You couldn't have created a finer, more perfect Marine than Brian Nelson, PFC, fresh-faced 22-year-old from Lincoln, Nebraska, who was one part Norman Rockwell painting, one part mean fucking fighting machine. Already, after four months in the Corps, he'd distinguished himself, using his tight, smooth musculature on his 6'1" frame to excel at training exercises, drills, and squad competitions.

Naturally, his looks got him attention everywhere he went. His blond hair wasn't pale or platinum, but it was striking in its sandy innocence. Azure eyes twinkled and had a glint whenever he smiled. And, oh, that smile, pearly-white and perfectly straight, was framed in a setting of deep dimpled rosy cheeks with just a trace of 5 o’clock shadow on his jawline. His cheeks were full, fitting for an ex-jock of his build, and would have seemed jowl-like were it not for the strong lines of his jaw defining his face. His lightly-tanned face would either beam in his trademark smile, or else curl into a grimace of determination and fortitude.

It was that way one Saturday night as Pvt. Brian Nelson shifted on his bar stool in the Husky Boar, a bar not far off the base. It wasn't a gay bar, per se, but there was little doubt about why the patrons were there. It had taken Brian weeks, months even, to build up the courage to come to the Husky Boar. He'd heard his marine buddies making fun of the fags at the Boar. And he'd heard others, many more as he thought back, talking in hushed voices about it, when they thought Brian was out of earshot.

"Made it to the Boar this weekend, Jefferson?"

"Yah. The place was packed."

"Any luck?"

"Yeah. Big strappin’ Navy Seal. We went at it all fucking night. Can't remember his name, but man what a ride."

"You're unbelievable, Jefferson."

Lots of backslapping, whispering and deep baritone laughing would follow. Brian would slink away to the latrine and beat his oversized meat furiously into a frenzy and then shoot a huge blast of his sperm into a wadded up pile of toilet paper so as not to shoot it all over the walls and floor of the latrine.

Now that he was here, Brian was horny as a fuckin’ goat. Military men of all stripes, trim, taut or beefy, stood arm to arm with local businessmen and workmen nursing their second or third after work drink in the crowded bar.

Private Nelson eyed one gorgeous specimen of masculine beauty after another. He wondered what he'd like to do to each hunk that walked past his fixed spot against the back wall. He'd never so much as touched another guy outside of the officially sanctioned rituals of the locker room, the football field, the barracks. This would be different. Deeper. More primal.

He wondered if he was conspicuous. Other men were in full uniform, but most were more circumspect by dressing in civilian clothes. Not that their regulation military cuts didn't give them away; it's just that given the military's official rules there was no reason to flaunt their service here.

Brian was dressed simply in a pair of faded jeans that barely stretched over the leg muscle he'd gained in boot camp training. They look poured on, and Brian had found no room for underwear beneath so had gone commando. His ample cock and plump oval-shaped balls were clearly defined as he spread his thighs and drank his beer nervously.

His shirt was similarly form-fitting, a white T with his brother's fraternity logo emblazoned on his left pec. His body was hands-down the most perfect in the place, even given the stiff competition. Nice, sweeping lats, meaty pecs that nonetheless seemed lithe in the way they tapered down to a firm, rippling eight-pack shaped by innumerable crunches. Thick, knotty arms capped with softball-sized biceps. A corded neck and sinewy shoulders that communicated power, youth, agility. Skin smooth and waxy as Ivory soap.

A hulking figure blocked the light. Large, imposing… brick shithouse from head to toe. The man had dark brown hair, buzzed close, with brown eyes to match. A deep masculine smile curled up, seemingly etched into his gruff demeanour.

"Private…"

"Oh, shit, Sarge! I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know…" Five thousand fears flashed in Pvt. Nelson's brain. The fear of getting caught, the fear of being tossed out of the Corps, the fear of being less of a man in front of his Sergeant. At 5'11" his superior was a couple inches shorter than Nelson, but in every other way, the younger man looked up to the 32-year-old tough-as-nails father figure.

Sgt. Clint Driscoll sized up the young grunt. He couldn't tell if the angelic hunk looked better in uniform or civvies, but right now the kid in front of him sure was hot-to-trot in jeans and a T-shirt. The man felt his asshole pucker deep in hairy ass crevice, but he maintained his tough act.

"Can it, Nelson. I'm here for the same reason you are. Here," he added thrusting out a beer into the private's strong-knuckled hand. "Thought you might be getting thirsty sitting here all alone."

Sarge gave a subtle laugh as he drew up a bar stool and sat next to the young buck marine.

"Pretty good crowd tonight, huh, Nelson?" he asked as he scooted into his perch on the stool.

Brian always admired the man's powerful frame and demeanour. Tonight, Driscoll was dressed preppy like some suburban dad: pressed khakis, blue-and-white striped button-down shirt tucked in, running shoes.

The young private didn't know what to answer. "I guess so, sir."

The Sergeant eyed him suspiciously. "Boy, I hate to burst your bubble, but the pickings don't get any better than this."

"I didn't mean..." he could barely speak. He'd spent the last months dreaming of seeing Sarge's human side, and now the cat had his tongue.

"It's OK, recruit. I get it. You don't need ol' Sarge spoiling your fun tonight." He started to get up.

A hand stopped him. Damn, Driscoll didn't know the kid had that kind of death grip in him. Fingers clawed a vice grip on his meaty forearm and clung for life. "Sarge. Don't."

The man was curious what was going on, but he relaxed back in his seat. Besides, he was in no rush to leave. Sitting next to Brian Motherfucking Nelson. The grunt who'd been pushing his forbidden way into Clint's nightly dreams and afternoon jerk off sessions. The 6-foot-some piece of wholesomeness that had all the bar patrons sneaking glances their way. Driscoll relished their envy.

Brian was gulping down that beer fast. Either he was real thirsty or was trying to work up some nerve. "It's my first time here," Brian finally blurted out, unable to look at his superior. "First time to any place like this."

"No different than any other place, Nelson," Sarge reassured him. "Guys like to come here, get drunk, let off some steam, maybe pick up a piece of tail for the night." Just then he caught the eye of a roving server and motioned for another beer for the kid. "Is another OK?" he asked Brian.

"Yeah, thanks." He held up his near-empty bottle. "Don't tell anyone, but I think I've developed a taste for this stuff." His deadpan seriousness broke into a broad smile, causing Sarge to laugh and Nelson to laugh right with him.

"What happens at the Boar stays at the Boar," Sarge added thoughtfully.

"You mean…?"

"Like I said, recruit, I'm here for the same reason you are. None of the men at base need to know about it."

"No, sir." He paused. "I sometimes hear guys talk about this place."

"Those guys oughta be more careful."

"Yeah," Brian agreed, before adding, "but you know something? I'm glad they weren't. It's how I found out about this place."

The second beer arrived. Driscoll tilted his beer bottle up to take a good gulp, while the young private just stared at him and started chuckling.

"What's so funny, private?" The gruffness came back naturally to Sarge's demeanour.

"Sorry, Sarge, it's just that I've never seen you with… or maybe I just never noticed, but, well, sir, your nipples stick up real high when they're hard."

Indeed the tips of Driscoll's paps bored noticeable ridges in his ironed shirt. He laughed. "Yeah, it's why I wear two undershirts for parade dress. These puppies are supersensitive."

"Yeah?" Brian teased, raking his beer bottle across the points capping his sergeant's pectoral mass.

Driscoll's big body shuddered as he slapped away the intrusion defensively. "Better not wind me up, private, I'm raring to go as it is. Hell, I'm even horny enough to have a tangle with Waxler." (Josh Waxler was a gawky orderly that none of the men in the unit liked much.)

Nelson chuckled and now shuffled in his seat, desperate to rearrange the crowbar-hard cock trapped in his jeans leg. Finally, he reached down to his excited genitals.

"You too, private?"

"Yes, sir."

"When I saw you sitting here alone, I didn't know if you were drowning your sorrows or looking for a lay."

"I guess both, sir." Brian's blue eyes met Sarge's brown stare. Communicating desire. Breaking protocol. Sarge finally tore his gaze away.

"How'd you like a wingman for the night, Nelson?"

The private thought back to his nights out with his buddies in Omaha. Funny, he'd always been the wingman for his buddy Jeff, selflessly helping him score with a hot chick while he went home alone. Looking around the bar now packed with scores of incredibly handsome men, he wondered if he'd have the guts to tell Jeff why his bud Bri spent those partying years perennially single and celibate.

"Sure, Sarge. Only, I should help you out, too."

"Trust me, Nelson, you have. My stock went up big time just sitting here with you."

Brian blushed and felt the warm glow of his sergeant's approval.

Driscoll set about surveying the room, touching Brian's arm or patting his back as he pointed out one young buck after another.

Sarge was starting to guess what the young private was looking for. "How bout that one?"

Sarge didn't point this time but he didn't have to. Both men had a clear view of the man who just walked into the bar. Tall, large, muscular guy. He definitely topped 6'4", maybe 6'5" and in service dress. Air Force, definitely a commissioned officer. Muscular but compact frame with strong legs. Blond hair cropped short enough to see the waves of grey flecks on the side.

"Wow," Brian sighed. "He's incredible."

The steely grin returned on Clint's visage, happy he'd latched on to his private's type. The kid's deer-in-the-headlights stare and stammer returned as he soaked in the sight of the humpy officer.

The man walked along the far wall a minute before he noticed the two men. He started a bee line through the crowd.

"Damn, Sarge, he sees us," Brian whispered.

As the guy sauntered toward them, Brian couldn't help but think he looked even taller up close. The man's uniform had an impressive taper to a trim waist, then flared out over some awesomely powerful thighs. In between, a packed mound protruded in a round mass from his crotch.

"How are you gentlemen tonight?" Deep, mellifluous voice. Those green-grey eyes were both hungry and calm.

"OK," Brian croaked.

"Yeah, it's an on night tonight here." Sarge added in.

The officer looked around as if he were judging the clientele for the first time. "Yes, I guess it is." Returning his gaze to the two men, he asked, "You military? Navy guys?"

"Marines," Brian asserted proudly.

Driscoll smiled at his private's quickness. The kid was pure Marine, all right. "Sgt, Clint Driscoll," he said, shoving his beefy mitt in to the outstretched hand of the new arrival. "And this here is PFC Brian Nelson."

"Captain Ben Walsh," he volunteered as he shook their hands. "I guess you figured out the Air Force part. Mind if I join you?"

Driscoll stood up and offered him his stool. "Here, have a seat. I'm getting the next round. What can I get you, Captain?"

"Jack on the rocks. Thanks."

The Sergeant pushed his way to the crowded bar. He felt relief. He hadn't known if he'd have the will power to keep his grubby paws off Nelson. That Midwestern hunk definitely had the ability to twist the sergeant's nuts into knots. He'd broken his rule about fraternizing with his charges only once before, and he'd regretted it then…

Now he didn't have to worry. Another guy was sweeping in. Some Olympian god of an Air Force officer. Shit, the sarge reflected as he picked up two beers and the bourbon off the bar, Nelson deserves nothing less than the Captain there. A little sad, Driscoll knew he probably never even had a chance with a hot number like Baby Face Nelson.

When he returned, the two were swapping stories of their respective branches. This was Nelson's first base leave in two weeks, and the Captain had just come from an all-day strategy session and popped in the Boar to blow off a little steam. It was an unlikely pair for conversation, but Sarge came back to see two men talking like bosom buddies.

"Your private is saying some pretty good things about you, Sergeant," Ben smiled.

"I could probably say some pretty nice things about Nelson, only I don't wanna make the kid blush," Clint teased. Sure enough, Brian's face flushed red, making the older men laugh.

"Seems like your sergeant knows his men," Ben smirked, his stern demeanour being melted by the whiskey and the company of two hunky marines. His eyes bored into Clint's - probing, questioning.

Driscoll returned the gaze. He knew the score, knew the Captain was trying to suss out if he and Nelson were an item. "It's my job," he shrugged.

The three chatted for the next ten minutes, till Walsh excused himself to make way for the rest room.

The second the man was out of ear shot, Driscoll scooted right next to Nelson and growled conspiratorially, "Well, whaddya think?"

"What do you mean, Sarge?" Brian asked in trepidation. His muscles were tense, but that only made his figure that much more impressive.

"Do I have to draw you a map, Private? That guy can't take his greedy eyes off you. He's a hunk, too. Unless you're strictly top. Cause I'm pretty sure the Captain is."

The Sergeant paused.

"Well… are you, Private?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Versatile, then."

"I don't know. I never have done it before."

Driscoll breathed a low whistle and sat back against the wall. His cock throbbed heavily in his khakis. "You mean you're virgin?"

"Not with women, sir.… but yeah, I guess I am."

"Well, fuck me!"

Brian felt flushed red, embarrassed. "I know sir, I was just hoping that maybe tonight, I could, you know…"

"Yeah, I know. Fuck, kid, you don't have to do much more than bat those baby blues and you'll have this whole place lining up to punch your dance card."

"Really?"

"Damn straight. I'd be lining up there with them to, if only…"

Brian leaned forward expectantly. He almost heard his sergeant say what he'd secretly dreamed of. "If only what, Sarge?"

"If only I wasn't your superior. I can't go fucking around with my men, Nelson, no matter if they are hot as you. Besides…" Clint paused to soak in the hangdog private squirming in his seat. Damn, this would take willpower! "your sarge is a big ol' bottom."

Nelson smiled, pleased that his sergeant confided in him, and feeling lightheaded from the blood that was filling his dick by the minute. "I didn't expect that, sir."

"Yeah, well I am. I don't want it advertised on a big fucking billboard, Private, just remember that. Anyway, even if I did decide to fraternize with a private, I couldn't offer you the full experience. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Brian replied, unsure if he did really understand. "But, sir," he added, "I'm afraid to do it alone."

"Need someone along to look after you, Private?"

"Something like that, sir."

Sgt. Driscoll smiled a toothy grin, then patted Pvt. Nelson right between the shoulder blades. "Anything for my private."

The Captain returned, and after a few pleasantries, cut to the chase.

"Well, fellas, I'm calling it an evening. They're putting me up at the Marriott. I was gonna ask the private here is he'd like to come back to my room for a little R&R." The whole time, he talked to Clint, not Brian. "If he's spoken for, I'll back off."

"Nelson's his own man, Captain, but I promised him I'd accompany him if wanted me to. Look after him. It's his call."

Brian's heart pumped. His admiration for his sergeant swelled and his heart pumped nervously as he realized he was one step closer to having sex with another man. Already he could feel the heat and smell the cologne and pheromones emanating off the USAF officer. "Yes... Captain, I'd like Sarge to come along. If that's OK with you."

Ben looked a little confused.

"Nelson here's green," Driscoll explained.

Capt. Walsh's eyes went wide. "You mean…?"

"Yep. New to the whole she-bang. I'm gonna make sure he's not hurt and that he gets back to base a happy man."

Walsh paused and finally exhaled a sigh. "Well, fuck me. You guys are something else. Come on. Both of you."

Sarge put a reassuring arm around his private's shoulders. Brian's face broke into a wide, pearly white smile.

The men filed into the hotel suite. "Make yourself at home, fellas," Ben said as he took off his coat and carefully hung it up. Nelson followed suit by kicking off his shoes and peeling off his shirt. The Captain whistled as he saw the smooth chest bared for his gaze. Clint felt a twinge of horniness and then jealousy as Ben stepped up and began running his hands over the hot, eager flesh. Brian cocked his head up and placed his lips right next to the officer's. They kissed and made out, as Walsh gripped the private's body possessively. This kid was a tall drink of water after a long day in the desert. Brian was hungry too as he got into the intensity of the kiss.

When they broke it, Capt. Walsh cupped Nelson's chin with his fist. "Your first man-kiss?"

"Yeh," Brian croaked, thrilled and nervous at the same time.

"Man, you greenhorns are something else. I'm SO gonna love this." Their lips met again, and the younger man's horniness got the best of him, as his hand reached down to paw the man's full crotch.

"Go slow, Captain," the sergeant warned. He was apprehensive and protective, yet turned on. He'd unbuttoned the top few buttons of his dress shirt and started running his thick fingers through his chest fur, tantalizing the sensitive nipples poking up from beneath the hair. Those paps were obscenely hard by now.

"Don't worry, Sarge, you haven't even seen careful. I've done this before — gonna make the private here happy. Aren't I, Brian?" he asked attacking the young man's neck.

The grunt whimpered. "Oh Sarge… God, this feels great."

Driscoll gripped his aching crotch. "It should, Marine. Look, I don't think you guys need much warming up. Why don't you just go to the bedroom and do your thing, and I'll stick around out here."

Ben nodded and started guiding the private toward the other room in the hotel suite. "I thought you were gonna angle in for a three-way."

"I'm trying to be a good boy. Now go on before I change my mind."

Clint leaned back and closed his eyes. He could hear the two men making out in the other room. Kissing. Groping. Moaning. The sounds were torture. He questioned why he was here. Why he was crossing this line with a private? Not touching the young man, but this had to be the next worst thing. At least his will power had held out.

And he'd have some wicked fantasies to fuel his edging jack o sessions for months to come. Baby Face Nelson, he sighed as he unzipped. His meat was hard and hefty and lodged nicely into the well-worn groove in his palm. Softly, slowly, up and down. Might as well whip one out while listening to Nelson losing his cherry.

"Ahem!" Clint opened his eyes to see Ben's magnificent body bared head to toe. That silver-blond hair dusted his ripped torso and gathered into a veritable forest around his crotch. The impressive thing, though, was that cock. Between the Captain's legs swung a stiff eight, maybe nine inches, sheathed tightly in foreskin. Big, hard dong, erect and long.

"The kid wants to talk to you," the man said gruffly then turned back to the bedroom, showing off a sculpted backside.

Sarge came to his senses and got off the couch, stuffing his meat back in his pants. The sight in the bedroom stopped him nearly dead. Brian, nude and erect, was a thing of beauty. Never before had he seen such perfect muscle definition. It was like each sinew popped at the slightest move of the kid's torso.

"What's wrong, Nelson?" he asked paternally. Unable to resist a closer look, Clint stepped up to the bed, where the Captain was climbing back in.

"I want you here, Sarge," Brian pleaded, his abs crunching as he leaned up and put his hand on his superior's hairy arm. "Please, sir."

Sarge tried to say no, really he did, but there it was again. His erection. Nelson's grip of death on his arm.

He relented. Kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed. Nelson's hands were on his shirt, pulling the tails out, while the Captain's firm hands were unbuckling his belt.

The sergeant now bared, Walsh leaned back on his haunches, pushing his erection to a rigid straight-up salute. "Private's a little nervous about blowing a man. Maybe you can show him the ropes."

Driscoll licked his lips and cocked his head toward Nelson. A look of pure lust and excitement was in the boy's eyes. "You say anything about this to anyone, and I'm making that tenor voice of yours a castrato… Got it, Nelson?"

Brian nodded. The private couldn't speak he was so horny. The man he admired so much, his sergeant, was about to suck dick!

The sergeant scooted his large, muscled body forward and bent forward. The man's prick was hot against his face, and Sarge savoured the fullness of it a minute before begin soft, soothing laps against its surface. The cock jumped and pulsed against him, and Driscoll teased some more. Giving gentle kisses on the nasty hard meat.

Finally, the Captain could take no more and punched his cockhead into Sarge's mouth, spearing it straight back down his gullet.

Sarge coughed and sputtered but swallowed that prick. Fuck, buddy, go easy, Clint thought and almost said, only he realized he loved it. Loved this guy taking charge. Loved showing his wanton submission in front of Nelson. He could feel the private's eyes burning into him, staring straight on at the connection point where Ben Walsh's family inheritance drilled deep into Sarge's accommodating mouth.