Command and Control
It was one of those awful after-hours get-togethers you’re compelled to attend because of your job. The boss says, “Be there at 7. Show the flag.” You wonder why American corporations are so inept – nobody speaks plain English.
One of our biggest customers was the local Air Force Base. We printed their newspapers and designed their promotionals. Their contract was a double-digit slice of our annual revenue, so when a new base commander was installed, and a “gala” thrown in his honor, we had to be there – boss included.
It was held at a large hangar on base. Over 500 people were in attendance. Many were civilian contractors like us, hoping for a chance to schmooze the new guy. I figured the boss would get that honor, so imagine my surprise when a dress blue covered by a salad of ribbons and medals, accompanied by a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, joined our little circle of conversation.
The commander was a jovial fellow, but he had one of those vise-like grips that made you think your hand was being gripped by the Jaws of Life. He was about 5-6 or 5-7 and probably weighed 175. Close to middle age, he was mostly bald with a gray fringe around the side and back of his head, closely cropped of course. My lasting impression of him was his eyes. They bored into you, as if you were the most interesting person in the universe. I found myself talking to him despite my usual restraint.
His wife was pulled aside by another person for a whispered . The commander used the opportunity to hand me his card. He said, “This is my personal contact information. If you ever want to have lunch one day give me a yell. Sometimes I like to get away from the -kissers.” And with that, he was gone, melting into another knot of conversation, his wife back on his arm.
I stared at his card in confusion, then quickly hid it in my jacket pocket, afraid somebody might try to take it from me. I don’t know why he afforded me the honor of spending time with him personally, but I had no intention of letting this opportunity go to waste. It could be lucrative for me and the company.
I didn’t call him for many weeks. But one day I found myself with a desire for lunch and nobody to go with me, and I remembered the commander’s invitation. By that time I had entered his info in my telephone contacts, so I rang him up. He answered with a brusque pronouncement of his last name. Almost timidly I reminded him of who I was, and asked if he’d like to break for lunch. At that point his tone become noticeably lighter and friendlier, and we agreed on a pizza joint between the base and town where I worked.
I arrived before he did. In fact, as I was walking across the parking lot to the restaurant a Ford Taurus turned in and came to a stop between me and the front door. The window whirred down and I peered inside. I was surprised to see it was the commander – I assumed he would have a staff car and a driver. But here he was, behind the wheel of his modest ride.
“Let’s ditch this place and go to my house,” he yelled over the sound of the engine. “My wife is out of town and I’ve got a fridge full of stuff I need help eating before it goes bad.”
I agreed and started to head back to my car to follow him, but he said, “Get in. I’ll drive. It’s easier than trying to get you past the gate guards.”
So I climbed into the Ford, which was immaculate if I can point out, as my car tended to be perpetually cloaked in a layer of dirt and tree pollen, and that was just the outside. The inside hadn’t been vacuumed in months. I could grow crops on the floorboards.
We chatted about this and that as he drove us to his place, a fairly modest house in officers’ quarters on base. I got the impression the commander just wasn’t into the perks of power and that suited me fine. He seemed like a regular guy, despite all the ribbons and medals on his dress uniform.
We went inside to the living room, which was sunken, consistent with interior design styles of the 1960s. A lot of bases had antiquated living quarters, as military budgets had either been cut or consumed by high-priced weapons systems like the F-35 and the new Littoral-class ships. But that was OK. The room was wide and spacious, and decorated stylishly yet sparsely, as if it represented what I suspected was a compromise between him and his wife. The only thing I couldn’t get past was the brown shag carpeting, but in a few minutes that would become an asset, not a liability.
As I eyed the place he stood in front of me, eyeing me, his hands on his hips. After a few moments I began to feel self-conscious and wondered if he truly needed help emptying his refrigerator or had brought me here for other reasons. Turns out, that was exactly the case.
“I’m not much for words,” he began, “so I’ll just be blunt. The minute I met you I thought you might be open to having a good time with another guy. If that’s the case then let’s have some fun right here on the living room floor. If not, let’s go back to that pizza joint and grab a bite. What do you say?”
I had not been expecting a nooner, but I was never averse to the possibility. He seemed fit enough, and it would certainly create a unique relationship between the two of us.
“What the hell,” I said, unbuttoning my shirt. “Get that uniform off.”
He gave me a broad smile and started doing his tie and buttons. After a minute or so of struggling, we were both standing there, naked.
He had an average body and his cock, which was now standing straight out from his crotch, was only about 5 or 5½ inches. But you know what? Despite all the 8-inch monsters described in every porn story you’ve ever read, most guys are in the 5- to 6-inch range. It’s nothing to be ashamed of and to tell the truth, it feels a lot more comfortable in your ass.
I dropped to my knees and wrapped my lips around the stubby knob. He immediately let loose with a satisfied groan and began feeding me his cock. I took him all the way down to the base so I was staring into his public thatch – dark hair with the random gray here and there . He had a pungent crotch odor that wasn’t offensive but wasn’t the alluring, sensual smell of a much younger man, either. Just different, like he was. More mature, I guess you could say.
He backed up to the couch and I followed him on my knees as he sat down. He then spread his legs and placed his hands on the back of my head, guiding me gently as I slobbered on his pole. His cock had gone from mostly hard to steel pole rigid, and I had no trouble finding little places around the fringe, pisshole and underside to circle and tickle with my tongue. These maneuvers elicited delightful, satisfied moans from the commander.
He raised a to the couch and my magic tongue found his nuts and started lapping at them. They were decent-sized and his scrotum had a light coating of hairs that were longer than a younger guy’s ballsac. I licked them all around and steered my tongue to the backside of his scrotum, then traveled even farther south so I was licking his taint. You have to be careful with guys his age because some of them have, er, what’s the polite term for it? “Hygiene deficiencies” in that region. They don’t keep it clean, and when the male body ages, the taint and the asshole become ripe for … well, just ripe. But I guess it was his military conditioning because he was fine down there. He raised his other foot to the couch and I had access to his taint and asshole. I’m not a ass-eater but I will lick a hole that looks clean, and his did. I gave it a tentative jab with my tongue and when nothing intolerable presented itself, I started licking it. He groaned very loudly and took his hands from my head and used them to spread his butt cheeks so I get better access.
I lapped and snuffled between his ass cheeks and he returned his hands to my head, burying my face in his butt. The heat was a cauterizing force that seemed to join our two bodies into a single entity. The commander was going wild, rocking his butt up and down against my slathering tongue and gasping with frenzied delight.
Finally, he whispered, “I want you to fuck me!” By this time my own cock was rock hard and the thought of burying it in this important man’s ass turned me on even more. From somewhere he had produced a small squeeze bulb of lube – probably hidden between the couch cushions – and I used it to grease up my dick. I placed it against his pucker and felt it enter with not much resistance.
“My wife pegs me,” he explained. “We may not be in our 20s anymore, but I’ll bet we know a lot more about having fun!”
No argument from me. I slowly pushed my cock inside him until there was nothing left to push. His internal temperature felt like a million degrees; Christ, he was superheated and ready to blow. He snarled, “Fuck me, dammit! That’s an order,” and I complied, pulling my dick out and pushing it back into that amazing furnace of sexual heat. He groaned again as I worked up a rhythm and slid my hands down his legs, from his ankles to his thighs, and positioned him so I pierce his asshole with my fuckstick.
“Harder,” he grunted and started jacking his dick with his right hand. I picked up the pace and you could hear the telltale slap of flesh against flesh as somebody is being power-fucked. But that wasn’t enough for the commander.
“HARDER!” he almost yelled. “Fuck me HARDER!” and I began body-slamming him, knocking the couch headrest against the wall as I drove every centimeter of my cock into his body and even part of my ball bag. He squeezed his eyes shut as if to focus on the sensation of my greasy pole invading his man-hole, and jacked furiously on his own cock, which had taken on a reddish hue. Maybe it was catching on fire.
I felt the base of my spine beginning to tingle and I knew I had not much time less before the powerful fuck I was delivering to this man would send me over the edge. But that didn’t matter. The commander began to wail and suddenly his cock was spurting clumps of jizz all over his stomach and chest. The man could shoot. A lot of older guys lose that capacity, but not this . He was cumming like a teenager.
Seeing that eruption of semen was too much for me – I eased my dick from his ass, jerked it a few times and sprayed him with another dose of scalding cum, all over his face and chest. I think one jet actually landed on that bald head of his.
I stood there, crouching over him, the last bit of love juice dribbling from my cock to land on his as it to leaked the spent remains of his orgasm. We were both breathing heavily and covered with a layer of sweat.
And then suddenly, almost brusquely, he was up and off the couch. “C’mon,” he said, pointing with his head to the back of the house. “A quick shower and maybe a quick lunch, and then we both can get back to work.”
We showered together but didn’t play with each other’s bodies. My impression was he was in a hurry. We got our clothes back on and he made sure none of our essence had ended up on the couch (but the room did reek of a recent, sweaty sexual encounter – there’s no mistaking that smell).
Back at the pizza joint we had a quick bite and talked about a lot of different things, none of them sex related. But as we got into our respective cars to leave, he winked and said, “Next time, I’m fucking you.”
And I didn’t have a problem with that.
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Based on real events, but I've added my own special bit...
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