Hunting Jarheads: Chapter 6 – The Set Up

Ric sets the trap for young straight Marine John......

Hunting Jarheads: Chapter 6 - The Set Up
by Amalaric
Series: Hunting Jarheads
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John looked confused and I knew that if I didn’t think of something fast, my good looking prized marine buck would lumber away from the snare so carefully laid before him. He stood there blinking- wide brown eyes latent in their deceptive calm and bovine passivity, but I knew better and wasn’t fooled into the kind of complacency that had nearly got me killed when snagging young Timmy a few years back. Standing in my small living room, shuffling with vague nervousness from one booted foot to another, was a two-hundred-pound jarhead, big hands looped around his unbuckled leather belt casually holding his pants up. Fine, no problem there, but I knew perfectly well (and so, by the way, did John) that those hands could move like lightening and, propelled by muscle honed by hours of brutal PT endured somewhere in the bowels of Pendleton, were capable of major destruction. I had a plan, but it was necessary to proceed with great caution.

In a way the young officers were easier and just slightly safer to take down because they were smarter and I noticed long ago that intelligence often blunts intuition and instinct. ‘So what?’ you say. Well, intuitive instinct is a powerful catalyst for the kind of reactive imagination that makes the best and most dangerous soldiers. Now, I’m not really saying John was stupid, fact is I don’t know what his IQ was, but he wasn’t a genius either and, besides, that wasn’t really the point. I guess what I am trying to say is that the big stud I had sweating in vague perplexity five feet in front of me was a young man somewhere in his early twenties who hailed from the sticks of North Dakota, all well and good, but he floated easily on an ethos, nurtured by the United States Marine Corps, which had him (rightfully) convinced that Fargo was a long, different lifetime away. He was a fighting man and not just any kind; not like some kind of geek air corps softy or a faggot squid. Oh no!! Johnny Jarhead hailed from the elite and was carefully trained to believe it. Of course, this attitude- dangerous as it was- also came with its own Achilles heel. Oh yeah, it sure did and I knew exactly how to exploit it, turning John’s own weapons against him; that would be the name of the intricate game we would play in the next several minutes. Macho pride needed to be constantly asserted or it would shrivel up like an under-used cock…and I seriously doubted that my hulking stud marine’s cock would be found lacking in any way!! Damn, these kinds of thoughts get me all hot and I was anxious to put my animal through his paces and slap the trap safely shut on his unsuspecting self as soon as possible. I casually scratched my ass and sized him up, confident of the outcome because, though the boy had to be handled carefully, he was already half way to the point of no return and hadn’t even shown the slightest trace of skittish awareness of what might be coming down…not like the far more self-conscious and perceptive college boy/body builder Timmy so long ago. My appeal to John’s easy-going masculine pride had gotten us this far- shirt stripped off, belt unbuckled, with his jeans spread wide over tight white briefs- now it was time to see if the same tactic would take him the rest of the way. I popped a can of beer, downing half of it in one swallow, and offered another to John who grinned and, not bothering to retrieve his shirt or even button up his trousers (it was so damn hot in my living room), plopped down on the couch and quaffed a long swig.

‘I noticed you looking at these cuffs earlier,’ I said, all matter of fact as if the OPD restraints were just another curio. ‘Ever been busted, John?’ He leaned back on the sofa, utterly relaxed in familiar territory, ready to share some manly stories, ‘Yeah once when I was nineteen.’ I swallowed hard, fighting to control the impulse to reach out and run a rough hand over his rib cage and maybe do a dive bomb into the warm interior of the stud’s damp jockey shorts. ‘So, what happened, man?? Was it something major, do any time?’ I stared intently, confident that he would interpret my avid gaze as interest in a tale to be told and not in the hot body draped invitingly over the sofa. ‘Well, nah, nothing like that,’ he smiled dreamily and heaved a huge sigh, ‘I was out with some buddies and together we killed a whole bottle of whisky down by the river. First time I was ever that drunk and we wrecked the car on the way back into town. Cops came and…hey, the shit sure hit the fan!’ His stupid grin nearly melted my pounding heart. ‘So,’ I fondled the cuffs like they were someone’s crown jewels, ‘did they slap a pair of these on you?’ ‘Sure did,’ he said, but the tone was nostalgic and I knew for a certainty that for big John the event (in retrospect) had assumed mythical proportions; was some sort of rite of passage. ‘What happened then?’ I produced a key and opened the cuffs. ‘Aw, nothing much. They grilled us at the station…called our folks, and let us go the next day.’ ‘Nothing more serious than that?’ I made no attempt to disguise the disdain in my voice, ‘What? Were you some kind of pampered yuppie kid? You know, the kind with his own cell phone at the age of thirteen? Funny, but I wouldn’t have pegged you as that type, man.’ The reaction, as expected, was immediate. My relaxed young marine’s attitude did a fast weather change, body tensing up, brow furrowed as he stared at me intently. All part of the plan soldier, I know you ain’t no pussy- far from it! John started to say something, thought better, and growled, ‘Cops knew my daddy, and knowing him they also knew that he’d take care of things…’ he trailed off. ‘Go on,’ I was all ears. ‘Took me out back to the shed and whupped me good.’ ‘Right!’ the disdain was still there, pushing harder, ‘Just like I said, man- you get drunk and wreck a car and what you get for it is a spanking out in the woodshed like a little boy.’ John heaved a deep breath and looked at me intently, ‘No, it wasn’t like that at all, Ric. My dad made it clear that I was a man and he made me stand for a bit in the center of the shed, sort of sizing me up if you know what I mean?’ The memory was clearly painful, but there was also a note of pride in his voice…a rite of passage. He continued, ‘Said I was too big to bend over the knee and that what I’d done rated some serious consequences. He asked me if I thought that was true and, well, I agreed though it cost me dearly to get those words outta my mouth. Dad nodded, like he was honoring me or something, made me strip off my shirt and pants and grab a low beam running along the ceiling. I’ll tell ya Ric, what he gave me for the next hour or so wasn’t no spoiled thirteen-year old’s pat on the cheek.’ Was there a note of danger in the tall soldier’s voice; a challenge thrown back at me? Perhaps. What was unmistakable was the thread of remembered satisfaction as young nineteen-year-old Johnny paid for a man’s misadventure…like a man should.

‘I’ll bet discipline in the Corps is pretty strict as well. They ever hit you, John?’ He opened another beer, shook his head then reconsidered. ‘Yeah, sometimes…when we was boots.’ The slow smile reappeared as the young marine continued, ‘Tell ya what, though, Ric- hard PT’s worse than getting hit and me and my buds, specially Tommy Riordan- fuckin crazy dude and he ain’t afraid of nothing- have done our share of that!’ ‘Probably all part of the plan, you know…’ I looked thoughtful, ‘one of the ways they train you up to take the worst, to be the kind of bad ass jarheads that are famous around the world.’ ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ he drawled, all slow and easy like one of those big predator cats and, I swear, my tiger positively glowed thinking about just how tough he was. I tossed the handcuffs in John’s lap, startling him so that he tipped a healthy portion of his beer onto the sofa. ‘Ahhh, you stupid fuck, look what you just did!’ My tone was jocular and John mimed sheepish contrition and burst into buzzed laughter. ‘I’ve half a mind to take you out to the woodshed, boy, as it’s clear you still can’t hold your liquor,’ and, getting up, I crossed the space between us and snapped the cuffs on one of his wrists, like I was underscoring the point, and that just cracked Johnny up even more. He twirled the shiny cuffs around like a lasso and let out a long whoop. Grinning with mischief, the tall marine shot back, ‘Yeah, I reckon I could take whatever you had to dish out, dude- you said you was a squid once, right?’ I nodded. ‘Well, maybe it takes a jarhead to show a pansy squid what a man’s made of.’ That glint of danger in his deep brown eyes intensified, daring me to call his bluff. Oh, you swaggering piece of beautiful, grade-A USMC meat- I’ll call your bluff, better believe it…and raise you too. ‘Think so???!’ I feigned mock indignation (boxes within boxes) and, reaching over, cuffed him on the side of the head. ‘Tell you what, man, let’s play a game- guy to guy, and just between the two of us- because I’d like to see how tough you jarheads really are and, besides, you did spill beer all over my couch.’ ‘Whadda you have in mind, Ric?’ John scratched lazily under one sweat-damp armpit and leaned forward, clearly interested. ‘Well, you boys in the Corps are famous for your stamina, for how much you can endure. So, tell me, chicken shit, up for a test of that famous…um…grit?’ John barely paused. ‘Hell yeah!! What’s the plan, some good old-fashioned PT for this bad boy marine?’ His tone was still lighthearted, like it was some kind of joke, but the set of his mouth, suddenly tensed muscles and feral light in his eyes told a different story. Johnny’s pride was hooked and he itched to prove himself. I smiled and replied, ‘Yeah, something like that…’ and, standing up, put my hands behind my back in a cartoon parody of some television CO and said, ‘On your feet, soldier!’ John stifled a guffaw, regained his composure and, acting the part, looked deadly serious as he lumbered to a standing position. ‘That’s good,’ my voice was crisp, ‘now, let me explain what we’re gonna do.’

The big stud was a sight to behold- swaying just a little under the influence of countless cans of Budweiser, broad naked chest thrust forward between disciplined, squared off shoulders, and those gaping levis clinging precariously to the high rise of his muscular ass just begging to come off. ‘Turn around!’ John shrugged, struggled not to smile and did what he was ordered to do. I got up and performed the simple act that we both knew must follow, but which also sealed the tall marine’s fate, as the other cuff snapped softly around his free wrist rendering him helpless. Sucking in a long, deep breath of pure satisfaction- inhaling the heady, beery scent radiating from the naked back of my captive jarhead- I reached out and tentatively explored the massed muscles, stroking the hard planes and ridges from shoulder blades to flanks to the narrow, lightly furred expanse around his waist. Throughout the examination, John stood passively, head bowed, breathing evenly, secure in the belief that my roving hand was merely a necessary part of the anticipated game and, perhaps, remembering a similar touch not so many years ago in a certain woodshed. Drunk on the moment so long anticipated, I decided to have some fun and make the game a real one, but with far higher stakes than John envisaged. That is to say, I knew with certainty that John was now mine to do with as I pleased. I could easily afford to drop all pretense and get (so to speak) ‘down to business’…but decided to toy with the buck for a while in order to better augment and savor the shock of his eventual downfall. There was considerable risk involved as it would mean offering him the chance to escape, but- ah, shit, what can I say??- I’ve always been a gambler, and my passion is the hunt! Besides, the crude way I’d handled Timmy all those years ago still rankled and I needed to atone for it. Yep, big John would get the royal treatment; finessed and coaxed to his doom like a stud bull in a Spanish arena. Placing a hand firmly on the marine’s bicep, I guided him around, facing me once again. ‘What are you gonna do to me, Ric…uh, I mean, sir?’ I liked that! Clearly John was getting into the role play, but so far he hadn’t had to expend much effort to do so. Well, time to test my boy’s resolve, maybe raise the stakes a little. ‘You know damn well what I’m gonna do, grunt,’ I lied, ‘but first I want you to tell me why you deserve it.’ He blinked, intrigued by the complexity of the game. ‘Guess I fucked up, sir…insubordinate behavior, bad attitude…and I ruined your good sofa with a spilled can of beer…sir!’ His face twitched, a half smile briefly appeared then disappeared as John reasserted self-control. ‘Damn right, soldier, and I know from experience (too true) that thick skulled jarheads like yourself only learn their lessons by hard knocks and, so, that’s what I intend to dish out. Think you can take it, boy?’ ‘I ain’t no boy, sir,’ his narrowed eyes held pinpricks of light like the points of twin daggers, ‘I’m a US marine and I reckon that I can take whatever it is you think I deserve, sir.’ ‘We’ll see about that, soldier.’ I sized him up again- so young, in the prime of his manhood, honed muscle on the threshold of perfection; my boy was a natural, effortlessly balancing antithetical poles of pride and submission, reliving the right of passage and the physical test that entailed. The USMC had trained him damn well!

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1 Comment

  1. 31118azti - August 24, 2019, 9:06 am

    Good story writing.

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