Hunting Jarheads: Chapter 15 – Fresh Meat

Ric is back and a new jarhead prey has caught his eye......

Hunting Jarheads: Chapter 15 - Fresh Meat
by Amalaric
Series: Hunting Jarheads
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Shit…how long has it been? A year? More than a year most likely and there I left you all hanging, maybe not in exactly the way Tommy was back in the stall in my old barn, but hanging nevertheless; not knowing which way the story was going to go or even if it would ever get to the ‘good parts’. And what about Jarhead John, stretched out on his broad back, spread eagle on the bed in the master bedroom as tight as his white fly fronts riding low on muscular Grad-A USMC hips? You know, all sexy (though John wouldn’t have thought so), showing off the course of the silky treasure trail welling from his taut navel and the timber line of dark pubes just peeking over the snowy elastic…with that enticing bulge fairly shouting a promise, or a plea. Damn, that guy was hot!!! As I remember, John was wired up like a firecracker and trying not to imagine the possible consequences, knowing his best friend Tommy Riordan had walked into my deadly clutches and, let me tell you friends- John had been my ‘guest’ for long enough to have no illusions at all in terms of what that might mean! It all happened a long time ago but the memory is as fresh as if it were yesterday…I mean, could you forget two strapping young handsome naked jarheads immobilized and waiting…against their formidable wills…for your every pleasure? No, I don’t think you would forget either. Even so, it’s been a while, both of them are gone now and I’ll just bet you are curious about that too, eh? Maybe wondering just a little about what actually happens to strapping young captive jarheads, brought down with a big splash, used and abused to keep the likes of me amused…when the fun’s all done? Well, I promise to tell you the whole story right up to the end- really- but first, since I am in a mood to reminisce and this is my fucking journal…I just can’t resist another small digression. My mind drifts back to another place, around eight months after the adventure with John and Tommy wrapped up down in Baja, out in the desert of eastern California where I kept another place…a lonely, rundown, ramshackle place…a place perfect for a young marine to go, ah, AWOL.

Yeah, it was only eight or so months after the major adventure involving John and Tommy and my appetite was, shall we say…whetted. Actually, ravenous is a word that comes to mind; I’ve always been something of a glutton. Rob Corlis caught my eye on the first pass making rowdy in one of the numerous O’side bars, completely unaware and, if he had been, uncaring of any predatory interest- I mean, the man was a US Marine and everyone knew that they were on the top of the food chain. Dream on, Robby…there are hunters out there the likes of which put the average jarhead in the shade and, well, Rob gave off a powerful ‘scent’. Leaving luck- good or bad- out of the equation, the arrogant young stud had attracted some lip-smacking interest. Mine.

The dude was handsome, of course, but in a quirky, man’s man kind of way. I managed to introduce myself that first night, whooping it up with the best of them, buying drinks and just generally playing the good ol boy in order to get a decent look and, if I liked what I saw close up, to begin to lay the rudiments of a trap. My real life good ol boy turned out to be a strapping twenty-six-year-old, like so many others washed up from some nameless place in the Midwest. Rob was around six feet two or three inches tall but didn’t look it due to the extraordinary massed muscle, almost bull-like, padding his legs and torso and clearly visible even through the half unbuttoned plaid civilian shirt opened over his tee and tight blue jeans. The guy was built like the proverbial brick shit house, obviously worked out quite a bit and would have been a wrestler in high school or college. I started feeling a little dizzy and knew right then and there that sooner or later I’d have him in a situation where shirt and tee got slowly peeled off leaving the naked expanse of rippling muscle- back, chest, abs- exposed for a different sort of workout. And, you guessed it- being in such close proximity, fully realizing that each and every young jarhead perceived himself as a babe magnet and dressed afterhours for the role, I did manage to cop some long surreptitious glances at the unsuspecting stud’s faded denim crotch. My chosen prey looked, shall we say, as promising as anyone could want. Rob sported a firm, rounded bulge nestled in the tight juncture of denim that shouted to one and all, ‘Look out world, we got ourselves a horny, well-endowed young jarhead on the loose- ready and willing for some action!’ Hmmmm, I seriously doubted if Rob would prove either ready or willing for the kind of action I had in mind but by then it wouldn’t matter in the least.

It wasn’t hard to scope the bars that he frequented and soon enough Rob and I were on a first name basis, not exactly buddies (yet), but blithely moving in that direction. One of the things that makes hunting jarheads so rewarding is the loneliness of the big studs, usually hidden because it is perceived as a weakness and, for that, all the more potent- these boys are very far from home and most have little experience of what that is like. Mix in some over blown self-confidence and an out-going nature, eager to please and be pleased; ok, swaggering at times, supremely certain (publicly at least) that the jarhead sits on top of his world…and what you get is a sitting duck for guys like me. Rob proved to be no exception. After a month or so of casually bought freebie drinks in his favorite hangouts, lots of whooping it up and back slapping, ogling the appropriate chicks with nasty commentary…well, he accepted my first offer of an out-of-bar experience gratefully. Turned out he had a few days leave coming up and so the plan for some major revelry was formed- we would truck out to my place in the Mojave and spend a long weekend; watching games, getting wasted, and just hanging out. Yep…except that we would end up playing the games ourselves and the one ‘hanging out’ would, alas, be Rob Corlis USMC (prime meat).

The plan (as far as Rob understood it) was simple; I met him in front of the entrance to Pendleton, stuffed rucksack at his feet and a grin as wide as a California freeway plastered to his boyish face, at half past six in the morning. He happily tossed the rucksack into the back seat before hopping in next to me. I then threw my old jalopy into gear and headed toward the rising sun, past lands kept lush near the coast with stolen Colorado River water to the parched desert that defined the south eastern part of the state. The Mojave; we both whooped like kids after spotting the first Joshua tree and, turning toward my handsome young jarhead, I assured him that my little getaway place was only around three and a half short hours away. ‘But what are we gonna do once we get there, man?’ I smiled and waited for more. ‘I mean, it’s a farking desert and all…’ That’s’ right Rob, it’s a desert…just registering that info now??? He continued, ‘Hey, maybe there’s an oasis or something like we used to see in Iraq…you know, with some trails, shady spots, a place to swim or maybe even catch some fish?’ ‘No worries, man!!! You’ll see- there’s plenty to do and never a dull moment.’ I reached over and slapped him on his broad back, briefly lingering over the massed relaxed muscle, warm even through his light cotton shirt in the air-conditioned car. ‘Show me that pic in your wallet.’ ‘Shit, man, you gonna start in on that again?’ His mock dismay elicited a similar response as, cuffing him lightly on the back of the head, I laughed, ‘Yeah, Let’s have a look at that killer handsome grunt Rob Corlis decked out in not much more than his dog tags.’ He blushed, even though we had rehashed the joke at least a dozen times and, fumbling in his wallet, produced a 2x3 inch glossy- not of a girlfriend or even his mother- but of himself, stripped to the waist over low riding camos with a shiny pair of dog tags dangling against a hard shelf of rock hard pecs. The guy is such a narcissist, though he probably doesn’t look at it that way. Time to fuck with you just a bit, Rob… I grabbed the photo with my free hand and propped it up against the bobble head gorilla with the shit eating grin on the dash, ‘Check him out, will ya?’ ‘Fuck it…man…’ The young marine’s deep voice trailed off but he was very evidently proud of his good looks and ripped physique, a real ‘babe magnet’ as he would say. ‘Yep, now listen up, jarhead,’ he turned toward me, suddenly uncertain, ‘This pic reveals two things- a positive and a negative, which do you want to hear first?’ Rob visibly gulped before replying, ‘Uh, the negative I guess.’ Good boy! There’s going to be a shit load of that! I smiled my brightest smile, happy to see him wound up…but these were only preliminary games. ‘OK. Take a good look at yourself in that photo man…’ He did, squinting liquid brown eyes and biting his lower lip. ‘Right. So what?’ ‘Well, I’ll hand it to you in one respect; good physical development, you obviously work out…but, dude- you’re pale as a sheet, got to work on that tan!!!’ Rob exhaled explosively with unfeigned relief then cuffed me in turn for jacking him around like that, ‘Shit, Ric, I thought you was serious there for a minute; what a farking joker!’ ‘But I am serious dude, nothing like some desert sun to turn a pale virgin marine a nice shade of golden brown…’ He looked briefly confused, uncertain again and uncomfortable with words like ‘virgin’ but in dog-like fashion quickly let it all go and smiled, nodding vague assent. ‘Now, what about the positive??’ Ever the macho preener, Rob Corlis was not to be denied. ‘Right…’I began as if deep in consideration, ‘well, I’ve been thinking…’

CONTINUE THE STORY:
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1 Comment

  1. 31118azti - June 26, 2020, 3:44 pm

    Excellent pics to go with the narrative….thanks!

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