Misdelivered Mail Male Sex Training

Allen came to the window of his Maple Street bungalow and looked out at the driveway at the unmistakable sound of the purring of an expensive sports car. He had arrived in time to see Jack unfold his elegant six-foot-four frame out of the red Porsche Carrera convertible and run his hand through a thick mane of auburn hair with frosted highlights. The man was a real hunk from his Italian loafers sans socks; up through his tight designer jeans that were extra tight over his athletic thighs and bulging crotch; up to his casual, but cashmere and obviously pricey, polo shirt, which showed off his gym-honed pectorals to perfection.

Turning from his car, Jack saw Allen standing in the window, also quite handsome in dark, Mediterranean looks, if smaller of stature and a lot less wealthy in dress than Jack was. Allen’s shorts and T were run of the mill, although they showed his body off to near perfection for his size. The most expensive item he was wearing was a red silk jock strap under the white shorts that, purposely, showed through the white of the shorts.

Jack smiled and waved and lifted a wine bottle in one hand—most likely an expensive wine, which they’d have for dinner before turning to beer later. As he’d done before, Jack made an O with the fingers of the hand not holding the wine bottle and, making sure Allen could see the gesture, pumped the neck of the bottle in and out of the O he’d created. Like, no one watching could miss what that meant. He laughed and headed for the door.

Allen didn’t know why Jack always did this. They both knew Jack was here to eat Allen’s steak dinner, watch Allen’s TV, and fuck Allen’s ass—in that order of priority. This was Jack’s form of slumming. The two had met in a pickup game of soccer at a gay men’s sports club. Jack had been the game’s attention-getting superjock—until the smaller Allen had shown him up by deftly eluding him and going for a couple of goals. In a fit of pique Jack had cornered Allen afterward in a rarely used row of lockers separated by a bench and fucked the stuffing out of Allen to show him who was boss.

Since then Jack had come to Allen’s bungalow on Maple Street nearly every other Sunday afternoon, eaten the steak dinner Allen provided, watched Allen’s TV, and fucked Allen to, again—perpetually—show him who the boss was. If anyone had told Jack it also was because he liked fucking Allen’s ass, he would have given them a blank stare.

It was no different this Sunday.

They talked a bit through the dinner Allen served at the table in the small dining area forming an L with the kitchen off the living room, but it was mostly about sports and Jack thinking of turning his last-year sports car in for this year’s model. It occurred to Allen that he’d never been told where Jack worked and why he had all of this money—and why he kept coming back to eat Allen’s steaks and fuck him. They had nothing in common really. Maple Street was literally on the wrong side of the tracks in this town. Jack could be the county judge for all Allen knew. He did know that Jack was at least four years older than his own twenty-three, but that didn’t bother him. It just meant that many of Jack’s reference points to life weren’t the same as Allen’s.

Neither had Jack asked what Allen did for a living and why he could afford to live even in a small bungalow like this on the wrong side of the tracks. Allen had inherited the bungalow from an Army officer—Allen’s CO in Afghanistan. Afghanistan had been a scary and turbulent place, where one constantly didn’t know if there would be a tomorrow and where men lived in combat situations closely with other men. The popular saying was that there were no atheists in foxholes. The parallel saying in Allen’s company in Afghanistan was that there were no straights in foxholes—that the tensions and opportunities involved led men to each other for comfort and release. That certainly worked out to be the case with Allen. He was leaning gay anyway before he went to Afghanistan, but Allen’s older, combat-worn lieutenant, had initiated Allen at the age of nineteen in one of those foxholes—had fucked Allen six ways from Sunday and made Allen his slave.

To the lieutenant’s credit, when both of them had been drummed out of the army, the lieutenant brought Allen back to the States, sent him to college, and then promptly died and left Allen with this bungalow—as well as with a job as a counselor at a half-way house for released prison inmates. His program was especially involved with the gay ones, and he’d been given a membership in the gay men’s club where he met Jack because of his work.

Jack had been Allen’s first since the lieutenant had died during Allen’s second year in college. Allen had gotten some form of affection and plenty of control and direction from the lieutenant. So far that’s what he got from Jack as well. He had no idea why he kept waiting to see if there was more that would come his way some day.

Dinner was timed to end before the start of the Eagles and Redskins pro football game coverage on the TV. And the start of the game found Jack out on the sofa in front of the big-screen TV on the living room wall, while, behind him, Allen moved dishes, silverware, glasses, and serving plates from the dining room out to the kitchen. Jack had drunk most of the wine he had brought himself at dinner. Allen pulled a bottle of cold beer out of the refrigerator and approached the back of the sofa with it.

Jack was engrossed in the TV. Allen waited for the end of the kickoff and reached over and slid the cold bottle down Jack’s chest. Jack had taken off his jeans, shirt, and loafers and folded and stacked them neatly on the seat of Allen’s recliner. This left him wearing only a pair of FU e=fu8 Pleasure Pouch briefs. Allen only knew that because Jack had told him at dinner what designer underwear he was wearing this time and pushed in trouser waistband down to show Allen the logo on his undies, which was Jack’s form of foreplay. The play had heated up momentarily when, in turn, Allen told him he was wearing a red silk jock strap of unknown brand that he’d gotten in an adult sex shop.

“It may be strawberry flavored,” Allen said.

Jack had made him strip his shorts off so he could feel Allen’s jewels through the pouch, but that done, after an exploratory sniff for the scent of strawberry, he’d moved off on another topic.

“Thanks, babe,” Jack said, taking the beer. He pulled Allen’s hand down to his crotch with the other hand, which also brought Allen’s mouth down to his. They kissed, with Allen noticing that Jack’s eyes were targeted beyond his head to the TV set, where a commercial was winding down.

“Feel me hard, babe? This is all for you. Half time. I can’t wait.” He released Allen’s hand as the TV coverage returned to the game.

Going back to the kitchen to clean up the dishes, Allen couldn’t help but think, If he’s so hot for me and can’t wait, why are we waiting for half time? Allen wouldn’t have minded Jack fucking him on the couch while the game was going. The lieutenant had done that many times. And, what the hell, Philadelphia and Washington weren’t even local teams.

After cleaning up in the kitchen, Allen stripped down to his jock strap and came back into the living room with two more cold beers in hand. He handed one to Jack, who pulled him down onto the sofa without taking his eyes from the TV set.

They embraced and kissed and did some fondling, but it was perfunctory, with Jack giving the priority of his attention to the football game and Allen doing most of the fondling. Jack was more of a wham-bang-thanks-a-bunch guy than a fondler.

Jack showed more attention when Allen had gotten his fu briefs off him and had bent over and deep-throated Jack’s cock, which was hard to do. Along with all of the other perfections of Jack, he was horse hung. And this was why Allen was here, bent over him, and sucking his cock. Jack was the only man Allen had had since the lieutenant died, and he was a hunk. Allen wasn’t proud about where he got it and what he had to do to get it.

During halftime Jack delivered in his own way. As the teams were leaving the field, he showed that he’d brought a DVD to fuck by and popped a scene in of a big guy fucking a little guy, the big guy in Roman soldier costume, and the little guy dressed as a servant slave.

When he came back to the sofa, Jack pulled the smaller Allen up, turned him sideways to the sofa, set his chest on the arm of the sofa, with his head and arms reaching for the floor, slapped Allen’s thighs apart and brought him up to his knees on the sofa cushion. He then went to town sucking Allen’s cock and balls and eating out his ass while Allen moaned, remembering why he had Jack over every other Saturday. Jack spent more time finger fucking the hole than licking it.

Six minutes of this and then Jack snapped on a Trojan Magnum and mounted, penetrated, and fucked Allen hard and deep, with Allen squirming under him and luxuriated in the pain-pleasure of being taken by a hung man. Jack didn’t even bother to strip Allen of his jock strap. He just moved aside whatever was in his way for what he wanted to get at, just as he’d done when he was eating out Allen’s ass.

Once in position, Jack drove his cock in, causing Allen to yelp and his eyes to go real big and his mouth to form a big O. Jack held for twenty seconds to give Allen a chance to adjust to the cock. Grabbing a handful of Allen’s hair, Jack arched Allen’s torso back to him and bit Allen on the side of his neck. It always started in anger like this—as it had that first time, in the locker room, when Allen had scored two embarrassing goals on Jack.

Regardless of Jack’s motivations for fucking him, Allen had loved the position, forced onto his chest on the bench, with Jack grabbing his ankles and forcing his legs spread and bent back over Allen’s head, as Jack pushed himself between Allen’s legs in reverse and fucked brutally down into him.

It had been that exotic position as well as the domination and the thickness and depth that Jack could reach that had Allen agreeing to see Jake again, to invite him over for dinner and to watch a game on TV, and to nail Allen’s ass to the sofa—never again in as exotic a position, though.

“Be good to me, Jack,” Allen whimpered.

“I’m always good for you.” Jack answered, with a low laugh. Allen couldn’t dispute that, there being no one else to compare with Jack’s periodic visits since the lieutenant had died. And then Jack leaned back, grabbed Allen’s wrists, and arched Allen’s back by pulling his arms tight behind him. It was time for Allen to go to pain-pleasure heaven, whispering for Jack to give him mercy when he actually wanted exactly what Jack was doing—pounding his ass hard and deep and fast—just like the lieutenant had done.

This was Allen’s time to focus his eyes to the TV screen. As Jack was preparing his ass for mounting, Allen watched the Roman soldier on the screen pick the slave up, reverse the smaller man’s body on his, and eat out the slave’s ass while, suspended upside down on the front of the soldier, the slave sucked him off. And while Jack was fucking him, the Roman soldier had the slave draped on the front of him right side up this time, the slave’s arms immobile in a full Nelson, the slave’s thighs spread on those of the solider, and the soldier fucking up into the slave’s ass.

The slave was completely at the mercy of the brutal hunk of a Roman soldier. That’s what Allen dreamed of as well, being held completely in thrall of a demanding hunk.

As nice as it was to have a long, thick man inside him, Allen thought, the slave on the screen was getting more exotic action than he was. Maybe six minutes of painful ecstasy—of being truly alive—and it was done.

As halftime was winding down, Jack pulled out of Allen, jerked his body up and reversed it on the sofa, and ripped his condom off. “On the face,” he commanded.

And that’s where he shot his load.

Allen cleaned off in the kitchen while Jack did so in the bathroom and was back on the sofa and engrossed in the TV as the second half started.

Allen had hoped that Jack would stay around and go into the bedroom with him after the game, but Jack hadn’t done so before and he didn’t do it now.

“Gotta see a man about an investment portfolio,” he said at the door. “You were great, babe.” And then he was gone.

Yeah, great, Allen thought. He went to his bedroom, stretched out on the bed, slipped off the red silk jock strap, and masturbated himself, thinking of the action in the Roman DVD and letting the lyrics of the old Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?” run through his brain. Six minutes of building arousal and six, maybe seven minutes, of walking on the clouds, and that was it. The steak had not been cheap. Allen considered that he might as well have hired a rent-boy—one who gave both commands and attention. Allen fully realized he was a needy submissive.

Still, the lieutenant, much older than Jake was, didn’t last for more than five minutes. That was at a time, of course. The lieutenant came back at him after a rest. And then again—and again. By the third time, the fuck was the way Allen dreamed about—him exhausted and totally malleable to whatever the lieutenant wanted to do to him. And the third time was always the lieutenant at his most cruel and demanding. That was nice.

* * * *

Allen had to ask about the back room and how you got there. The door was pretty well camouflaged. The greasy-looking-skin guy behind the counter had given him a knowing look and popped his tongue in the side of his cheek but had shown Allen where the door to the adult section of Sam’s Costume Dreamland was located.

Allen had learned about the place at work, where he overheard a couple of guys making jokes about the place. What they had said about what you could get at the costume shop had worked on Allen for a couple of days. He needed some sort of pizzaz going in his life. The porn stars in the Roman soldier film Jack had running while he fucked Allen had been having more fun than Allen was having. If nothing else, Allen decided that when he took matters into his own hands, he could be in costume and watching appropriate DVDs.

He wanted to see that Roman soldier film again. He wanted to be that slave the Roman soldier was fucking—even if vicariously. He wanted to get a copy of that film.

So, here he was, in Sam’s Costume Dreamland. He’d picked up some costumes—an Indian loincloth and deerskin boots, a Navy sailor’s costume, a Roman slave tunic, and a colonial dandy’s blousy shirt, leather boots, and tight britches with a codpiece that opened all the way back to the ass—and set them on the counter for the smirking clerk to process. Then he needed DVDs to go with them, so he found the courage to ask the clerk about the rumored back room.

He wandered around in the back room that, the rumor having been right, had an extensive collection of DVDs and sex toys. The business office was off to the side of this back room. There was a big picture window and a door between the rooms—and the manager was sitting back there. From what Allen could see the manager was a towering, thuggish, muscular ogre of a man, somewhat like Allen’s lieutenant—with a bald head, bull-thick neck, and hairy forearms. He’d glance at the man in the office occasionally and find the man always watching him, moving from the desk to standing in the door, leaning on the frame with crossed arms. Allen might have found that intimidating, but, instead, he’d been aroused by it—the hint of domination and cruelty in the man.

Being a little nervous that he was being closely watched—although understanding why a patron in this section would be—Allen quickly picked out the DVDs that went with the costumes he was buying and, as an afterthought, picked out a Jack-sized plastic dildo with knobs all over it, and went back to purchase his extensive “do it yourself” kit.

The next two evenings he enjoyed jacking off to DVDs as an Indian and a sailor, with a plastic dildo up his ass. It was something, but it wasn’t everything.

On the third day when he went to the mailbox out on the street to retrieve his mail, he saw that he’d mistakenly gotten a letter addressed to a Samuel Strang at a house around the corner from him on Oak Street. It looked like a normal letter, except that on the reverse side from the address, down in the corner, in a tight little script, he saw written “Roman slave,” and under that was “Saturday, 8 pm.”

The inscription didn’t mean anything to him, although it kept running through his brain, and he was ready to take a run anyway. He ran the misdelivered envelope around the corner to the mailbox of the house on Oak, which was much the same as his bungalow, albeit the foliage around it was thicker than around his house. The area had been a subdevelopment in the forties, so there was a basic general sameness to all of the houses tempered by time with some individuality. If his house reflected tired drabness, this one was a bit mysterious and sinister.

The next day the letter was back in the mailbox. Allen flipped it over. The same “Roman slave,” with “Saturday, 8 pm” written under it, both now underlined in red. On the flap of the envelope had been added “I will take care of you.”

Allen didn’t immediately understand what it meant. But his dick did; it was going hard.

* * * *

The guy who opened the door of the Oak Street house to him at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday was the big ogre manager from Sam’s Costume Dreamland. He was dressed as a Roman soldier in a pleated skirt; sandals, with laces up to his knees; and a full-torso breast plate in a shiny gold metal that showed a muscular, cut torso sinking down to cover the lower belly. He wore thick gold-metal bands on his wrists. Allen arrived in a simple tunic going down to mid thigh over a tied loincloth and sandals, with laces up to his knees, covered with a trench coat.

Allen had taken a wild guess and had, surprisingly, been right. He even had envisioned the costume store manager in the role of the Roman soldier, he realized, now that he saw the man in costume. The whole scenario was enveloped in a dreamlike film that enabled Allen, going completely submissive, to just float along with it now.

“I’m Sam and you are Allen Brice—and you’ve come here for a fantasy fuck,” the man said in a deep voice. “Come in and lose the coat.” He already was unlacing the breastplate, with his torso, when the armor was lost, proving to be no less muscular and cut, if thicker and more mature, than the breastplate, which he tossed aside.

“On your knees, slave. Blow me,” Sam commanded. Allen sank submissively on his knees before the man with a low moan. It was all a dream, of course, but the dream was one he wanted to be in. The soldier wore no loin cloth under the short skirt. He was a bull, thick, hard, and of slightly longer than average length. His bush was coarse, unruly, and a brighter red than the hair was as it rose up his chest and arms and didn’t quite reach his head. He held Allen’s head close in both hands and manipulated it as Allen’s mouth gagged and slurped in taking him to a pulled-out-and-cream-the face shoot off.

“Follow me and slither on your belly. You’re a Roman slave and I am your general and master. I have conquered your people and now I will thoroughly subjugate you to my will and pleasure.”

Allen trembled with anticipation and the novelty both of how arousing this sex role playing was and how readily he’d recognized and fallen in with it as he slithered along the floor into a room where there was a Roman couch with a plaster column behind it and a small, carved-wood table supporting an earthen-ware jug, an earthen-ware wine cup, an earthen-ware plate with a bunch of red grapes on it, and a huge earthen-ware dildo. Across the room from the Roman couch was a wall TV, running the same Roman soldier porn scene, over and over, that Jack had brought to Allen’s the other night.

Jack hadn’t been able to locate that exact DVD at the store and had been disappointed at the failure to do so. Here it was—for him to enjoy as he was being mastered. He certainly hoped he wouldn’t wake up before he’d been thoroughly fucked.

Sam, the Roman soldier, picked up the dildo and showed it to Allen, who had reached the center of the room and propped his torso up on his arms extending to the floor. His eyes were on the Roman soldier and the earthen-ware dildo. His look was wary. The dildo looked larger than anything he’d taken before.

“Do you recognize who I am?” the man asked.

“Yes, the man from the costume shop.”

“You looked apprehensive when you were in the shop. Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes, I little.”

“Afraid I will be cruel?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Does that arouse you?”

Allen didn’t answer, but he lowered his head in submission, a signal understood by them both.

“Good. We will share a mutually beneficial relationship. Remember that no matter what the role we are playing, I am the master and you are the slave. I own the store. I am the Sam of the store’s name. I know who you are. Allen Brice. I know what you bought in my store. For instance, I know you bought a version of this.” He rotated the dildo. “You bought a size eight thick. Have you used it on yourself yet?”

“Yes,” Allen answered haltingly.

“This is a size nine. I am a size nine.”

Allen shuddered.

“I got the impression from watching you in the store that you are ripe for some excitement in your sex life. If I’m wrong, tell me.”

Allen didn’t answer, which was an answer.

“I want to be quite clear,” Sam continued. “Not many have followed my command at the door the first time. I take that as an indication of how badly you need what I can give you. And this surprises me. You are quite good looking and have a perfectly formed body and a sweet, soft mouth. You are a bit small in stature, but there are many men, including me, who see that as arousing. And yet, here you are and there you were in my shop—buying fantasies. Tell me, do you open your legs for men?”

“I have,” Allen answered.

“Have you possibly lost a lover recently and are having trouble replacing him?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve found someone but he isn’t fulfilling your fantasies?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“But is a satisfying sex partner otherwise?”

“In most respects.”

“I am not looking for a slave,” Sam said. “I will not possess you permanently. But I am able to give you what you want—and possibly help you get more of what you want from your sex partner—or enable you to find more satisfactory sex partners. If that’s not what you want, you may slither on out of the house and thank you very much for the very nice blow job at the door.” He paused, giving Allen a chance to withdraw. But Allen stayed put. He’d decided before he came that he’d carry through with it if this was what he thought it was and the other man was presentable.

Sam was very presentable in many ways—he certainly was horse hung—and in many ways reminiscent of Allen’s lieutenant.

“You bought a size eight thick dildo in my store. I like to think that the men who shop there underestimate their needs. As I said, This dildo is a size nine extra thick. If you stay here, I will be fucking you with it.”

Again Allen made no effort to move.

“And I also will fuck you with this, also a size nine.” He pulled his own cock out from underneath his short skirt. Allen had been intimately introduced to it at the door already, but it didn’t look any less formidable now in full erection.

“So, we will begin,” Sam said, sitting on the side of the couch. “Come, serve me wine and feed me grapes. I am a Roman general and your master, back from many months on the campaign trail. I brought you back with me, one of the last survivors of a vanquished people. I saved you from being ravished and dispatched by my soldiers. I saved you for myself. You have not yet been touched in that way by man. I have saved you to do that myself.

“I haven’t had a man in those months, as the marching and fighting have taken all the energy I can give. I am home now, bathed—and I fucked the bath attendant—and massaged—and I fucked the masseur—and I am here now, hungry for wine and food and more young, virginal male pussy. I seized you to be my personal servant to serve me at the dining couch—both in delivering food to me and riding my cock.

“I am here now, to use the present I bought for myself. I am thirsty and hungry—and randy. Serve me this wine and then feed me these grapes. I will take care of deflowering you myself. Be aware that you know exactly why your life was spared thus far, what you were brought to do for me, and that your life hangs in the balance of doing it well.

“Pour me wine and hand me the cup. Yes, like that, but don’t withdraw from me. Stand there, between my spread thighs, as I drink the wine. Fondle my cock with both of your hands. Yes, like that. Your job is to keep me hard, knowing that my intent is to take your virginity from you—fully and brutally. I am back from the cruel battles. My need and intent is to ravish you. But you are resigned to it—glad to be alive. Willing to please me to remain alive—knowing that if you don’t please me, you won’t live.”

Allen was totally into the role play, panting already, thinking of the impending loss of a virginity he no longer had. Thinking of being the property of this rough-handed man, intending to fuck every ounce of his pleasure out of an untested, smaller slave.

“Put the wine cup back on the table. Pick up the grapes.”

Trembling, Allen complied. Sam pulled the young man in between his spread thighs, and pulled Allen’s tunic over his head, leaving him only clothed in a tied loin cloth. Sam’s face went to Allen’s belly, which he nuzzled and kissed. Moaning lightly, the slave stood his ground, murmuring, “Yes, master, yes,” and putting his hands on the Roman’s bald head. He shuddered as the Roman general pulled on the knot of the loin cloth and it fell to the floor. Grasping the slave’s buttocks, the soldier parted the cheeks, moved the calloused middle finger of each hand to and into the young man’s virginal hole, and swallowed and began to work the slave’s cock, bringing an ejaculation out of the young man in short order as lost as he’d become in the role play.

“Keep your body perfectly straight while you feed me the grapes,” the general growled, as the slave exclaimed in surprise at being easily lifted and raised over the soldier’s head as he reclined on the couch. The strong Roman used the slave as a straight-bodied dead-weight lift over his body. He lifted the slave up from his body and then brought him down, whereupon the slave would place a grape in his mouth. Every third feeding the general took the slave’s lips with his and transferred the grape for the slave to eat. After several rounds of feeding, the general commanded the slave to part his thighs and remain close on top of the general’s stretched body as the two exchanged grapes in their mouth. Telling the slave to close his thighs on the cock, the general dry fucked the slave’s thighs while they finished the grapes.

Looking over at the TV, Allen saw, to his surprise, that this was part of the porn film Jack had shown him the other night. It just wasn’t a part of the scene that Allen had seen before.

As the TV scene continued, Allen moaned, knowing then what came next. The general came off the couch with Allen in his arms, spun Allen’s body around so that he was head down toward the floor but draped on the front of the Roman general’s body. As in the film, the general told the slave to do the splits with his legs and then started munching on the slave’s asshole with his mouth, while the slave, holding onto the general’s legs behind his knees, sucked the general’s cock.

Constantly in the mind of the slave—and in the mind of Allen, fully invested in this role play—was the need to please the Roman general, to give him whatever he wanted, to be totally submissive and responsive to prolong his own life.

Raising and turning the slave’s body with ease, the Roman grasped the young man’s back to his chest, pulled the slave’s buttocks up, while the slave locked his fists behind the beefy soldier’s neck, and set his passage down on the cock. The slave then twisted his calves around the general’s thighs, while the general put the slave into a full Nelson hold. The appropriate cries and begging for mercy that followed came, by the power of suggestion and the tale being woven, from a virgin being debauched. Relentlessly, mercilessly, the general fucked the whimpering and groaning slave to an ejaculation.

As the Roman recovered his erection, he took the moaning and fully submissive slave to the couch, laid the young man down, clutched the slaves throat to keep him flat and subdued, put the slave’s left ankle on his right shoulder, and fucked his ass with the earthen-ware dildo.

At some point the position was adjusted a bit, with the general turning to be on top of the slave and the dildo was exchanged with a real, churning, shooting cock.

Sam left Allen stretched out on the couch, panting and sighing and contemplating how satisfying and exotic the role-playing fuck had been.

It wasn’t too long, though, before Sam reentered the room. He was wearing football gear—or most of the equipment. He had on tight, silken football britches and athletic shoes with cleats. The pants had a big bulge at the crotch, which Allen could attest probably was all Sam, with a codpiece that laced up. He had hip protectors wedged into the waistband of the pants and was wearing shoulder pads. The rest of the heavily muscled chest and six pack and armor-like flat belly were raw Sam. He had dark smudges under his eyes and a mean look in his face.

He held out another set of silken football pants and said, “Here, put these on and come in the other room.”

“This isn’t any of the costumes I bought in your store,” Allen said.

“I know what you bought in my store. What we just did—the Roman scene—was your fantasy. This one is mine. Get up and put these pants on and come into the other room.”

The next room was small, and all it had in it was a huge wall TV, which now was rerunning the Philadelphia-Washington football game from the previous weekend.

Good, Allen nonsensically thought. He never had seen the final score of the game. He had spent the third quarter jacking himself off because Jack hadn’t taken care of him, although Jack held him in his lap and penetrated him with two fingers, rubbing Allen’s prostate, to help him come. In the fourth quarter, Allen had been too busy pouting and shoveling beer bottles at Jack to keep track of the score.

“Here, you’re going to be hiking this,” Sam said, as he handed Allen the strangest-looking football Allen had every scene. It looked more like a monstrously thick cigar. Allen shuddered when he realized it was a thick dido.

“I’ve always wanted to see this done in a real game,” Sam said. He was busy unlacing his codpiece. “I’ve done it in pickup football games. We’re going to do it right now. This is my costume fantasy for the day. You’re the center and I’m the quarterback. Get down in your stance, facing the TV set.”

Allen went down into a center’s stance, his trembling hands holding the fake football in position, ready to snap it back to the quarterback. As Sam counted off numbers, he worked fingers into the seam of Allen’s football pants and split the silky material along the seam running from Allen’s belly to past his asshole. Allen felt his cock and balls drop, and then Sam was pressing his cupped hands under Sam’s taint and cried out “Hike.”

Instinctively Allen hiked the ball back into the hands of the man crouching over his spread legs as he bent over to the ground. An arm went under Allen’s belly to hold him up in a bent-over doggy stance, and Allen cried out and huffed and puffed as Sam fucked him, first, with the football dildo, and then with the real thing, grasping and milking Allen’s cock toward the end to give them a nearly mutual ejaculation.

* * * *

The next Monday Allen went to the mailbox at his house and discovered another misdelivered envelope destined for Sam Strang on Oak Street. With trembling hands, he turned the envelope over. In the bottom right corner, a notation had been written: “Indian brave” and, below that, “8 pm Wednesday.”

Wednesday evening Allen was scheduled for a pickup basketball game at the gay men’s sports club that he hoped Jack would go to. The role-playing fucks at Sam’s house had him keyed up and his juices flowing. He felt sexy and more open to the possibilities with other men than before. He was interested in taking risks he hadn’t taken before. There was a thug of a guy who had hit on him at the club but that Allen had been afraid to risk. He didn’t come out for the pickup games on Wednesdays, though. He was there on Thursdays. Allen thought he’d give the guy a try—all because of how Sam had opened him up to possibilities.

Allen was interested in seeing Jack again too. He felt that Sam, in just those two sessions, had loosened him up, made him sexier. He wanted to know if Jack would notice that—and would give him more attention.

There was no question where Allen was going on Wednesday evening, though. Sam met him at the door in full war paint. He was wearing low-rise deer hide britches, with a laced-up codpiece, moccasins on his feet, a breast-plate bone chest shield, leather bands dripping in rawhide strings around his biceps, and a feather headdress.

Allen wore a loin cloth and moccasins. He didn’t wear the loin cloth for long, though. With a movie of Indian gang banging a white old-West cavalry soldier blaring on the wall, and tent-like walls around three sides of an area with a floor-to-ceiling pole in it, the Indian chief lashed the young brave to the pole, wrists bound high over his head, lightly lashed his naked body with a many-pronged rawhide whip until both he and the young brave were hard as rocks, and then unlaced his codpiece to free his erection, held the brave’s legs straight out from his sides in a splits, and fucked him from behind to completion.

For a second “go” at him, the Indian chief staked the brave who Allen was portraying out spread-eagled on a mound of dirt in his backyard, face down in the dirt; tickled him with feathers, saying they were providing the effect of the ants from the hill the brave had been staked on; and, eventually, mounted the brave’s ass and rode him like he was a horse loping across the prairies.

Thursday, the misdelivered letter in Allen’s box gave the fantasy as “Plantation owner’s son; time for company,” with the date of “Friday” and time of “8 pm.”

So keyed up was Allen over the prospect of another role play that he went to the sports club’s Thursday pickup basketball game. He found out that the thug who had been propositioning him was a policeman named Larry. In a remote corner of the locker room—on the same bench that Jack had originally fucked him, Allen let Larry handcuff him to a bench, his arms over his head and a gym bag under the small of his back to give Larry’s cock a good penetration angle, while Larry slapped him around, squeezed his balls until he wanted to scream, and gave him a brutal missionary fuck.

Lost in the fantasy of a prisoner being taken in his cell by a cop, Allen luxuriated in every minute of the taking. Most surprising was that afterward Larry told Allen he had been a lot of fun and that what he’d like to do to Allen would really stretch his limits. When he went on to tell Allen what that would be in graphic terms and asked for his phone number, Allen gave him his actual cell number.

Before Sam, Allen would never have submitted to the handcuffed fuck, let alone shown willingness to do something darker.

* * * *

“You are the step-son of a plantation owner on the Mississippi who has, along with your mother, gone to New Orleans for a week,” said Sam as he led Allen back into a bedroom with a four-poster bed, with canopy, grasping the back of Allen’s neck with one hand and latching onto one of Allen’s forearms with the other. Allen was wearing the colonial dandy costume he had bought at the store—frilly and blousy white cotton shirt, tight britches, and something similar to ballet slippers on his feet. Sam was wearing coarse woolen britches and a Henley pullover shirt in the same coarse material. Playing on the TV on the wall was a DVD of a group of black bulls gangbanging a young white guy on a river bank.

“I am the overseer of the plantation and I have lusted for you for some time. You are flirty. You know I want you. You know you want men. I know you are mine for the taking. Your step-father and mother are gone. Your step-father has been preparing you for him to deflower himself and you have become increasingly receptive to that. But he isn’t here. I am here. It is time for you to lose your virginity. And you are going to lose it to me.”

Suddenly, without warning, when they reached the bed, Sam backhanded Allen across the cheek and Allen spun around and fell back on the bed at the foot of the mattress.

“You’ve been a little tease,” the overseer growled. “This is your time.” Pulling the britches and undergarments off the legs of the son of the plantation, the overseer pulled his own shirt over his head and, grabbing the young man’s ankles, bent and pushed his legs up into his chest and rolled his pelvis up. The young man was still trying to catch his breath as the overseer attacked his cock, balls, and hole with his mouth. In short order, though the son of the plantation gave in to the attentions in little mewing sounds and soft moans.

The overseer turned him over on his back at the foot of bed, hooked one of the young man’s ankles on his shoulder, and held his torso flat on the bed with an arm across his neck. He worked the young man’s ass with the other hand, penetrating him with an increasing number of fingers until he had worked in four up to the knuckles. While the son of the plantation writhed under him and begged for mercy that was not forthcoming, the invading hand pumped him slowly, with fingers rubbing the young man’s prostate. The young man yelped and fired his load as the knuckles breached the sphincter, pulling in the thumb as well, and sank in to the wrist.

Moaning deeply, the young man went limp as the overseer fist fucked him for a couple of minutes more before withdrawing.

“You’ve taken a fist before, haven’t you?” Sam asked in a voice displaying some awe.

“Yes, but not for some time,” Allen answered, his memories going back to the desperation and high arousal of his time in Afghanistan—of the other men in his unit who preyed on men. Of how rough they could be. Yes, he had been fisted before. Never had he taken it with so much want and need and sense of being fully possessed as he was doing now, though.

The overseer fucked him in a reverse position, the young man facing down, his torso streaming down to the floor from the foot of the bed, his fists buried in the carpet at the end of the bed to keep himself steady. His calves were on the bed, held there with the overseer’s hands clutching his ankles. The overseer’s trousers were flared and sitting low on his hips. His cock was buried, reversed, in the young man’s channel and he was pumping hard.

“Break away,” Sam muttered, “and head for the door to the corridor.” Allen did so, coming up short, because the doorway to the corridor was taken up with the figure of a massive black man, wearing only torn and loose cotton britches held up with a rope. As Allen stood there, transfixed for the moment, the black man leered and unbuttoned his fly, and a huge cock flopped out.

“You have two choices,” Sam barked. “There’s a door over there. If you run through there and get to the front door of the house and touch it, you’re safe and the role play is over. This is Jamil. He’s playing a slave on the plantation who has lusted after you as much as the overseer has. The overseer has said he can have you after the overseer has fucked your virginity out of you. If you want the black slave to have you, try escaping around the other side of the bed.”

Allen scooted around to the other side of the bed without hesitation, where the black bull caught him, forced him down on all fours, shredded his shirt in pawing his chest, covered him, mounted him, entered him deep, and fucked him.

The black bull was bigger than anyone Allen had taken before, but he’d just taken a fist, so he could manage. The experience of being power fucked like this by a black man sent Allen up to heaven, as he grunted and groaned in the effort to remain open to the churning monster cock.

When the black bull came up to standing, he brought Allen with him, still deeply skewered on the black monster cock. Allen held close to the black man’s bare chest, with his hands locked behind Jamil’s neck. Jamil’s hand were under Allen’s thighs, keeping his legs bent, not reaching the floor, and spread.

Sam walked over close to them, his cock still erect and in his hand. “Have you ever been taken by two men at once?” he whispered as he came in very close to Allen, between the young man’s spread legs. “I know you can take it if you agree to it.”

“Yes, I’ve been doubled. Yes, I want it.” Allen answered, licking his lips and his mind going back to the trenches and the lieutenant—but not only the lieutenant. A sergeant as well, in combination with the lieutenant—after opening him up with a fist. Just like now.

“If you decide you don’t want it, we’ll let you break loose and head for the front door,” Sam said. Allen let loose of his hold on Jamil’s neck, Sam’s chest being close enough into him that he wouldn’t fall, and he embraced Sam, bringing Sam into him.

“Both of you, now,” he begged in a husky voice.

Allen pressed his head back into the hollow of Jamil’s shoulder, raised his face, and howled to the ceiling as Sam worked his cock inside him on top of Jamil’s and started to pump. Allen writhed in the throes of the pleasure-pain ecstasy of the exotic feel of having two hung men working him at the same time, his mind racing back to the trenches and of being shared by the lieutenant and sergeant, the two of them making him forget where he was, the danger he lived under, the horrors of Afghanistan. The fisting he’d endured earlier helped him take the two cocks—as did the emotional pleasure of knowing he was taking two, one of them a black bull.

* * * *

Saturday morning there were two envelopes in Allen’s mailbox. He’d staked out his living room window and thus was able to see that it was the greasy, thin clerk from the costume store who snuck up and put the misdelivered mail in his box. One envelope, like the others, was addressed to Sam’s Oak Street house. The notation on it was “rent-boy lap dance,” with the time set for 8:00 p.m. that night. Allen looked on that with disappointment. That evening was a regular visitation session by Jack. He would be sorry to miss the lap dance fantasy.

Except that he didn’t miss it. The other letter, addressed to him from Sam Strang on Oak Street, contained the note, “If Saturday is the time for a visit from your sometimes lover, cancel that. You must learn not to be taken for granted and he must learn not to take you for granted. This is training for him as well as you.”

“What do you mean I can’t come over?” Jack had said on the telephone. “This is our regular Saturday.”

“I’m sorry. I have other plans. Maybe next Saturday.”

“I may not be available next Saturday.”

“Then it would be a pity for us to miss a fuck,” Allen responded, saying good-bye and disconnecting before Jack had time to object further and after saying, “I’ll call you to check on whether you want to come next Saturday.”

Sam met him at the Oak Street house door at 8:00 p.m. He wasn’t in any particular costume. When he shed his coat, Allen was wearing his red silk jock strap, the lace-up sandals from his Roman costume, and a red sequined vest that didn’t meet across his chest.

“You said this was a learning experience for me—and should be for my lover too,” Allen said to Sam at the entrance.

“Yes. I could tell from watching you in the store and from what you bought that you needed to move up levels from where you were in sexual activity,” Sam answered. “Little did I know that you’ve been up many levels at one time—that you both were fisted and doubled before—and what you need is to recover them.”

“What is there in this for you?” Allen asked.

“I get a luscious little piece to play with,” Sam answered, “At least until you’ve regained all of the expertise you once had and the assurance that you deserve and can get better than you’ve been getting.”

“And the lesson for today?” Allen asked. “A lap dance seems pretty tame compared with being doubled by you and that black bull.”

“It isn’t the intensity of it—it’s the lesson that it’s the sexual arousal and release that is the focus, not the partner you’re with.”

They entered the living room, and there, in a straight chair in the center of the room, sat the beanpole, gawky, greasy-haired clerk, just in gym shorts. He was hunched over slightly, his chest concave. From the tenting of the gym shorts and the grin on his ugly face with the pronounced Adam’s apple, Allen could tell that he was ready and looking forward to the session.

“Dance for him, blow him, and ride his cock,” Sam directed. “Your role is that you’re a rent-boy in a sleazy club trying to get money out of any man who wants a lap dance—and more money for more service. Phil here has money. Your job is to make him part with his money. He’ll reward you periodically as long as you are doing him well. Remember that the training is to be able to be a rent-boy—focus on the sex acts and the rewards to be won, not the client.”

Allen crouched over Phil’s lap and bumped and grinded for him to music and two TV screens of rent-boys giving ugly old men lap dance fucks. He got his first big bill by taking Phil’s head in his hands and giving him a deep French kiss, more for rubbing his chest on Phil’s and moaning during the dance. Even more for kneeling between Phil’s spread legs, pulling the man’s gym shorts off his legs, and sucking him off, taking the cream on his face, and cleaning that and Phil’s cock off with his tongue.

Phil took over in the fuck. Sliding Allen’s jock strap off as Allen rose from the blow job, tucking his arms under Allen’s knees and flipping Allen backward. Phil’s arms were strong and he was able to pull Allen’s crotch up to his face and, while he was recovering his own hard, he sucked on Allen’s cock and balls and ate out his ass. When he was recovered, he let Allen down to do a few more gyrations of a lap dance and then took charge again, positioning his cock bulb at Allen’s rim.

“He’s going to fuck you now,” Sam said. “He’s not the handsome hunk you usually need to open for. His cock is big, though. He’s going to put it in you.”

“Yes, yes, fuck me,” Allen whined, taking Phil’s head between his hands and kissing him on the lips. “Give it to me hard, big boy.”

Phil held Allen’s body at the waist and slammed it down on the cock. Lift up and slam down. Repeating it for as long as it took for him to bottom. Yelping and writhing, Allen settled down, collapsing like a rag doll and completely docile before Phil started the serious pumping, letting Allen’s body arch back to the floor, while Phil gripped his hips and pulled him on and off the cock in swift, powerful, deep strokes.

“Yes, yes, give it to me. Fuck me hard!”

Phil held off on ejaculation for almost forever—some time after Allen had shot off again—before he filled the bulb of his condom, leaving Allen in a sighing, purring heap at his feet.

At the door on the way out, Sam said, “Remember that. Their looks don’t always match their sexual prowess. Phil could make you his willing sex slave if I let him—and I can see in your eyes that you recognize that. So, when you are in your rent-boy role, don’t judge a client by his looks or even his diffidence. I’ll bet this lover who doesn’t fully satisfy you is an Adonis.”

“Yes, he is,” Allen admitted.

“To be satisfied by him, you will need more than a pretty face and a big cock from him. He’ll have to want to fuck you so bad that he’d give you the attention you need. And remember for your own pleasure, Allen, that it isn’t how handsome the man is or whether he is, it is that he has his cock inside you and that he knows what to do with it when it’s in there. Keep your mind on the fuck.”

* * * *

The follow-up instruction on misdelivered mail on what he was to do on Tuesday evening was more in this vein. “The Smallwood Rest Stop. Do two ugly truckers.”

The first one was a pudgy man old enough for the fringe of hair on his head to be turning gray. Allen had bellied up to a urinal at the notorious rest stop on the highway to which he had been directed. He waited until an obviously interested trucker came in and moved into the urinal next to him. They held there longer than necessary for a guy to take a piss and long enough for them to signal each other with their eyes.

The older man turned toward Allen enough for Allen to see that he was in erection. Allen turned as well, and the man reached out and touched his cock, which helped it go harder. Allen had managed to harden up by running the image of ugly Phil and what he could do with his cock through his mind repeatedly. With effort, he found that the experience itself, this setting, was enough to arouse him. Allen reached over and more aggressively took the man’s cock in hand.

“Can I suck you off?” the man asked in a tentative voice.

“I’d rather you fucked me,” Allen answered. “Do you want to do that?” The man nearly lost his teeth in that offer.

“The stall over there,” Allen said.

The man sat on the toilet, his pants down around his calves, and, sans shorts and briefs, Allen sat in his lap, facing him, and bounced up and down on the man’s cock until the trucker came. The trucker had a very nice cock, Allen found, and he had a technique of kissing every inch of Allen’s internal walls with its bulb.

Afterward Allen offered his ass to a tall, thin guy in flannel shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots leaning up against the side wall of the toilet building in the shadows and smoking a cigarette. They were around at the back of the building, between a huge air handling system and the back wall of the toilets before Allen realized that it was Phil, sent by Sam to check on whether Allen had carried forth with the assignment.

Allen raised his arms over his head, pressed his chest against the back wall of the toilets, and jutted his naked buttocks back into Phil’s hands. Phil went down on his knees behind Allen, spread Allen’s cheeks with his hands and attacked Allen’s asshole with his mouth. He snaked a hand between Allen’s spread thighs, milked Allen’s cock, and fondled, squeezed, and distended Allen’s balls until Allen gave him his cum. Then Phil mounted Allen’s ass, gripped his hips, and fucked him hard for twenty minutes before coming himself, leaving Allen a puddle of putty in Phil’s hands. They went back to the car Phil and driven, got in the backseat, and made out like teenagers after the prom, with Allen winding up on his back across the seat and the toes of one foot wedged into a side hook above a door and the other hooked on the top of the front seat, while Phil lay on top of him between his spread legs. They worked each other’s mouths while Phil was pounding Allen’s ass again.

Ugly is as ugly does, Allen was taught—and Phil did anything but ugly. Allen had to assume he’d gotten passing marks for his rest stop lesson.

* * * *

Thursday night rolled around again. Finding Allen at the gay men’s sports club once again for a pickup basketball game—and maybe something else to pick up as well. These manufactured role playing games of Sam’s had really opened Allen up. He was looking for it more broadly and actively than before. He was coming out of his mourning period for the lieutenant—or at least what the lieutenant had given him sexually—and he had to credit Sam for pulling him out of the lethargy. Allen couldn’t say it was grief or even mourning for the lieutenant himself. It was more starting to come out of the need for someone else to give him commands and to start expecting and seeking pleasure himself.

The irony was that it was Sam giving Allen roles to play and commands that was moving the young man not to need them so much anymore.

The basketball game was fine—and Allen did get propositions. This after all was a gay men’s sports club. But there was nothing on offer that excited him and he was coming to realize that he needed and deserved excitement. Specifically, Larry, the cop, and his handcuffs and forceful fuck hadn’t shown up.

Allen left in an “oh, well” mood. And he must not have been paying much attention because half way home a revolving red light pulled up behind his car and he saw that, indeed, he had been going ten miles over the speed limit. It was in a school zone too, but that didn’t really matter. It was after 10:00 p.m., and the school was closed. Allen was guided over into the school parking lot and in side-by-side spaces under a stand of trees by the police van.

“Please step out of the car,” an authoritative voice boomed out when Allen rolled down his window. The man with the voice was shining a light in Allen’s face, blinding him, but Allen recognized the voice.

“Larry?” he said.

“Turn the ignition off, step out of the car, and go over to the back of the van.”

As Allen walked to the back of the van, which wasn’t a police vehicle—it just had a temporary red light on top of it—Larry stopped the light and tossed it in the front seat of the van.

The back of the van was tricked out with carpeting; soft lighting; music loud enough to, Larry said, drown out screams coming from inside the van; sex toys; and a restraint system. There also was a TV suspended on the window between the back of the van and the driver’s compartment; it was running a DVD of a cop fucking a prisoner in the back of a police van.

Larry was wearing a police uniform, but, as Allen stripped down and got into the back of the van, Larry opened up his shirt, unzipped his trousers, climbed in the back behind Allen, and shut and locked the van doors.

Larry put Allen on his knees and made him lick all the way down from his hairy barrel chest, past his heavy belt with the gun and truncheon holsters, into his unruly pubes, and then to take the erect cock in his mouth and give it suck. Allen sucked the cock greedily, aroused by the fantasy fuck Larry was providing, which was better than Allen could have imagined himself for this evening.

Allen huffed and puffed, gasped, whimpered and his eyes watered, as, wrist handcuffed to ankle on either side, bowing his body almost painfully, Larry put Allen on his belly on a carpeted cube in the middle of the van bed, and fucked his ass with a greased nightstick while both watched the action on the TV screen.

Later, Allen now on his back and spread-eagled in four directions with leads going to anchors in the four corners of the van, Larry crouched between Allen’s legs and fucked him to a mutual ejaculation.

It was what Allen had come out this evening hoping to find, so he didn’t complain; he cried out for the exotic fuck.

The only damper of the evening was that, as Larry released him, Allen saw the store bag that the DVD cover was in. It came from Sam’s Costume Dreamland. What was the relationship between Larry and Sam, Allen wondered. Was this all part of the education program Sam had set up for Allen? Was Larry part of the fantasy role playing, operating under Sam’s command?

Was Larry even a real cop?

Allen was so taken by this experience that, frankly, at this moment he didn’t care.

* * * *

On Saturday afternoon, Jack called Allen in a panic.

“You’d said maybe I could come over today. It’s the Army-Navy football game. You haven’t answered my e-mails, though.”

“I wasn’t sure I wasn’t doing something else today,” Allen said.

“Doing something more important than me? You love me fucking you.”

“You’ve got a great cock, Jack. But you’re not using it enough on me. Yes, I love what you do to me for the six or seven minutes you’re doing it to me. If you come over, you’ll have to give me more of a fuck than that—and pay attention to me when you’re doing it.”

“Hey, I’m aching for you here. My balls ache they need it so bad. Nobody takes it like you do.”

“Maybe because nobody but me lets the ball game take priority. And I’m not doing that anymore either. I’ve got a great meal planned for you, but if you’re coming over, it will be early, before the game, to be pumping inside me for fifteen minutes at least and giving me attention when you do—and you have to get this done before I feed you—and before the game starts. And after the game, you have to take me into my bedroom and bang the hell out of me. You might even have to spend the night on top of me.”

“Is that what you really want? I don’t know what’s come over you. You want me to—?”

“Take me into my bedroom, yes—no TV, no competing attention—and bang the hell out of me.”

Allen watched Jack unfold from his new, blue Porsche Carrera convertible—seemingly identical to the old one except for the color—and walk up to the front door. He was carrying a bottle of wine, but he didn’t do the old “fuck you” routine with it. He looked quizzical and a little worried. And he’d arrived an hour and a half before the coverage of the Army-Navy college football game was scheduled to start on the TV.

Allen met him at the door. “Here, strip, and put these on. Leave the waistband flared and your cock out. You get a blow job for showing up early.” He handed Jack a pair of combat boots and camouflage baggy fatigue trousers.

“What’s this . . . and what are you—?”

“It’s Army-Navy game day. And we’re going to play a game of our own. You’re Army and I’m Navy. Good news; it’s your lucky day. Army gets to fuck the shit out Navy today.”

The lower half of Army fatigues had gone to Jack. Allen had met him at the door, wearing the naval uniform he’d bought at the costume store: a white tunic, with blue scarf, white bellbottom trousers, and a seaman’s cap.

“Here. While you’re dressing, I’ll go ahead of you and strip off the bellbottoms.” When he did so, he was wearing his red silk jock strap. “Remember this jock strap. Last time you fucked me without taking it off me. This time you have to take it off me—and get me hard and make me come in the process—before there’s any dinner or the TV is turned on.”

Jack sat at the dining room table, his hands on Allen’s head under the table top as Allen knelt between his thighs and his mouth bobbed up and down on Jack’s erection. Jack moaned in a way he’d never done before. Much of this was because a quarter of the way through the blow job Allen took his mouth off the cock and wove a tale from underneath the table of what they were doing.

“Since you were here last, I learned a thing or two about the erotic help role playing can give to a fuck. I want more out of you, Jack, and I know you have it to give. In turn, I can take you higher than you’ve been before—I can give you a high that surpasses your football team winning on the TV.

“We are playing private Army and Navy, you and I. For starters, this blow job starts off our game. I’m going to work your cock until you come. But you aren’t going to come right away. When you want to, I’m going to back you off, and then when I resume, I’m going to take you higher than you went before when you wanted to shoot. And then again.”

Jack moaned, not only in anticipation of the play but also because Allen was stroking his cock and pressing his pinkie finger into Jack’s piss slit.

“What we are playing is a Naval admiral coming to visit an Army installation. I am the admiral’s young aide. I am a virgin, but I am aching to be debauched and I have decided the time is now and the lover who will pop my male cherry is you. You are a handsome, young Army lieutenant, the general’s aide who is immediately turned on by me. We are meeting at the officers’ club. One wing of the officers’ club has visiting bachelor officers’ bedrooms.