By Tommy Guns
I awoke the next morning, still hog chained, and with a pounding headache that was beating rhythmically with my heart. I knew where it came from. I still had a raging hard-on, and the lack of blood flow from the head below the waist to the one on my shoulders was creating a problem for me. I had never gone this long without relieving myself, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not get the images of last night out of my head. They kept me harder than I had ever been before, and I was in dire need of release of some kind. I had never been able to just rub myself off against a mattress, and this time was no different. This was going to be a serious and growing problem.
I had been awake for what seemed like hours before I heard footsteps outside my cell. It was a single set, so I assumed it was only one of my Marines from the day before, probably returning to see if I was still ready to service them. I would have been glad to, but now I really needed to pee as well as jack off, and things down below were getting serious. To my surprise, the Marine who entered my cell was one I hadn’t seen before, but I can tell you he could have been the model for a recruiting poster. Tall, blond, blue eyes, ramrod straight, his tight fitting uniform seemed to have been airbrushed on him. He was a recruiter’s dream. He took one look at me and at the paper he was holding, and pulled out his radio and called for the Brig Commander, a grizzled Staff Sergeant who looked like he’d been passed over for promotion too many times and had the shitty attitude to match his disappointment.
The BC entered my cell, and immediately removed the tape from my mouth and pulled out the dirty briefs that I’d been sucking on all night long. Next he instructed the guard to release me from my shackles, and ordered me to stand at attention. I barked out, as best I could through my dry throat, “Sir, prisoner number 65, cell number 48, cellblock number 4, requests permission to make a head and water call Sir!” He replied, “Do it prisoner!” I immediately relieved myself of the previous day’s urine build up, and took in as much water from the attached sink as I could get with my hands, being careful not to take too much, since I didn’t know when I would be allowed to pee again. After I finished, I returned to a position of rigid attention in front of the BC, and waited for his next order. Instead, he turned to the guard and asked, “Corporal, who is this prisoner?”
The guard sputtered out something to the effect that I was not on his roster of prisoners who were supposed to be confined to the maximum security cellblock and had no idea who I was. This did not please the BC at all, and he turned to me and asked, “Just who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my Brig?” I replied, “Sir, prisoner number 65, cell number 48, cellblock number 4, is also known as Gunnery Sergeant __________, Thomas R., Service Number ________, assigned TAD to Special Rehab Unit, Balboa Naval Hospital, and this prisoner does not know why he has been confined in the Brig Commander’s Brig Sir!” At the mention of my rank, The BC’s face became ashen, and he turned to the Corporal and instructed him to get the booking log from the previous day. The Corporal immediately left the cell and I could hear his footsteps as he hurried down the passageway to wherever the command center was. Back in the cell, the BC was clearly uncomfortable, and I got the sense that he didn’t quite know what to do next. He hesitated, but then instructed me, “The prisoner may stand at ease.”
We waited in the cell for what seemed like a long time, the silence between me and the BC becoming more uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by. At last the Corporal returned with the booking log and handed it to the BC. The BC studied it for a few minutes and then looked up at me and asked, “Has the prisoner received a charge sheet?” I replied that I hadn’t, and was rewarded with an expletive filled diatribe about what he planned on doing to the three assholes who had brought me in. I did learn, however, that I had been picked up by the Shore Patrol on Monday night for doing my best to redecorate a local bar with a few soldiers down on leave from Fort Ord. When they tried to remove me from the bar, I apparently broke the nose of one of the SPs after taking his nightstick away from him and kicking him in his nether regions. They apparently did manage to subdue me and brought me in shackles to the Brig instead of to the SP lockup in town.
As a result of my little adventure, the BC informed me, I would likely wind up being charged with assault, resisting arrest, and conduct contrary to good order and discipline. Depending on how they viewed the charges, I was looking at a long stint in Portsmouth Prison, and at least a bad conduct discharge. Because they were General Court Martial charges, I was automatically considered an escape risk to be confined in the maximum security cellblock of the brig. The assault on the SP meant that I would always be shackled whenever I was outside of my cell, and escorted wherever I went by two armed guards. Finally, the seriousness of my situation became clear, and erased all memory of the night before and the really fantastic sex I had enjoyed. The Brig Commander then instructed the Corporal to leave us, and to close the door.
The BC told me to sit on my bunk and relax. He pulled out a pack of Camels and offered me one, which I accepted gratefully. Next he asked me what the fuck had happened to me. I started to reply with the formula, but he stopped me and said, “This is just between us, so cut the formality while we’re alone, and tell me your side of the story.” I told him I didn’t really remember a whole hell of a lot until he had read me what the log book said. I had vague memories of being in the bar and minding my own business, when the Army grunts started loud talking about wanting to kick some jarhead ass. Ever the volunteer, and in a bad mood already, I offered to accommodate any of them or all of them, one at a time or all at once. One thing apparently led to another and a brawl broke out. I apparently got overly exuberant with one of the doggies, which prompted the call to the Shore Patrol. I couldn’t remember if it was just me fighting with them, or if some of my fellow patients from the Rehab Unit had joined in the fray. At the mention of the Rehab Unit, the BC asked me what I was doing at Balboa, since it didn’t look like I was either sick or injured.
I explained to the Brig Commander that after the third time I had zigged when I should have zagged, I was ordered evacuated back to the States for further treatment. Because I had been assigned to SOG, MAC-V, as a sniper for nearly three years, after I was patched up once again I was assigned to the Special Rehab Unit at Balboa along with about 40 other special operations troops from all branches of the military. It was an experimental program designed to ease us all back into normal military duty or back into civilian life. Since all of us in the unit had substantial body counts, and knew countless ways to make those counts grow, we were considered too unstable to release back to our regular units or, God forbid, back into our communities, without intensive counseling and retraining. For all of us, this was an assignment that would last no less than 18 months, and could last as long as the powers that be figured it would take to bring us back down from the semi-permanent testosterone highs we were all on. I had only been in the unit for about six months, and still had at least a year or more to go before being reassigned to a regular duty unit.
Because we had done nothing wrong, and had not been diagnosed as suffering from a chronic mental disease or defect, they could not keep us confined to the unit without allowing us some privileges. Based on our cooperation during sessions with the shrinks, we gradually earned privileges that allowed us regular liberty on weekends, provided that we went as a group and were escorted by at least one Corpsman and an MP. For all practical purposes this was, of course, a joke. There was no way that a single Corpsman, with or without the help of an MP, was going to control any one of us, never mind a group of ten or more of us. Usually, the first thing we did when we got on the bus and left the hospital grounds was disarm the MP, and take the medical bag away from the Corpsman. They were good guys for the most part, and cooperated with us. For them it was a night out on the town as well. Until my little run in with the three Army grunts, nothing serious had happened on any of these field trips. But now I was afraid that I had screwed the pooch for everyone in the unit, and had at the same time destroyed my own career.
The BC and I shot the shit a little while longer, swapping war stories and just getting a better feel for each other. When he learned that I had earned three Purple Hearts, Two Bronze Stars and one Silver Star in my nearly three tours of duty, and had a whole chest full of other geedunk medals, he seemed to have a new respect for me. He stood up to leave and said, “Gunny, let me see what I can do about this shit storm you seem to have created. Meanwhile, I would greatly appreciate it if you cooperated with the program here, and not do any damage to my Brig or my men.” I stood to attention, and barked out, “Sir, yes Sir.” He just smiled and left me standing at attention, and locked my cell behind him. I heard his footsteps echoing down the passageway, and hoped that I would meet him again under better circumstances.
Finally, left alone in my cell, I laid down on my rack and got to thinking about the action the night before. My hard-on returned with a real vengeance, and I thought that I now had the time and opportunity to relieve myself. Alas, it was not to be. Just as I was getting into a rhythm, I heard footsteps coming down the passageway. They stopped at my door, and a key was put in the lock. I scrambled to get my cock stuffed back into my trousers, and almost made it before the cell door was thrown open. Standing in the doorway was the hot Corporal from earlier, framed in the light from the passageway overheads.
In his hands he had the leather belt and leg irons, and ordered me down on my knees facing the rear bulkhead. I said, “Sir, yes Sir,” and immediately got off the rack and hit my knees as instructed. He locked the belt in place, cuffed my wrists, and after he put the leg irons on, he ordered me to stand up and face him at attention. I struggled to my feet, turned around and stood before him. Just looking at his well toned body, deep blue eyes, and that uniform snuggly fitted to his body brought my cock to full attention again. He saw the effect he was having on me and a slight smile crept across his face. He then asked me, “I heard you’re a fudge packer. Is that true prisoner?” I replied, “Sir, yes Sir and this prisoner would be pleased to relieve the Corporal of his stress in any other way if would please the Corporal Sir!”
He looked at me, and ordered me down on my knees. Before I could hit the deck, my handsome young Corporal already had his gorgeous cock out and brought it to my lips. After a few tentative swipes with my tongue on the head of his now engorged cock, I opened wide and took every bit of it deep in my throat and began to work it. Now this youngster absolutely knew how to take advantage of a warm and willing mouth and tongue, and really got into it with me. We had a rhythm going for what seemed like half an hour or more before he was ready to shoot his load. I would not allow him to pull out, and sucked all of his cum out and down my throat. It must have been awhile since he last had sex, because he had a nice load to feed me.
Finally I let him pull his cock out, and licked the remnants of his cum off the cut head of his cock and from around the shaft. His eyes by now had become glassy, and I could tell he was really into it. I asked him, “Sir, may the prisoner relieve himself now Sir?” He just looked at me with a glassy eyed stare. Before I knew what was going to happen, he ordered me to get up and sit on my rack. I did as I was instructed, and the next thing I know, my beautiful Corporal hit his own knees in front of me. He reached out and pulled my now engorged cock from my trousers. Next he stroked it a few times, up and down in a very slow rhythm. His touch was gentle yet tentative, and it made me think he’d never done this before.
The thought that I was ‘converting’ this fine specimen of a Marine into an androphile made my cock even harder, and it was all I could do to keep from shooting my own load right then. I exercised all the control I could muster, and looked him in the eye and whispered, “Sir, if you want to suck it, go ahead Sir. It won’t bite Sir, and there’s nobody here but us Marines Sir.” He didn’t need any more urging than that.
He started first licking the head, then worked his way down the shaft to my balls, tentatively, as if he was trying to convince himself that what he was doing was okay. Finally, he opened his mouth and took as much of my cock in as he could before his gag reflex kicked in. He jerked his head up, coughed, and looked at me with some confusion in his eyes. I could tell that he needed some direction, so I whispered to him that as he felt himself starting to gag he should swallow quickly to ease the muscles in his throat.
He was a quick study in cock sucking, and pretty soon he got his own rhythm going. I couldn’t help him much, since I was still shackled and pretty much immobilized, but he really didn’t need my help. Since I hadn’t cum in so long, and this gorgeous Marine was seriously fucking with my ability to exercise any control, it wasn’t long before I needed to shoot my load. I didn’t know if he was into swallowing, so I told him I was ready to blow my load. That got him to going down even faster, and I realized that he was going to go for broke and not quit until I had shot my load down his throat.
I finally let nature take its course and let a huge load hit the back of his throat and slide on down. The taste was something he wasn’t ready for, and he jerked his head up, coughed, and tried to spit the load back out. By then it was far too late to change his mind. He was definitely a trooper about the whole thing, cleaning the head of my cock with his tongue, then eased my now flaccid cock back in my trousers and fastened the buttons. Finally, he stood up, grabbed a little water from the sink, swished it around his mouth a bit and swallowed it. He took a last look at me, turned and walked out of the cell without another word. The key turned in the lock, and I heard the echoes of his footsteps as he walked back down the passageway. I was left sitting on my rack, still shackled, but well and truly face and butt fucked, and had had my own cock sucked by a gorgeous first timer. I didn’t know if I was going to prison or not, or if my career in the Corps was about to come to an abrupt end. All I did know was that I wasn’t quite ready for this part of the adventure to end.
A few hours after my young Corporal left, I again heard footsteps coming down the passageway. The key went in the cell door, and it was opened by the Brig Commander. I jumped to my feet and stood at attention, but he told me to sit back down again and relax. He pulled out his pack of Camels again and offered me one. I couldn’t take one since my wrists were still shackled to my waist, so he unlocked my cuffs and lit my cigarette with his Zippo. He then told me that he had made some phone calls about my case, and that he thought I might be released back into the custody of the Special Rehab Unit.
It seems that the SP, whose nose I had apparently broken, had been counseled by some of my fellow rehabbers, and had wisely decided that it was all a big misunderstanding and he did not want to pursue any charges. That effectively knocked out both the assault and resisting arrest charges. All that was left was the catchall charge of conduct contrary to good order and discipline, the one they use when they just want to fuck with you and can’t figure out how else to do it. It could still spell the end of my career, but the likelihood of a long stint in Portsmouth Prison was effectively gone.
Usually, the charge of conduct that just pisses them off is handled with Office Hours, an Article 15 non-judicial punishment proceeding, by the unit CO. Since I was attached TAD to Balboa Naval Hospital, any NJP would be administered by the Hospital CO, a Navy Captain. This was clearly a break, since my old CO would have broken me down as far as he could, more because of the stupidity I had exhibited rather than the underlying offense. Either way, there was no longer much of a reason to keep me in the Brig, and even if they did, they could no longer consider me General Court Martial bait. My custody status would be reduced. No more shackles, and no more solitary confinement. But I was sort of getting used to both, enjoying them and all the action I was getting. I was confused, not knowing if I wanted to be released from the Brig, or stay and get some more action. The decision was taken out of my hands with the arrival of one of the shrinks from the rehab unit, who was accompanied by two rather large corpsmen with a no nonsense heavy canvas straight jacket, loaded with lots of leather belts.
The three of them entered my cell, handed a release order to the BC, and told him to remove the shackles. After they were removed, the corpsmen moved in on me and tried to put the straight jacket on me. I’d been in one before, and they weren’t getting me in another one without a fight. I guess my reaction had been anticipated, because the next thing I knew I felt a sharp pinprick in my arm, and in a few seconds I dropped like a stone, and had no control over my limbs. In a haze, I remember them strapping me tightly into the straight jacket, and half carrying me out of the cell. I can’t even remember my feet touching the deck, and my next memory is of being strapped to a gurney and being rolled into the rear of an ambulance.
When I finally woke up, I was in a small padded cell, still strapped tightly into the straight jacket, leather restraints around my ankles, and leaning back into a corner of the cell. I had a vile taste in my mouth, the kind you get when you haven’t seen or used a toothbrush in a few days. I couldn’t move my legs, and it was almost impossible to take a deep breath. They had definitely tightened the straps on the straight jacket, and I couldn’t move my arms at all. Not only were they buckled behind me, but my forearms were also being held close to my body by a loop of leather in front as well. I guess they didn’t want to take any chances. Even though I couldn’t move, I could yell, and I did so at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t tell if anybody heard me, because I couldn’t hear a damn thing outside my cell. But I kept it up until I got hoarse, and my dry throat began to hurt. I finally settled down again and drifted off to sleep once more.
When I awoke again, it was to the sound of a key turning in the lock of the well-padded hatch. It swung open silently, and there in the hatchway was Lt. Cdr. Ira ___________, my draft dodging shrink from the rehab unit. He looked at me and smiled with that evil grin of his that made you think he knew exactly what was going through your mind. I didn’t like him much. He was a little too prissy for my tastes, but I did respect him. He had a way of cutting through all of the bullshit we threw his way, and I never saw him surprised or confused about anything that he heard from me or any of the other Special Ops guys under his care. The only time I ever saw him hesitate, or seem unsure about what to do next, was when we first met. It was Dr. Ira who coined the phrase “your thousand yard stare” to describe how I seemed to look through people instead of at them. He was the first person to tell me that he always knew when I was about to go off, because I would stop blinking, my eyes seemed to change color from blue to a cold steel grey, and I got very quiet. He said it was as if I was measuring the guy in front of me to make a move, any move, so I could go into action.
Dr. Ira entered my cell, and challenged me to tell him exactly what was going through my head at that very instant. When I hesitated, he said, “Come on Gunny, spit it out!“ I looked at him and said, “Well Doc, actually I’m sitting here measuring you for a body bag, and wondering if you‘ve got enough balls to let me out of this canvas sack you’ve got me wearing.” Dr. Ira seemed taken aback by my outburst, but quickly regained his composure and laughed at me. This pissed me off for some reason, and I cut loose with a series of expletive laden descriptions of his parentage, manhood and whatever else I could think of at the moment. After I stopped, he looked at me and said, “Are you done? Do you have any more you need to get out of your system before we get down to business here?” It was exactly the right thing to say, at exactly the right time. It just knocked the wind out of my sails and I fell silent.
Dr. Ira came into my cell and sat down beside me on the floor. He reached over and gently turned my face toward him and said, “Are you ready to talk about it now Gunny?” In a quiet voice I started to tell him what had happened to me the past couple of days, and the conflict I felt inside of me about waking up in the Brig. The idea that I might be spending a good portion of my young life in Portsmouth Prison was both frightening and exciting at the same time. When I told him about the forced sex I had had in the Brig while shackled, and the incredible arousal I experienced during it, he just nodded his head and said, “I understand Gunny. In a way it’s quite normal.” He went on to explain that we are all sexual animals, and that it is only our environment and peer pressure that dictates the gender preference for the outlet of our sexual needs. At this point I remember thinking, “Holy shit, this guy is something else!” Here I was confessing to not only having engaged in forced homosexual acts, but also that I was aroused by, and enjoyed, them as well.
I knew that Dr. Ira had long ago concluded that I, as well as a number of other guys in the unit, was gay. He told me that during one of our individual therapy sessions, and assured me that there was nothing in my SRB or medical chart about it. He said it was the logical and natural extension of the close bond that men form with each other, and even more so when they must rely on each other for their very survival. In short, he said that despite what I might hear to the contrary, what I had done was quite normal and that I needed to not only come to grips with my own sexuality, but also learn how to embrace it as an inescapable part of what made me uniquely me.
We chatted some more, and when it looked like he was getting ready to leave, I asked him how long I had to stay in this cell and restrained the way I was. He told me he was going to have me moved to another room, but that for the next few days I was going to be sedated and four-pointed to the bed. I asked him why, since I had clearly calmed down, but he told me there was another reason for what was going to happen. He said, “Gunny, not only do I want to make sure that you’re back on an even keel again, but I also need to come up with some plausible scenario to write this episode off as an attack of PTSD. You may not understand what I’m doing for you, but believe me when I tell you that this is the only way I can save your ass and your career for you. In another week or so I’ll sit down with the CO and see if I can get him to shelve the NJP. In the meantime, just enjoy the rest period and hope for the best.” With that, Dr. Ira left the cell, and I heard him give instructions to the Corpsman to move me to one of the side rooms, fully restrained to the bed, and that he was going to enter a medication order for me.
A few minutes after Dr. Ira left me, two of the Corpsmen I knew from the unit came in and unlocked the restraints from my ankles. They gently lifted me to my feet and guided me down the passageway to one of the private rooms off the main ward. One of the Corpsmen, Charlie, asked me if I was going to give them a problem with the restraints, but I told them I was ready. They guided me over to the bed and told me to lie down on my stomach. They unbuckled the straight jacked and told me to turn over on my back. I did as I was told, and they removed the jacket completely. I asked them if I could use the head before they restrained me, but they told me it would be bed pans for the next few days. Charlie told me to lie down and they fastened a leather restraint to each of my ankles, and locked them. Next came a tether belt that was run from each ankle and locked to the railing on each side of the bed. This was followed by wrist restraints that were locked on and similarly tethered to the side rails. Finally, a wide leather strap was placed across my chest, under my arms, and tethered to each side of the railings as well. There wasn’t a hell of a lot of play in any of the restraints, and I was reconciled to the idea that this was how it was going to be for the next few days. Unfortunately, nobody gave the message to my cock, which was reacting to the restraints and becoming more and more engorged. Charlie took a look at my growing woody and just laughed and said to the other Corpsman, “Shit, we got another one here!” They put a pillow under my head, and draped a lightweight blanket over me, and left the room.
A few minutes later, Charlie came back into my room. He had a hypodermic needle in one hand, and a plastic bottle of juice in the other. He came over to my bed and put the needle down on the tray next to the bed, and put a straw in the bottle of juice and brought it to my lips. I sucked thirstily at the juice, since I couldn’t remember the last time I had had anything to drink, and my throat was dry and sore from all the yelling I’d been doing. When I finished the juice, Charlie took an aluminum bottle of some sorts, pulled the blanked back, and guided my cock into the wide neck opening. He said, “If you have to pee, now’s the time to do it. I’m getting ready to go off duty, and I don’t know when you’ll get another chance.” It took a few seconds for me to overcome the embarrassment, but I got over it and let loose with a fine stream.
When I was finished pissing in the bottle, Charlie carefully removed it, swabbed the head of my cock, and pulled the covers back over me. Then it was time for the needle. Charlie told me that it was an anti-psychotic, and would probably knock me out until the next morning. With that, he swabbed my upper arm with alcohol, gently pinched my skin, inserted the needle, and pushed the plunger. He removed the needle from my arm, swabbed the area once more, and left the room. I heard the lock being turned on the door, but that’s pretty much the last thing I remembered, before I drifted off to a deep and dreamless sleep.
The next few days passed in a kind of chemically induced blur. I remember waking up in the mornings, and having Charlie come into my room to bathe me, give me some sort of protein drink, let me relieve myself, and then shove yet another needle in my arm. He went about his business humming some tune I didn’t recognize, and was always very gentle with me. Charlie really seemed to give a damn that I was as comfortable as circumstances would allow, and I got to wondering if there was anything that could upset him. Finally, one morning he came into my room with another Corpsman, looked at me and said, “You ready to go back to the ward?” I hadn’t spent this much time in a chemically induced stupor since the last time I had been wounded and had to have some shrapnel removed from my thigh. I didn’t like it then, and wasn’t real fond of it now, so I excitedly told him that I was long past ready, and how come I wasn’t already there! He just laughed and he and the other Corpsman undid my restraints and helped me to sit up with my legs over the edge of the bed.
Charlie told me not to try and get up yet, since I hadn’t been out of bed for a few days and probably wouldn’t have the strength to stand. I didn’t listen, and pushed myself onto the floor. Sure enough, my legs went all wobbly on me and I hit the deck like a sack of rice and just lay there. They each grabbed an arm and got me back up on my feet and sat me down on the edge of the bed again. Charlie then left the room and came back with a wheelchair. They helped me to my feet again, and sat me in the chair. Charlie wheeled me out of the room, but instead of taking a left to go back toward the ward, he went down the right passageway to where the Doctors’ offices were. He stopped by Dr. Ira’s office and knocked on the door. Dr. Ira opened the door and told Charlie to wheel me in and leave us.
Dr. Ira came over and checked my pulse, respiration, and shined a light in my eyes to see how my pupils were responding to the light. Satisfied, he sat down behind his desk and said, “Well Gunny, you don’t seem any worse for the wear. How are you feeling today?” I told him I was 4-0, and just wanted to get back to my regular routine. He told me we had a few things to go over first. He pulled a sheet of paper out from a folder and handed it to me. It was a letter from the CO of the hospital officially dropping the charges against me, but instructing the staff of the unit that my liberty privileges were to be pulled for a period of not less than 60 days. Moreover, they were not to be restored until the unit team was satisfied that I had made sufficient progress to allow me to return to liberty status without risk to the community. All in all, it was a small price to pay, but I wondered what was meant by “sufficient progress” and I asked Dr. Ira to explain it.
He told me that sufficient progress to him meant that I was to be cooperative with the treatment program, participating in the group discussions, and being forthright in my individual sessions with him. Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “You know Gunny, you are at a crossroads in your life. I don’t want you to look back on this period some day and wonder what might have been. We really are here to help you readjust. For the past six years, you’ve either been in intense training to learn how to take a life, or actually doing it. From your records, I see that you have a confirmed body count of 12, with 5 more listed as probable. Nobody, but nobody, can come away from those kinds of experiences unscarred.” I looked at him with that passive look in my eyes that I get when people around me start talking about the war. It comes off as if I am disinterested or detached from it, but all the while I am thinking, “This asshole doesn’t even begin to understand what it’s really like to take another man’s life!” Dr. Ira looked at me and said, “There Gunny. There’s that look again that you get when we talk about the war. Tell me, right now, what it was like the first time you killed a man.”
I looked at him and said, “Doc, no matter how I try to explain it, I don’t think you, or anybody else who hasn’t dropped the hammer, can ever understand what it’s all about.” He just looked at me again and said, “Don’t sell me short Gunny. I’ve heard more bullshit and more war stories in this office than I can shake a stick at. Nothing you can tell me could possibly shock me. I’ve heard it all before from someone.” I laughed at him and said, “Well, Doc, when was the last time somebody told you they had an orgasm when they watched a man’s head blown to pieces from 800 yards away?” This actually shocked him, but he recovered quickly and said, “Tell me about it Gunny.”
I began by telling Dr. Ira that I had had only three great orgasms in my life, the kind that make you dizzy and breathless, and leave you weak for a few minutes. I told him the first one was when I sucked my first cock, and I went into some detail about my best friend, a fellow Marine, and the only man I truly loved and would gladly lay down my life for, my best bud Billy. I went on to explain how we met, and how what started as innocent experimentation led to a love affair that lasted these many years. I told him I really didn’t consider myself gay in the traditional sense, just that I loved sex with men generally and exclusively, and with Billy particularly. In all other ways, both Billy and I were 4-0 Marines, as much man as anyone could possibly want, or hope to have, guarding his 6 in either battle or in life.
My next great orgasm came on the day that Billy and I graduated from Boot Camp at Parris Island, and got to wear our Dress Blues for the first time as real Marines. I told him that when I saw Billy in his blues, and he handed me my set to put on, the sensation was just too great. As much as I tried to avoid it, my cock simply exploded, staining the front of my trousers, when I had zipped them up for the first time. I told Dr. Ira I couldn’t really explain it any better. It was like a rite of passage of some sort. That Billy and I had passed through some difficult test of manhood, unscathed, and that we were somehow bound together from that moment on, and that neither time nor distance would ever diminish what we had, because we were more together than we could ever be separately. I think Dr. Ira understood this part of my narrative, because his eyes softened and I thought I saw a tear trying to escape from one of them. Ours was a true love story, an unconventional one to be sure, but nevertheless a story as passionate as any that one could find in even the best written novels.
Finally, I came to that part of the story that is always the most difficult to tell to someone who has not been down that road themselves. I had been selected for advanced sniper training based solely on my performance during firearms training in Boot Camp. Being from New York, I had never fired a weapon before that first day, but I seemed to have an uncanny ability to put three rounds in a very tight grouping at 300 yards. My DI recognized my raw marksmanship skills immediately, and soon was lying down next to me on the range. He asked me how long I’d been shooting, and didn’t believe me when I replied that I had never fired a weapon before in my life.
My DI took the M14 rifle from me and made a couple of adjustments to the sight and windage setting, and gave it back to me. I zeroed in on the target down range and squeezed off three more rounds that went dead center and were so closely grouped that you could cover them with a quarter. This apparently impressed my DI to the point that he left me there to fire off the rest of my magazine. When I finished off, instead of returning to the rear area to clean my weapon, my DI instructed me to remain where I was. He had a new target placed on the frame, handed me a fresh magazine, and instructed me to take my time and fire off all 20 rounds in single shot.
I got all 20 rounds in or very near the center of the target. This was enough to convince him that I was a natural at it, and for the next three days I must have fired more than a 1,000 rounds at targets from different ranges, all with the same result. I knew that I had accomplished something that few boots ever get to do. I had impressed my DI. At the same time, my newfound skill on the range also gave me a confidence in myself I had been lacking, and I became a much better Marine for it. By the time we graduated, I had become first a squad leader, and later the Honor Man of my platoon.
After graduating from Boot Camp, Billy and I went on to ITR at Camp Lejeune, still in the same company, and got to spend more time with each other than we had before. The two weeks leave we had before reporting were spent in a hotel in Augusta, GA. We partied each night and made mad passionate love to each other, trying I guess to make up for the months we had spent in Boot Camp where we could barely manage a stolen moment together. We were bonded for life, but as with all such love stories, there comes a time of parting.
Billy and I were separated after ITR. I had been assigned to MCSC Quantico for sniper training, while Billy was off to the West Coast for further transfer to Nam. He had a few days leave, and went with me to Quantico, where we spent a few last days together before I had to report in, and Billy had to catch his plane to San Diego. It was the last I was to see of him for four long years.
After graduating from sniper school, it was off for Recon Training, followed by advanced sniper training, and a host of interviews, evaluations, medical tests, and still more training. For the next two years I was training in some of the worst, most desolate places on earth, honing my skills at camouflage, sniping, escape and evasion techniques, and God only knows what else they threw at me. I guess I made it through to the final cut, because in January 1967 I got TAD orders to Nam where I was to report to the Special Operations Group for the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam, also known by the acronym SOG, MAC-V. I flew into Ton Son Nhut airbase, landing at night, and disembarked from the aircraft to be met by a civilian in a Jeep who had my picture. He had me stow my gear in the back, and it was off to a secluded area of the base where we entered a well guarded, barb wired compound filled with Quonset huts. I was given a bedroll and led over to a hut with only a few beds inside, but had its own refrigerator that was stocked with all different brands of beer.
That first night I was alone in the hut, but despite drinking way too much beer, I couldn’t fall asleep right away. In the back of my head was this idea that I was finally in theater, and this was the real thing. No more training. No more paper targets or silhouettes. This was it. I guess I finally dozed off for awhile, because the next thing I knew my rack was being kicked by somebody who was saying, “Rise and shine boy. We got us a mission today.” I opened my eyes to see this wild eyed asshole at the foot of my rack. He was wearing camouflage utilities and a floppy hat, and had a bandolier of ammo across his shoulder and an M14 rifle with a scope in his arms. I finally got my feet on the floor, and asked this guy who the fuck he was. He introduced himself as, “Roy, just Roy, from Nashville.” I started to introduce myself, but he stopped me in mid sentence to tell me he didn’t give a shit who I was, and was only interested in whether or not I could cover his ass. I told him that I guess he’s find out one way or the other, and this seemed to please him. He said, “Well you ain’t like some of the other assholes they’ve sent here, thinking they knew everything and were the greatest thing since sliced bread. You might do after all.”
Roy and I left the hut and went over to the supply hut, where I was issued my own set of cammies, a floppy cover, a rifle with scope, and a few other odds and ends. I checked the action on the rifle and sighted in the scope on the far wall to check out the optics. This, too, seemed to please Roy, and he told me to hurry up and get changed because we had a chopper to catch to get us up country. A few minutes later we left and got in a Jeep and headed back to Ton Son Nhut. When we got there, we went to one of the far corners of the field where there was a chopper warming up. We got aboard and were airborne in a matter of minutes, flying low and fast up river for about thirty minutes. It finally set down in an open field, and no sooner had Roy and I disembarked than it was off again flying back South.
Roy had the map coordinates and the compass, and led us from one point to another, each time checking off something in a notebook he had with him. Finally, we arrived in a hilly area, and Roy went silent and motioned me down next to him. Through the overgrown vegetation I could see a village about 750 yards away from us, and Roy looked at me and said, “This is it kid. The guy we’re after is due here this afternoon. Pick your firing position and zero in on that center hut. That’s where the Headman lives, and the guy we’ve come to take out will be meeting him there.” Suddenly it all became real to me. This was it. I was going to take out my first target. I was concerned that I might choke and blow the mission, but realized that was why Roy was there. If I couldn’t drop the hammer, he was going to do it. This was my final exam. I would either pass and become a qualified sniper, or fail miserably and be returned to the ground forces, all my training wasted and my career ruined.
For the next couple of hours, Roy and I busied ourselves finding firing positions and egress routes. We had no idea just who this guy was, only that he had somehow made it on to the list and was to be taken out. They made a point of never giving us much information about our targets, just what we needed to know operationally to get the job done. If we knew too much about them, it might make them seem more human and harder to hit. Also, in case we were ever captured, not having any information could actually save our own lives.
Finally, late in the afternoon we heard a vehicle in the distance. It drove into the village and, sure enough, our target got out of the truck and went into the Headman’s hut. He was only in there a few minutes before he came out and began talking to the villagers. I took careful aim and, without any hesitation, I squeezed off a round and everything seemed to slow down. It was as if I could actually see the round as it spiraled toward the target. I know it’s impossible, but I swear that I saw it enter his open mouth and his head literally exploded in hundreds of pieces of brain matter and bone and a pinkish spray of blood. As soon as I saw what I had done, I had this sensation of power that came over me. My cock got hard and I shot a load in my trousers. At this point, Roy lowered his own weapon, turned to me and said, “Nice shot boy, but now it’s time to get out of Dodge! They’ll be on our asses in a few minutes.”
The next couple of hours were a blur. Roy and I were making our way as fast as we could out of the area, knowing that if we slowed down at all, we would very likely be taking a long dirt nap. Somehow we made it back to our rendezvous point, and in a few minutes the chopper came in fast and low. The pilot just hovered a few inches off the ground as Roy and I scrambled aboard, and we were up and away in less than a couple of minutes. There was some sporadic ground fire from below, but nothing hit us, and we made it back to base in one piece.
All this time, Roy had been watching me closely, and his eyes kept straying to the front of my trousers where my dried cum and formed an obvious stain. When we got off the chopper and back in the Jeep, Roy got behind the wheel and we were off to the compound. He didn’t say a word until we got back to the hut. He reached into the refrigerator, pulled out a couple of beers and handed one to me. He then said, “You know boy, I’ve been doing this shit for longer than I care to remember. You’re the first one I ever saw who not only took the shot without any hesitation, but it also seems like you enjoyed doing it.” I looked at him sheepishly and told him that I really couldn’t explain it, but that the sensation of power was just too overwhelming. He said, “Hell, boy, I’ve seen them not take the shot, totally miss the target, or take the shot and get so sick at what they’ve done they ain’t any good anymore. I may never have seen what happened to you today, but you’ll do nicely.” He then reached out his hand and shook mine, and said, “Welcome to the war boy!”
When I finished my narrative, I looked up at Dr. Ira, and noticed that he had a strange look on his face. It was as if I had taken him to a place that he had never been before, and didn’t quite know if he liked what he saw, or wanted to be there. Whatever it was, the moment passed quickly, and Dr. Ira came out from behind his desk and took a chair directly in front of me. He reached out his hand and put it gently on my knee and said, “Okay Gunny, what are you feeling right now, this very instant?” I couldn’t explain it to him. Somehow I felt confused and relieved at the same time. I was confused because I couldn’t figure out why I had taken him on such a tour of my mind, and relieved because I had done so. I guess I also felt relief at finally being able to tell someone what I had been through, but afraid that he wouldn’t understand, that nobody could understand, and that I and those like me would be forever branded as some sort of freaks.
The End of the Beginning
Metalbond would like to thank the author Tommy Guns for “Brig Story,” which he tells me is 99.9% TRUE!
“I can assure you that BDSM was, and likely still is, alive and well in the Corps, particularly in the confinement facilities,” Tommy told me in an email. “[Brig Story] was really written as an introduction to the much longer story about my relationship with my best bud Billy, and my exposure to the world of leather and some really serious bondage and slavery.”
To get in touch with the Tommy, you may send him an email at firstname.lastname@example.org.