Captive marine Rob Corlis experiences another man's hand on his "battering ram" then is forced to clean up in a chilly bathtub.
Hunting Jarheads - Chapter 23: Rub A Dub; A Jarhead in the Tub
by Amalaric
Series: Hunting Jarheads
After a week or so of acclimation I took Rob to a new level that, though necessary, I knew he would find deeply disconcerting. ‘Time for a little bit of variation,’ I said, and his look of grudging, wary acceptance was all that I could have hoped for. ‘Hands behind your back!’ I barked and he instinctively complied to the revered tone of the drill instructor, even assuming the ‘inspection’ position that would have made me smile had I dared. Moving behind him, I cuffed Rob’s wrists closely together, resting on the high rise of his bubble butt. ‘Time you experienced a man’s hand on your battering ram, boy! Yep, a real test of control. Pass this one and you get an extra half hour of R&R.’ Looking both disgusted and more than a little confused, he steeled himself as best he could. At least the strapping jarhead had some previous practice; I mean it’s not as if I hadn’t handled the equipment riding between his muscular thighs before. That first time was admittedly hard on the once proud, thoroughly straight young marine. Applying every subtle pressure that I knew, it still took me almost ten minutes to get him hard and then another five or six before I felt a hot splash against the open palm positioned to harvest the jarhead’s bounty. The next time I threatened him with a whipping if his performance didn’t improve and, what do you know? Whether practice really does make perfect or fear of the whipping shed is able to work a miracle or maybe a combination of both; Rob Corlis shot a respectable load into the palm of my waiting hand in less than half the time it took before.
The last ritual of waning daylight was both prosaic and (hopefully even for Rob) actually pleasurable as well. Sweat, maybe some blood, and semen; mixed with the dust of the desert had my hard working young animal looking a bit grungy and smelling more than a little ripe by the end of most days. Since I did sometimes play some special games with Rob during the evening hours I insisted that he have a bath at the end of each and every day- no matter what variations there may have been in his other routines.
‘OK, sun’s setting fast; fetch the tub and get things ready. MOVE IT!!’ Rob trotted, as best he could, to the side of the barn and fetched the large corrugated aluminum tub, which he placed near the jack off station and then filled with several buckets of icy well water drawn with a hand pump. When the tub was full he gingerly stepped in, shivering at first contact with the cold water, and catching the bar of soap that I tossed him, lathered every inch of his muscular body before sluicing off. The whole process lasted less than ten minutes and I enjoyed the sight of the water-slick, soaped up young marine scrubbing at the grit of an honest day’s hard labor. When he finished, Rob looked to me for approval and, if I nodded assent, he stepped out of the tub, emptied the water onto the ground, and placed the tub once again by the side of the barn. At that point my ‘dog’ got his dinner and, as the last light faded, hoped for a lockdown until the training routine recommenced the next morning.