Amalaric
Series: 24 Hours

24-hours-7bThe banker and his wife made themselves comfortable twenty yards from their laboring slave cooled by the shade of a large umbrella propped in the center of an ornate wrought iron table. Fresh drinks were poured and the contented couple sat back and casually watched their buck grunting in the trench. Occasionally Hascombe would lever himself off his delicate seat and saunter over, strap in hand. Dave tried to ignore what must inevitably follow but, as often as not, perplexed blue eyes met the abyss of his tormentor’s gaze with an unanswerable question and silent plea. He had traded the pick for a sledge hammer, breaking up boulders levered from the trench. Hascombe stood to one side and slightly behind, strap in hand. Without warning, the still air reverberated with the sharp slap of supple leather on the hard muscles of the slave’s arched back followed in an instant by searing pain. Hascombe licked his lips, noting the complex pattern of rising red welts. ‘I never would have had you pegged as lazy,’ the simpering voice dripped with mock disgust. Dave didn’t reply, but picked up the pace. He fled from the nightmare but it was far quicker than he was. A few minutes passed. Hascombe playfully cuffed the back of the tall buck’s head with an open palm and ordered him to stand up straight. ‘Dave,’ he began, and his tone seemed so reasonable, ‘What am I going to do with you?’ Dimly grateful for any respite from his back breaking labor, Dave squared tired shoulders and took mental stock of his aching muscles. His tan skin gleamed in the afternoon sun with a fine sheen and Hascombe noted with pleasure the dark stain of sweat soaked material beneath the waistband of the buck’s sagging briefs. ‘I think what you need, boy, is a little more concerted persuasion. Bend over and grab your ankles.’ Ahhh, shit no…please!! the useless thought blew away on the hot breeze even as Dave complied; bending slowly over to grasp his ankles. Two pairs of light handcuffs were produced and the buck was secured in the awkward position. Hascombe stood, breathless, savoring the view. The lanky stud’s body arched gracefully in a curved pyramid; head bowed over the trench, high ass jutting toward the sky supported by twin pillars of thick muscular legs, straining against the taut fabric of his briefs. Dave sputtered an inarticulate protest as the banker inserted nimble fingers beneath frayed elastic and pulled his shorts slowly down, over the hard rubber rise of clenched buttocks and down with a final snap to the quivering expanse of spread thighs.

Naked for all practical purposes, Dave took irrational comfort in the thought that, at least, he stood in three quarters profile to the interested scrutiny of the banker’s wife. Why he should care at this point whether or not she had a view of his exposed dick was irrelevant. He grasped any consolation. Hascombe, however, said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to some infernal god and fought back a crazy impulse to fall on his knees and worship the revelation before him. With shaking hands he cupped the twin globes of muscular flesh, marveling at the symmetry, the hard/soft texture of sweat-sticky, smooth ass. His mind careened backwards, mere hours before, to the initial encounter in his office; burrowing in fevered imagination beneath impenetrable denim now unveiled in helpless captivity. A probing finger reverently swirled around the fine blond hairs funneling from the small of the stud’s arched back to the deep crack clenched impossibly tight. The finger traveled lightly over the crevice, humoring the illusion of inviolability, to the place of profoundest humiliation. Hascombe and his unwilling victim both knew it- hanging exposed between spread legs, Dave’s pendulous balls waited, terrified, for the anticipated caress. Just like a dog, balls swinging between spread legs…but no, Hascombe’s mind staggered through a rank jungle of wild metaphor; Oh yes, like a dog… and he pulled on the thick tuft of crotch hair, waves of lust washing over him as the stud’s exposed testicles swung lazily in the air. Dave squirmed appropriately as the thick seam of his scrotum was pinched between hungry fingers and gagged as Hascombe hefted his manhood and squeezed. Roberta staggered over and took her turn, pattering on in complimentary fashion that, in other circumstances, would have caused any man to swell with pride. ‘Oh, Brent! He’s just gorgeous!!’ she gushed praise as bird-like hands danced over the sensitive skin of spread thighs, brushing the fine golden hair and pecking at the exposed fruit hanging ripe and ready in its secret bower. ‘Yes, yes dear,’ the banker seemed suddenly distracted. ‘There’s man’s work to do, though. Go pour yourself a drink,’ he dismissed her, secretly bothered by her intrusion, wanting to savor the sacred moment alone. Roberta’s full lipped mouth turned down in a sexy pout (the artful result of much practice) and she retreated to the shade of the canopy and an open bottle of Merlot. ‘Gorgeous??!’ Hascombe muttered under his breath, ‘What kind of fruity fem word is that??’ He gave Dave’s balls a hard slap and was rewarded by a faint groan as the sweating stud struggled to keep his balance. ‘Time to get down to business,’ and he stood up and flexed the strap.

‘Didn’t take you long to forget the first lesson learned in the living room, did it?’ Hascombe’s taunting voice seemed to come from outer space. Dave fought a wave of dizziness and muttered something incoherent. ‘What did you say??!!’ He warmed easily to the disciplinary role. ‘Uh…no…sir,’ came the muffled reply. ‘Well, let’s see if we can refresh your memory. Count ‘em off, boy.’ The strap- three feet of supple, inch wide leather- cut the air and landed with a satisfying thwack on the buck’s pale ass. ‘One’, Dave gasped from the vicinity of the trench. After the first hot kiss, the blows came fast and were artfully aimed. ‘Two…Three…Four……..Thirteen,’ the hypnotic beat of snapping leather on the reddening flesh of a twenty six year old stud’s muscular ass measured an infinity of pleasure for Hascombe, sweating now as much as Dave. ‘Twenty one…Twenty three…,’ counting from far away now as fiery agony filled his being, baritone voice jacked up to a pleasing tenor by the stress. ‘Thirty four…,’ rhythm unabated, Hascombe’s rock hard dick leaping for joy, demanding release from the staid confines of a fussy banker’s baggy boxers. Who was that stranger? Neither Hascombe, nor his jubilant cock knew or cared. ‘Thirty eight!!!!!’ Dave croaked and pitched into the trench.

He stared, dimly comprehending a similar scenario from what seemed like years ago, at the banker’s wet crotch inches from his face pressed into the hot dust of the half dug ditch. Hascombe knelt before his young captive, gently stroking the slave’s sweat-slick hair. ‘Did you ever see the film Jarhead?’ he asked. Dave sank deeper into a gathering sense of unreality. What the fuck kind of question is that?? he thought, and- a credit to his indomitable spirit- nearly smiled. His breathing was slowing down, the ground felt good beneath him and he sighed with relief as Hascombe fiddled the cuffs off his wrists. Dave slowly straightened his long body, adjusted his shorts, and rolled over on one side. ‘Yes sir, I saw it. Why?’ He wrenched his eyes from the spreading stain darkening Hascombe’s polyester groin and looked up. ‘You did some time in the Corps, right Dave?’ Surprised by the use of his name, he nodded assent and replied in a firm voice, ‘Yeah, I was infantry, served on a fire team…’ he trailed off, remembering the initial push into Iraq in ’04. Didn’t seem so bad all of a sudden. ‘How long have you been out Dave?’ ‘Little over a year now, sir.’ Dave wanted to sit up but didn’t dare; the fire in his blistered ass still raged. Hascombe stroked a rounded shoulder marveling at the smooth/hard feel of the young buck. ‘That movie Jarhead was something else,’ his voice took on a dreamy quality, ‘Of course, I never had the opportunity to serve, but I think I would have made a decent officer.’ Dave stared impassively, daring the asshole to read his mind. For once, Hascombe remained oblivious and continued, ‘Those guys in that film really wrote the book when it comes to attitude! Kick ass and get rowdy, fry some rag heads to justify the pay check…’ he trailed off in an appreciative chuckle, feeling macho (dick still primed and crammed with unspent ammunition). Dave was sickened by the posturing of the fucking clown and lulled into a kind of complacency by the normal tones of the abnormal conversation. ‘It wasn’t like that…’ Hascombe interrupted, ‘What’s it like, Dave, in the desert?’ He paused and added, for clarification, ‘Bunch of guys barely out of their teens, hard bodies aching for action, no women for miles and all of that pent up aggro energy jammed together in a tent or out on patrol. You know that grunt in the film, the one played by Jake what’s-his-name? Way better in that role than the faggot cowboy!! What a guy!!’ Dave scowled in disgust and, against his better judgment, cut in, ‘He was a fucking shitbird…sir.’ That finally got Hascombe’s attention and Dave instantly regretted the brash remark. The grip on his shoulder tightened perceptibly. Hascombe shoved and the big stud rolled painfully on to his back.

The cuffs were slapped back on pinioned wrists. Cupping his privates over the sweat stained shorts, Dave nevertheless submitted to a hard patter on his chest and the banker’s playful tweaking of sensitive nipples. ‘You know, when I made you strip down in the living room I was curious…’ I’ll just fucking bet you were, Dave thought bitterly. ‘In Jarhead the marines all looked like they were kept in top condition. Even that nervous geek with the black glasses had a chest that would’a drove the chicks wild.’ Probably drove you wild, too, goddamn bastard… the thought rose like bile as Hascombe’s roving hand tested the muscle of a bicep. ‘You still keep yourself in pretty good shape, boy. Lot’s of meat on you like those guys in the Corps…’ He’s talking about a damn movie!!! Dave’s mind screamed in protest as the hand levered his arms over his head. It slid down the panting expanse of smooth chest… ‘What did you guys do out there with no women around? Studs in that film sure seemed wound up but of course they couldn’t show everything. Guess I was lucky back here with the little lady and all…’ He nodded salaciously toward Roberta and winked. Dave couldn’t imagine what the pervert might mean and choked down his disgust. He was at the other man’s mercy now and needed to be careful. The point was driven home as Hascombe fingered the thick outline of the prone stud’s dick. Tracing the ridged cotton suggestively he continued, ‘Probably took this baby in hand pretty often out there, I imagine.’ He smiled and cupped the hot bulge straining against the buck’s stained briefs. ‘Well??’ and the grip tightened. ‘Yeah,’ Dave winced, ‘we all did…I guess.’ Hascombe let go and laughed. ‘I figured as much- damn horny marines! Remember that scene toward the end, when the war was over? Jake what’s-his-name and that guy who looked a little like a wired version of Kieffer Sutherland came over the sand dune and found their buddies around the big fire?’ ‘Yeah, I remember,’ Dave said. ‘Well, they all started yelling, careening around the blaze, shirts stripped off and ruddy as devils in that feral light. Those guys were having sex…with each other, Dave!!’ He tried to sound scandalized and failed. Dave’s eyes narrowed, ‘Dunno what you mean, sir.’ ‘Sure you do,’ Hascombe sighed, ‘all of you marines are basically alike. Of course the camera couldn’t show it, but I’ll bet every one of those jarhead studs dancing around the fire had a rod as stiff as a howitzer and nuts packed like ticking nukes.’ He gingerly fondled Dave’s captive balls as if they, too, were unexploded ordinance and continued, ‘Splattering each other with popped cans of shook up beer was something, wasn’t it? White suds flying every which way… Damn suggestive! But the best came last; all those M16 tracer bullets, butts held an inch from dozens of jarhead crotches shooting at the sky…ah fuck, man, it was a damn orgy!!!’

Dave couldn’t take it anymore. He thought of the good men he knew, of his cousin Sean; a Navy Seal and as fine a man as you could know, probably dead now, disappeared in some God forsaken place trying to make the world safe for…fat pricks like this perv banker. Sean had inspired Dave to join the Corps and now this guy was making them all out to be a bunch of fags. With a twisting sideways motion he wrenched the front of his briefs from Hascombe’s grasp and, caution thrown to the winds, contradicted the fucker’s sick daydream, ‘It was just a bunch of marines getting crazy, man!! Nothing else to it. You got no idea…you hear me, man???? No fucking idea what it was like over there!’ He realized, of course, that there would be ‘consequences’ for his outburst. So what- bastard’s gonna hurt me anyway!! Hascombe’s wife looked over, glass of wine tipping in her hand, ‘Is everything alright, darling?’ The banker remained surprisingly impassive, gazing down at the defiant young stud. Dave waited, breathing hard again, for further acquaintance with the strap. He was right about one thing; the bastard was going to hurt him anyway and, in fact, Brent Hascombe figured it was time to live out a long cherished fantasy. The plan had been in the works for over an hour.

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