Hunting Jarheads: Chapter 10 – Local Boys Having Some Fun

The tension is high as Ric and his jarhead captive meet a group of Mexicans along their deserted trail...

Hunting Jarheads: Chapter 10 - Local Boys Having Some Fun
by Amalaric
Series: Hunting Jarheads
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We still had a couple of miles to go and I was getting just a little impatient. Turning a corner, with a high bluff off to the right and a gentle slope to the left I was caught by surprise as a group of three campesinos trudged into view a hundred yards up the trail. Ah, shit, Ric!!! You pushed your luck and… I mustered a few words of Spanish and smiled, ‘Hola amigos! Que paso?’ Ridiculous, I know, but what could I do? The look of stunned amazement on their faces as they took in the sight of Jarhead John cantering in his jockey shorts, hands bound behind his back, would have been laughable if the situation had been less serious. There were three of them, enough to take matters into their own hands and then pass things on to the local cops. The ragtag group stopped in front of us and we stood on the path eyeing one another. I toyed with the idea of pulling the pistol I had in my pack and reconsidered. Better to see how things shook down without coming to hasty conclusions. For his part, John perked up as might be expected; the long hoped for chance of redemption lighting his weary eyes. ‘Hey! You gotta help me…please!!’ His tone was measured, but the frantic desperation shone through, comprehensible in any language. I mentally cursed my luck and waited to see what would happen. The campesinos remained inscrutable, blank expressions smoothed to quizzical neutrality, and my heart slowed down a beat. The one in the lead looked at my jarhead and said, ‘No hablo ingles…hombre.’ Did I detect a slightly mocking tone? For his part, John refused to give up hope, gibbering a patois of pleas and exhortations, pantomiming his desperate bondage, until he was brought to stunned silence, not by me, but by the campesino who placed a single finger on the marine’s ripe lips, silencing him with a gentle tap. Turning to me, he raised a dark eyebrow and said in passable English, ‘What’s this we got here, señor? Looks like you maybe bought yourself a two-legged burro???’ That cracked them all up and, fumbling in various pockets and me in my backpack, they proceeded to roll some tobacco as I popped the caps on four bottles of Corona and, keeping one for myself, passed them around.

Kicking back on the trail I had my eye on the curious locals as they eyed my big marine. I recalled an old joke I’d heard back in a bar in O’side: What’s the difference between a gay Mexican and a straight Mexican? Answer: Two beers. Well, one each would have to do. The look on Johnny’s broad face was priceless as the three hombres sized him up- not knowing what to think, hope flickering…flickering…then dashed to the ground like the butt ends of the Mexicans’ cigarettes and just as surely ground under the heel of a dirty cowboy boot. One of the head honcho’s sidekicks mumbled something in Spanish and, at a nod from his chief, reached out and tweaked the treasure trail running from the jarhead’s hard belly into the line of his shorts. John backed up in shocked surprise, reddening with a potent mixture of anger and humiliation, and was rewarded with a raking backhand across the side of his head, delivered with gusto by one of the amused newcomers. The leader looked at me with a question in his merry eyes and, after a second or two of hard thought I shrugged, winked, and nodded an affirmative. ‘Hold still, boy,’ I reinforced the point with a stinging blow across his ass with the quirt, ‘so our new friends can have a look at you.’ Though I certainly wasn’t in the habit of sharing freshly snared meat with the neighbors, this seemed to be an exceptional circumstance and, besides, might even be kind of fun. John got the point and settled down, breathing hard and blushing like a school girl as he waited- legs slightly spread, big muscles twitching with nervous expectation; steeling himself for what was sure to be an invasive experience. Poor guy! He didn’t know the half of it, and I soon learned that we had stumbled on a group of real connoisseurs.

The Mexicans circled my captive for a minute like a compact school of sharks and I had to give John some credit- he stood his ground, taking the occasional darting caress like a man, saving his strength for what we both suspected might be coming. I considered hobbling the stud’s legs, having ample experience of kicking bucks’ lethal feet, but decided not to. Better to let the new boys deal with that and watch the fun and games. I sat down on a nearby boulder, popped another Corona, and waited to see what would happen. The big marine was no fool and realized in a flash that with me on my boulder the stinging quirt was also out of commission. Besides, like it or not, he was becoming accustomed to the fact that I was his master…not this bunch of interloping Mexicans. John submitted as a calloused hand stroked the line of his triceps, moving subtly beneath one hairy arm pit and along the hard curve of pectoral muscle. I whistled under my breath, surprised at his self-control. The hand glided down the supple length of ridged solar plexus, over his belly and, fast as a startled lizard, plunged beneath the waistband of the jarhead’s jockey shorts. John grimaced in scandalized disgust, squirming against the firm grip on his big, USMC cock and, unable to hold back any longer, brought a knee straight up with all of his force into the other man’s crotch. The squeal of pain grated on our ears as the man reeled backward, doubled over spewing vomit into the sage and fell writhing on the ground; questing hands now busy with a more urgent task, clutching his damaged balls. One down, two to go, boy. Let’s see what happens next… Their leader looked toward me and nodded toward the quirt, but I shook my head and said, ‘Got to earn your fun, amigo,’ and glancing at my panting marine I watched his jaw clench as I added, ‘do what you have to do.’ What they had to do was immobilize an untamed jarhead, scared shitless, pissed off worse than he’d ever been and maybe (he thought) even fighting for his life. One of the two remaining contestants reached out and brushed a broad shoulder, but the big stud had had enough. He twisted away and, crouching on the coiled muscles of his thick legs, prepared to use the only weapon he had. And that, I reflected, was a shame…because you can’t win, dude, and you must know that…not with your hands tied behind your back. It was an uneven match, as it had to be, and my snorting buck was only good for a riveting show. I wondered if he realized that and decided, probably not. John was young and strong and full of the pride of both his manhood and the Corps. He probably thought he stood a chance… The skirmish resumed in a flash and was over almost as quickly.

‘NO WEAPONS!!!’ I shouted as one of the Mexicans lunged for a dead branch to the side of the trail. I didn’t want my handsome beast damaged in the skirmish. He frowned, swore something unintelligible, and backed off to reconsider. ‘Come on John-boy,’ I laughed, ‘show them what you’re made of, man!!’ John shook a spray of sweat from his eyes and pivoted to face his circling attackers. He aimed a frantic kick at what turned out to be a feint, while the other wily assailant did a dive bomb through the dust that would have done justice to a home run slide in the World Series. It was the leader of the pack, and I had to admire the guy’s stamina and could certainly appreciate the lust that drove him under the kicking feet of the frantic marine. He fearlessly slid in between my beleaguered jarhead’s legs and, grasping both ankles, slammed them together with all of his strength. John teetered, let out a yell of pure despair, and hit the dirt. The other Mexican was on him in a flash and planted a knee firmly on the back of the prone buck’s neck, pinning him to the ground. The match was over almost as soon as it had begun. Without consulting me, a leather cord was produced and the thrashing buck’s feet were tied firmly together, immobilizing him, after which he was flipped unceremoniously onto his back, eyes squinting into the hard-blue sky. The jubilant campesinos let out a whoop and, fetching their pale companion (still rubbing his aching balls), gathered around the feast. Ok, guys, I guess I owe you a little fun but things better not go too far…I’ve got my own plans for this boy. Things could easily get out of hand at this point and I casually pulled the pistol packed in my bag and, without aiming at anyone in particular, twirled it around my forefinger like some cowpoke in a cheap western. The three Mexicans merely grinned and turned their attention back to the jarhead laid panting on the ground before them. John was hoisted up by the armpits and set squatting on his knees as the three took turns at tentative groping- squeezing the rounded width of his shoulders and over his heaving chest where his nips were pinched and thoroughly fondled, some hard thumps to the knotted muscles of his back, tweaking the slick hair of his pits and a series of healthy knuckle wraps on the backside of his head. All normal horse play and I didn’t have a problem with that, enjoying the jarhead’s confused misery, like a lion beset by a swarm of biting flies.

I narrowed my gaze, heart speeding up a fraction, as the circling pack of gleeful tormentors slowed, broad smiles and bantering replaced by some mysterious intent. I expected them to try to rip off the marine’s briefs and lean him over a rock for some concentrated fun, and would have immediately put a stop to that. That privilege was mine alone and, always being an old-fashioned sort of guy, I liked my bucks to be virgins. Sure enough, rough hands began a playful probe in the forbidden area, but there was something else going on as well that set all my instincts on high alert. One of the Mexicans did a slo-mo dance behind John and, placing both hands firmly on his shoulders, pulled him backward until the stud’s head leaned into the standing man’s crotch, spine arched painfully and stretched torso- from flattened pecs to the broad sweep of his hairy belly- in high relief. The leader then produced a six-inch bowie knife from a hidden sheath shoved down the inside of his levis and I knew from the twin glints in his eyes and the cold steel of the naked blade that John was seconds away from some very decorative carving. ‘Hold it right there, fucker!!!’ I had a lot of practice mustering an authoritative tone and my voice rang off the nearby bluffs. ‘Let’s get a few things straight right now, carnal. First, my boy’s clothes stay on (oh, exquisite irony!!!); you can have some fun, but that pleasure is mine alone.’ I paused and, dropping pretense, aimed my gun straight at his chest, ‘Second thing, pendejo- I strongly advise you to put that pig sticker back in your pocket or wherever it came from right now or…’ I cocked my pistol. He looked at me, famed Hispanic pride clearly piqued, and slowly raised the knife to John’s quivering throat. Despite the looming crisis my pecker leapt at the sight as a fat tear rolled down the jarhead’s handsome face, naked throat convulsing against the blade like a supple sacrifice moments away from bitter consummation. The Mexican underscored his defiance with a deft flick of pressure that brought a thin trickle of blood coursing from beneath John’s jaw pooling in the hollow of his collar bone. The look in the young marine’s eyes stirred something deep within me; filled with entreaty, a willing acknowledgement of my mastery and plea for help so filled with pathos, as he faced ignominious death, that my balls fairly twitched with proprietary love…he was MY buck, dammit, and counting on me now. I pulled the trigger and a bullet zipped over the shoulder of the surprised Mexican, inches from the arm holding the knife. He frowned and withdrew the blade. I knew that I had to do something to diffuse the tension and so, smiling, I nodded, took a long swig of my half-finished Corona and lowered the gun, confident that the point had been made. The predatory campesinos looked sheepish, and backed up a pace or two. Their leader, still smarting from his defeat and needing to save face, set the new tone, giving John a smack across his face and plunged a hungry hand down the front of his shorts, daring me to do anything about it.

I let them have their fun, limits understood, as the helpless marine submitted to some rough sport. I reckoned it would do him some good and maybe make him grateful when the time came for a more familiar touch to take things…all the way. The dude who had known the dubious privilege of a jarhead knee rammed into his groin repaid the pleasure by shoving his fist into the damp depths of tattered jockeys, grasping the stud’s hairy balls and pulling hard. John gagged and finally exhaled an appropriate yelp, interrupted as another hand snaked down his back side and slid two fingers roughly up the tight confines of his sweat-slick asshole. I smiled at the straight stud’s surprised reaction- breath hitching in stunned surprise, expression creased with a mixture of shocked pain and disbelief as a guttural, animal sound of grunting protest ripped from his throat. The giggling Mexican twisted his hand, probing the hot depths of the young marine, while the other pawed his cock and balls and yet another hovered, frustrated by the lack of action, and finally bent to the jarhead’s arched neck and ran a wet tongue from collar bone to upper jaw before burying it in the depths of John’s ear. The look of revulsion and terror on my boy’s handsome face told an eloquent story with body language to match- trying to twist away from the triple exploration, frantic muscles running wild against the restraints, all the while choking on his own outrage. Yeah, things were cranking and as long as the guys behaved themselves and kept things reasonable, I didn’t see any harm in letting them mess around with my cocky young stud.

I checked my watch. ‘OK, guys, you’ve had had some sport and you’re welcome and all of that, but it’s time that me and my buck, ah, hit the road. Comprendes?’ I casually tapped the pistol against a denim clad knee and they reluctantly withdrew a few paces, licking their lips, looking, for all the world, like a pack of mangy dogs chased away from a bone. I laughed. ‘Vamanos, amigos- hasta luego...,’ then reconsidered, not wanting to ever see them again, ‘Adios, pendejos,’ and cocked the gun. The campesinos got the point and with a last hungry look at my captive, headed down the trail and disappeared, singing some dirty Spanish song, and were eventually obscured by a band of pale green mesquite. I looked at John, lying prone in the dust, and was glad that I had allowed the Mexicans their few moments of fun; not for their sakes’ (I could care less), but for the jarhead’s. I reckoned that the last few minutes had probably brought him as close to death as he had ever been, and certainly as near to being gang banged as my very straight Dakota boy had ever envisioned in his worst nightmares. The experience would do him a lot of good, provide some food for thought in the long hours ahead of us both, and, well, it was my turn to lick my lips; yep, I liked my meat tenderized and well-seasoned! I glanced at the helpless jarhead panting his terror on the stony path and laughed. Ah, Ric, you are a card!!! OK! I’d say he was reasonably seasoned and getting tender. Time now to pop this side of beef in the oven for some nice, slow cooking… ‘Get your ass up, boy, we’re almost there!’ John wearily staggered to his feet, reeling as much from conflicting emotions as anything else and, beneath the pain and anger, I thought I saw a glimmer of gratitude as he re-lived what might have happened there on the trail if I hadn’t kept an eye on things, twirling my pistol. Dunno. Maybe I read too much into his expression? Whatever the case, the strapping jarhead belonged to me, taken down and out, fair and square. I felt a rush of adrenaline and the old impatience surged back on a fresh tide of hot lust. He grimaced as I picked up the quirt and, delivering a hard slash straight across his broad chest, I guided him around and set the buck trotting the last lap down the winding trail.

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1 Comment

  1. 31118azti - December 21, 2019, 4:45 pm

    It is a shame the Mexicans did not get to do more to our stud!

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