Marine Vet Returns Home Ch. 01

Marine Vet Returns Home

Two boyhood friends meet again under very different citcumstanes

This story is fiction. But unfortunately, the premises on which it is built have been repeated over and over. And it seems that even the small amount we do to help those who have fought for us is being cut back. Veterans, thank you for your service. The first parts are a bit of a slow burn. I know some of you will skip to the last parts, but I always feel that it's better if you understand the dynamics. Everyone in the story is over 18. I've used the format of a longer story for this submission. As of now, it's a standalone, but I think there will be more chapters in the future. ©Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

Told in the first person voice of Oliver Strauss, a 23 year old young gay man.....

1

My best friend from many years ago, Tory Aikman, returned from Iraq and Afghanistan a completely changed man. He had left Eden an optimistic, easy-going boy, full of life and mischief, and returned a haunted man. He had seen the horrors that men perpetrated on other men for territory, for power, or in the name of a blood-thirsty, unforgiving god. He had seen quick, but nevertheless good friends and buddies, blown up into unrecognizable masses of bloody flesh in a few seconds. Friends had lost arms or legs. He had seen small villages destroyed by aerial bombing such that no building stood, no person survived, no tree or bush remained--only deep craters in the hot sandy soil. The "enemy" was ruthless and evil; but our guys were not angels--or at least the policy-makers in our government had pushed hard to dehumanize them. All were atrocities beyond the comprehension of a young man, raised in our small, rural, predominantly-Christian town, where everyone was neighbor and where the worst we were likely to encounter was a broken bone on the athletic field or a tangled auto in a crash.

Tory's return to our boyhood town in rural Indiana had been yet another shock. It was so normal. So totally unaware of the potential of humankind for destruction and murder. Unaware out of deliberate choice, not the failure of the media to report. They had just tuned out the horror. So distant from the battlefield that it felt like a kind of Disney World in the midst of reality. It didn't feel like home. He felt alien. Alone. Scared.

I had heard all of this, second hand from his mother to mine. His Mom was worried, praying and hoping that time would heal, but she too needed to unload on someone--like my Mom.

Tory is a Marine--once a Marine, always a Marine, so no past tense, even though he had been decorated and honorably discharged after four long years of terror and horror. He is not a superman or a superhero. He's an ordinary small town boy who reached manhood on the bloodiest of modern battlefields. He's about six foot, with sandy hair, a square face, watery blue eyes, desert-tanned and with the typical physique of a Marine--muscled, but not overly so, threateningly dangerous in his camos, armor, and warpaint--until he smiles (which was infrequent these days) when he'd lighten the mood in any room.

Tory has theoretically finished therapy--having spent months in a hospital in Germany before he was discharged. Diagnosis: Borderline PTSD. Borderline Depressive. Borderline Suicidal. Not enough to keep him hospitalized, but close enough to warrant continued care and concern. And not enough to warrant a disability determination. He's entitled to "consultations" at the VA with a psych--assuming he can get an appointment and travel the 50 miles to Indianapolis, the only psych clinic in the area. I'm pretty sure that, even if he had saved most of his duty pay, in a few months, he was going to be out of money. I wanted to help.

2

But let's drop back about five years to add some flesh to the skeleton Tory Aikman. He is an only child, the golden boy of Elsa and Tom Aikman. Tom has been the town's only dentist for years. And Elsa keeps house and cooks, when she's not acting as receptionist/bookkeeper/office manager of the small dental clinic. They live in a nice post-WWII home, well-kept on the typical landscaped acre, just at the edge of town.

I'm one of four (all but me away from home by now), from a hard-working German-heritage family. Dad works as a technician in an automobile component factory. Mom subs as a teacher in the elementary school. Our home is smaller, but nearby to the Aikmans, and carefully maintained.

Tory graduated from high school, with mediocre grades, co-captain of the small town football team. I was the other co-captain. I'm Oliver Strauss. We were best buds, living about a half mile apart, and lifelong friends. The whole bit: scouts, cycling, water hole, Halloween tricks, pranks, nicknames. We even managed to get a "classic" 73 Chevy Impala (the one with horizontal wings and the the big V8) working again--after it had been abandoned at an auto graveyard a few towns away. (Actually he did. I only did what I was told, providing muscle when called for. Mostly I handled the restoration of the rusted body with tons of fiberglass, including the unique "flaming" paint job on the sides, as he tackled the mechanicals.)

Both of us were popular within a circle of friends typical of small town America. We doubled for the junior and senior proms, the senior week trip to the Indiana Dunes on the Lake, and numerous other dates to dances and the drive-in. (Yes, until last year, Eden had one of the few surviving drive-ins in the country.) By the end of our senior year, we had both scored and were both getting off--or even laid--on a fairly regular basis with the girls we dated, in the wide backseat of the Impala, or in a bedroom in a house which had been deserted by parents for the evening. Life was simple. Life was good.

We both went to college: I went to IU in Fine Arts and Tory to SICC where he completed two years and an Associates' Degree in Business Admin before joining the Marines. The AA degree was a typical major for a non-academically inclined student. I went on to complete an MFA, with a Psych minor, in four years and was now teaching art at SICC. Both of us worked part time and summers.

I was also coaching the football program at the SICC--which was touch intramural, but really quite serious. It helped a little. There was a modest stipend, but community college teachers, particularly in the humanities, typically make only a minimum wage.

We had lost contact during the years when Tory was deployed. I'd hear only a bit here and there from parents who saw each other occasionally. He hadn't been on home leave to Eden during the entire four years. Neither of us had married, although I continued to date regularly until I realized that I was more than just bi-curious. I definitely preferred boys. But, I was quiet and discrete, finding dates well away from Eden.

After discharge, Tory was at a loss. Going from the high of 24/7 danger, the camaraderie of combat, and platoon command to several weeks of psych rehab in Germany, to living back at home in his old room. He had been a communications-intel specialist. It was a shock that he simply could not handle. He knew he had to find a job--but nothing seemed close in intensity to his recent four years. His Dad was happy to be support for some time, and his Mom was pleased to have a son home again to spoil. So they weren't pushing him to do something he hated. He was bored, lacked energy and was more than a little scared. His reaction was to do nothing. I had heard from his Mom that he slept long hours, didn't leave the house except to be driven to weekly therapy at the VA. He had even stopped going to church with them.

For me, things were totally different. Deciding to follow my dream to become an artist was the best decision I had ever made. My folks thought I was crazy to choose a career without promise of financial reward--particularly with my background and proven intellectual talents. They wanted me to become a lawyer. But, I loved the classes, enjoyed my friends in the art department, frequented the IU parties, and joined a frat. All in all, I had a terrific four years. And I'm told that I'm developing into a very good artist and an even better educator. The SICC job is perfect: it is close to home (where I still occupy a garage apartment, detached from my folks' home); it involves doing what I love; it pays enough; and, it leaves me with time to set up and use a studio at SICC where I am preparing for an upcoming show. The football coaching keeps me in shape, playing a sport I have always enjoyed. And volunteering at the local VA's art therapy classes has opened an entirely new potential future for me. But more about that later. It may be my future--unless the show propels me into the big leagues or fine art.

I had realized my sexual orientation early in my time at IU. I liked girls and dated them regularly, but I really got off with guys. I guess that if you need a label, I'd have said that I was bi. I liked sex. Duh! I was 19 and a walking sperm factory! I like anal--as both top and bottom. Women are typically not into that. And the roughness of male on male sex is a real turn-on. I joined a gay-friendly frat, and very much enjoyed the easy-going sex life of a collegiate in a non-hostile environment where nudity and casual sex were a given. I had come out to Mom and Dad as bi in my junior year. (Actually, I am probably gay.) They were surprised--I didn't act gay (whatever that is), played sports, dated. Dad took several months to come around. I think Mom and my sisters convinced him that if he didn't, he'd lose me. So we are quietly okay about it now. We just don't talk about the elephant in the room.

They were saddened--not for me, but for what my life is likely to involve--but they accepted me. More than once, Mom suggested that I'd grow out of it, and that ultimately I would "outgrow" my impulses and marry. I didn't have a boyfriend, but I've many friends with whom I slept on a regular basis. Coaching the intramurals had an interesting side perk: being around young men who were not technically my students. (Intramurals were like a "club" not subject to the same rules as teacher's associating with students.) They were all consenting and willing adults. I'm vers, but I tend to top--perhaps because of my physical size, conditioned from years of athletics, my natural take-charge attitude, and my legendary dick--which I often displayed in locker rooms and showers. I did a little subtle advertising. And they typically come on to me.

Incidentally I could have passed for Tory's brother--both of us were about six feet, blue-eyed, sandy-haired, square-jawed with athletic builds. Our cocks were respectably larger than average, both were showers, and hooded. (Yes, of course we had compared.) Our deep voices reflected the unique twang of Southern Indiana. The main difference between us is not physical: I'm artistic, bookish and a student; Tory loved action, sports, using his hands to take things apart or put them back together. Although we had played "show me yours" and jerked each other as teens and played around in the shower, neither of us thought of the activity as particularly gay--just horny guys exploring sexuality and getting off. No mouths, lips or anal cavities were involved. Tory did not know and probably didn't even suspect that I am gay. I assumed that, like most guys, he had had some "innocent" encounters with the troops in the desert where females were scarce and taboo. But, we hadn't talked about it. In fact, we had never talked about sex at all--except maybe to boast about a conquest.

3

Eden, Indiana is a very small place. It didn't take long before I heard that Tory was home. I called several times to try to set up a time for us to get together, have a drink and talk. But, Tory was always evasive, often "unavailable" and seemingly uninterested. I went by once or twice, but his Mom said he was sleeping.

Finally, one Thursday morning, when I had no classes, I just showed up. The house was apparently deserted, but the front door wasn't locked and Tory's ancient Impala was shining in the drive. I took a chance and walked in. I heard the TV in the back room of the house that I knew like my own. So I walked down the hall and found Tory stretched out on the couch in his underwear (facing away from me), a porn DVD blinking in the background. Tory had a fuzzy chin and disheveled dirty hair. Obviously he hadn't shaved in days. He was wearing an ancient thread-bare Semper Fi tee and black knit trunks which outlined his rock hard erection and showed the dark moist circle near the tip. He was on his side facing the TV, using his glutes and hips to thrust, sliding his erection, poking through the fly, through a lubed palm and fingers. I stood quietly and stared, not sure whether to announce my presence or just enjoy the show. And it was indeed a show worthy of any film. Tory was all man, a tanned, gaunt man in the final stages of orgasm, rubbing his balls and taint through the fabric, fisting the shaft, sliding along it, moaning in pleasure and anticipation of imminent release. The cock was long, thick and hard, the hood had furled back nicely, and the knob had taken on an angry dark purple hue. I even noted the drop of pearly viscosity on the tip. I licked my lips involuntarily. Maybe a minute or more passed as Tory thrust into his fists, stopped to edge himself still more, before he blasted three or four times into his fist, the boxers and tissues. He went still, opened his eyes and rolled onto his back. He spotted me immediately, stuffed his shaft back inside, and sprung up from the sofa.

"Fuck you scared the shit out of me!"

"Actually, I don't think it was shit; it looked a lot more like spunk. It's only me, Tory. I guess you enjoyed that. What did she look like?"

Troy was silent, but his still-hard dick tented the knit briefs. Then a hint of a smile crossed his face. "Big tits. Nice smooth round ass. Softer hands. Tight lubed ass. She was letting me in the backdoor. I think I filled her good and proper. But, what the fuck are you doing here? Who let you in?"

"Since when do I need an invitation to your place? I think I spent more time here than at home. And the door was open."

"By the way. Good to see you too, Tory. It's been a long time."

He didn't respond, but sat back down, his trunks still obscenely tented.

Without asking, I sat in one of the old leather chairs facing the sofa and crossed my legs in my shorts to hide my erection. Tory sat back down and pulled a throw pillow over his semi and the spreading wetness on his trunks. The aroma of semen and musk floated into the space. "Why have you been avoiding me, Tory?"

"I haven't..." Then he went quiet. "Actually, I have. It's not just you. I'm not ready for company yet, Ollie."

"Not even your best bud?" I smiled conspiratorially, "I could have helped you with that if you had asked. Like old times."

"You don't know the half of it. I'm still a mess. I'm mixed up. I'm depressed. I can't sleep. And I don't have a job. I'm not even sure I know what I want to do. What would there be to talk about? And for Chrissakes, I certainly don't want your pity. I know you've got your shit together--teaching and all, coaching, looking forward to a showing of your work. Mom keeps me up to date. We are not in the same world anymore, Ollie. We're grown up now. Everything is different. Everything is serious."

"We've both been through a lot together, Tory."

"Nothing like this." I continued to stare, expecting that he'd at least add a few more words. And after a few more minutes of silence, I assumed he wanted me to go. So I got up to leave. As I passed the sofa, I detected a deep sigh, maybe a muffled sob and a chest spasm. I turned quickly. And just as I did, Tory broke down, dropped his head into his lap, and began to cry. "I can't seem to put the horror behind me, Ollie. It's like nothing either of us had ever imagined, let alone witnessed. I have nightmares--even in the middle of the day. Concentrating to jerk off is one of the few times when I feel relief." By then he was spasming, holding back sobs.

I moved quickly to the sofa and he allowed me to draw him into my lap, massaging his shoulders, holding him tight in a chest to chest hug. It took a long time, but Tory finally quieted. By then, my shirt was drenched with his tears, and the tenderness of twenty-plus years of friendship overwhelmed me. I loved this guy. But I was overwhelmed by the warmth and beauty of the guy I was holding so closely--and the fact that he reeked of musk and sex didn't help either. My hormones finally took over. I pulled Tory's face to mine and kissed him on the forehead, then each cheek. He didn't stop me. Next I pecked at Tory's lips. He responded by jerking away. So, I didn't try to force the issue. My hand went to Tory's neck to hold him tightly in place as I whispered words of comfort. "It's okay, Tory. I'm here. Go ahead and let it all out. We've been bros for decades. That is what bros are for. You can talk to me about anything. I'm here for anything you need. And I'd never tell a soul."

Tory relaxed for a few additional minutes, enjoying being held, but ultimately I think he felt that we were just too close. So he pulled away and moved to the other side of the sofa.

Then he just talked for a long time, recounting experiences in the desert--mostly good ones where he had bonded with other marines, one where he had lost a buddy. I sat silently and listened, "actively listened"--prompting Tory to continue. The "talk" lasted for nearly an hour. Tory had opened up perhaps for the first time in months.

Then it was my turn. "Tory, let me try to be your BF again. I'd really like that. You need to get out of this place and start doing some normal things. A little at a time. And I'll be there if you need to talk--or if you just want to call it a day and go home. I'm coaching intramural football this afternoon. Why don't you join us? We can always use another coach. And there's an art session tomorrow at the VA, I want you to join us."

(The intramural football was a no brainer suggestion--all physical, bringing back the normalcy of teen athletics. If I played it carefully, it would distract him from thinking about the past by making him plan the plays for the next few seconds. But, I carefully didn't use the word "therapy" to describe the classes--where six to ten vets gathered with a teacher for a few hours of drawing or painting, from life or plein aire--it really didn't matter. It was the "ordinary" comradeship that mattered--ordinary guys concentrating on capturing a scene, a still life or a life model with pencil, chalk or paint. A few had talent; a few had technique; but it didn't matter. And we talked over a few beers afterwards. The art class was just an ice breaker for the real purpose--the conversation after.)

"We've got time and you don't have to register in advance. Let's get you cleaned up. Then, I'm taking you to lunch. Then, I'll drive to SICC. We've got coaching gear there. Just give it a try. I'm not taking no for an answer."

4

Tory looked like he was about to refuse. But, I wasn't giving up. It was time to take charge. Curiously, as teens, I was always the one to suggest a date, a prank or an activity--although he would usually take over with his enthusiasm. I stood and pulled Tory up. "Your room. Shower. Now, grunt. You stink. And not in a good way." Tory's eyes opened wide and he smiled, but he followed me up the stairs. I knew the layout and the routine. We had showered many times in his bath, often together, occasionally using the watery moments to jerk each other.

I marched Tory into the bath, pulled off his tee and reached in to the shower to turn on the water. Like an automaton, Tory pushed his trunks down and stepped in. Fuck, he was so sexy. His dick, now only a little chubbed, girthy and with a well-sculpted peach-spahed head, arched dark and nicely over egg-sized balls. His gauntness emphasized the cut abs and deep vee. I was staring, but he didn't seem to notice. He was in a trance. Then my memory of our earlier days together took over. I stripped and stepped in behind him. "I haven't washed your back or your hair in years, Tory. It used to be one of my favorite things." I expected a protest. But, he allowed me to join him, not saying a word.

I grabbed the lofah, squirted liquid soap and began to scrub and massage Tory's muscled back. Doing so put several scars on display that I had never seen before. They were still an angry red where stitches had been removed or had dissolved. Clearly he had been wounded--probably flying metal that needed to be removed. Tory was about to protest, but something in him gave. Deep down, he wanted to be taken care of. He wanted human contact, perhaps as evidence that he was still part of the human race.

First, he slumped, and I caught him under the arms. I turned him and pushed him toward the tile, supporting him with my own body. He reached up to the tile wall and spread as I carefully soaped and scrubbed, first with the lofah, then with bare hands. I could feel him moving into me. He was enjoying this. It felt so good to have contact with another human being--and not just any human being, but a bro that he had known all his life, a guy who knew him almost as well as he knew himself. I understood and took my time, massaging as much as I was washing, using my hands as much as the soapy lofah, keeping my body as close to his as possible without being overtly sexual. Once or twice my erection batted his ass, but he didn't react. And so after I had taken minutes to scrub his back, his glutes and the back of his thighs, I moved in, stretched my body around his, reached around and fisted his shaft. My dick planted in his ass. Fuck, he was hard! He was feeling it too. It was like the old days. I shivered with the pleasure of having both fists around the hard shaft of a hunk.

But I didn't push it. I stroked a few times being careful not to allow my cock to stray, just a nice slippery tube between his thighs. But, it was inevitable that he felt my hardness. He groaned, but didn't pull away. I moved to the shelf and grabbed the shampoo. Again I squirted and began to lather Tory's longer-than-normal curly locks. Tory rinsed and turned. For the first time since we had met that day, Tory had the beginnings of a smile, a big sexy bedroom smile that had melted so many inhibitions. We were facing each other, not more than a foot apart, both naked, both rigidly erect--but unselfconscious as the warm rainy shower water dripped over us. We were just young bros again doing what came naturally.

"I guess it's my turn, Ollie." And then he did the same for me. He scrubbed my back, planted his chest hard into my back, and fisted my hard on. It felt so good to be normal. To be doing things that we had done dozens of times when younger. Ultimately I turned and we both gripped our rigid cocks. We finished each other off. Then we rinsed, dried, dressed and left for one of the local eateries. Neither of us had said a word about the encounter in the shower or as we dressed.

5

Our arrival at Julie and Jules' was unexpected, but a bit of a sensation. Tory had not been seen around Eden since his arrival home, but the press had picked up his discharge and run a story of his decorated heroism and Medal of Honor. In short, he was a local icon and hero. When we entered the old Main Street café and the door bell tinkled, a teacher and her husband, whom we had both known well, looked over. They smiled at us. Then they stood slowly and began to clap. And soon the entire place was on its feet clapping and hooting. Tory of course was mortified. This kind of display was precisely what he wanted to avoid. He blushed and began to turn back toward the door. Fortunately Jules, a combat veteran himself, understood, and quickly ushered us to a semi-private booth near the back. Finally, the place quieted, and we had survived the first big trial.

Lunch, of course, was on the house, despite my protestations.

Then we headed over to the athletic center at SICC, where a few dozen students were dressing for the afternoon scrimmages. I introduced Tory and took him to the storeroom to find the unique coach/ref uniform that SICC used--really just black nylon shorts and a black and yellow broadly striped tee. We played six quarters on two different fields, rotating around with different teams competing in each of them. Tory fell easily into a coaching slot, which at SICC really meant he was often a player-captain on each of the various six-person teams as plays were worked out quickly in huddle and executed on the field. Ref-ing was at a minimum. Fouls and penalties were rare. His passing arm, demonstrating muscle-memory, returned, and his squads did remarkably well. Then it was to the showers after two plus hours of hard play. Tory was obviously tired--it had been weeks since he had engaged in any real physical activity, but he was pumped--and I actually detected a smile when one or more of the college players complimented him or asked his advice. In two hours, he had ingratiated himself, proven himself and was asked back. In fact, he was invited to several parties that night and the next.

He was being treated as a regular guy. One of the group. I hoped It would help to draw him out of his self-imposed isolation and exile.

We drove home mostly in silence, listening to my current selection of music, which he claimed was way too classic. He seemed to be in deep thought. When I pulled into the drive, he looked over and thanked me. "It was a good afternoon, Ollie. Thanks for insisting. You are really my best." I didn't make a move.

"Well, we're going to try again tomorrow. I have an art class at the Foley Art Center." (The college had made the FAC available to the VA for the art therapy program, and I was volunteering to run it--really interning, hoping for a paid position with the VA.) He protested that he was terrible at art. "Well, no one, except me, that is, is very good. It's more about the camaraderie. I do a little teaching--mostly explaining how to use the materials and a few tricks of perspective. Then, it's a free for all. The critiques that take place every half hour or so are funny as hell, and they have the side benefit of teaching us to lighten up and not take ourselves so seriously. Tomorrow has a life drawing section. You'll have to pose when it's your turn. So you might want to pump and groom a little tonight."

"Pose? Nude, I assume? Are you kidding? Now I know I don't want to go. I'm not pulling a hard-on in front of a bunch of guys I don't know."

"Once again, Tory. No is not an answer. I'll pick you up at 2 o'clock. Wear something that you won't mind getting paint on. See you then." (In better times, I would have added, "Or getting out of quickly.")

I drove off feeling elated. In a few short hours, I was already helping Tory. But, more than that, I was incredibly attracted to my best and straight friend. All day I had been hiding semis--from the time I held him on the sofa, to the shower (except for the few brief moments when we had stroked each other, moments that were re-enactments of childhood play, not manly sexuality), to the lockers, to the field. Fuck, he was a hunk. The boyish athlete with whom I had grown up had matured into an introspective, serious--but magnificent man. He was deeply tanned from the desert sun, with broad shoulders and narrow hips--and gaunt from the food--which made his cock (which I think had continued to grow after high school) seem enormous. And he was a guy that I knew to be beautiful inside. I was playing with fire and I knew it. He was not gay, and I knew it.

As I drove and began to think, I released the tension in my gut and pulled a full-on erection which painfully strained the fabric of my athletic shorts. So, I think maybe I went a little faster than the speed limit to reach my apartment.

6

I picked up Tory for the class, and realized he had shaved and had gotten a haircut. I assumed that maybe he had groomed his pubes as well. He looked unbelievably delicious in his youthful vulnerability. It was going to be torture. Friday afternoons were typically light at the art center. There were only six, eight including both of us. So I was going to be able to ease Tory into the group. We started with a perspective exercise using pencils and charcoal. Then there was a still life--which the guys seemed to hate, moving quickly and loosely to get it over with. "Who the fuck cares what a bowl of fruit looks like? Except maybe for the bananas!"

Then, after a short break, it was time for life drawing. Kelly, our sole exhibitionist, went first. He stripped and perched on a stool in the center as we drew him from various angles. He was a big-assed twink and liked to flirt. And the guys gave him all the grief he deserved. Tory seemed really absorbed in "getting it right." He concentrated and worked carefully, creating a reasonable representation of Kelly's back, catching the uniqueness of his wide butt perched on the seat, but the rendering of the stool was perfectly done.

Peter went next, and since we had moved the stool, Tory now drew full frontal, exaggerating the size of the genitals--as most new art students did. (Psychologists say that this is because art students don't want to insult a model by drawing his stuff too small or maybe they see their own stuff as larger than life--so they exaggerate when drawing.) Somehow in 20 minutes, caught the deep pain in Peter's face--the rendering of his visage was nearly perfect.

By then, it was time for the art part of the class to end. One of the guys called out that we should stay overtime to give Tory time to model. "It's part of the initiation to the group." But, I decided not to push it. "Next time, guys. Tory has decided to join our group." He looked over at me as though to say, "When did I decide that?"

Once again, Tory proved himself to be a top performer. He had been a very good coach and player. Now his famously agile hands and fingers had shown him to be a potentially very fine artist. He needed instruction on some of the basics--like color, composition, perspective, but his drawing technique was superb for someone with almost no experience. His eye/hand coordination was also terrific. And his control of the pencil, the chalk, the brush was amazing.

After the last critique, we sat around and talked with a few chilled six-packs that I had brought along in the cooler. Making art had required concentration which almost automatically brought relaxation. Frustrations and anger could be transferred to paper--and then balled up and thrown away. It was disarming. So the conversation was easy and ranged over many different topics. All related to current issues, recent dates, new job challenges. But, not one person talked about combat experience.

I drove Tory home again. He was silent all the way home as he had been the day before. I wondered what was going on in that beautiful head. But, I respected his need for quiet and didn't engage any conversation. Again he thanked me, but didn't invite me in. I set a date for football coaching at SICC for Tuesday afternoon and drove off.

Once home, I fired up some military porn on PornHub to get off. Two young guys (obviously pumped porno actors with bigger than average dicks), in camo, resting on cots, were soon stroking each other. One finally slipped into the vee, pulled his partner's legs up, rolled him high, lubed and plunged. From there the camera shifted back and forth between the mechanical plunges of the top, getting deeper and faster as the camera panned in from an impossible angle, and the intense facial expressions of the bottom--who was trying to forget the horror all around in the pleasure of being taken by a skilled buddy. It was really quite a good, high-production film. The guys were built and handsome and had super-human stamina. Finally, after edging myself carefully, I blasted with the top. But, it seemed a very poor second to Tory's reality. I wondered if Tory had experimented with a best bud in the desert. And if he had, whether he'd admit it to me now.

That's when I decided that I was going to tell him, maybe as soon as Tuesday. I hoped it wouldn't end our newly restored friendship. But, I couldn't live a life with him, and expect him to open up about his experiences with me without giving him some indication of where my life choices had taken me. I knew it was a risk, but....

7

The guys in one frat who had formed a squad for intramurals were hosting a party later in the evening after the next scrimmages. I was asked to go--and to bring Tory along with me. I warned him that we were going to go out for dinner after Tuesday's games and then on to a party at Alpha Chi. I knew I was pushing it--committing him to six plus consecutive hours of companionship--but it would give me the opportunity to confess over dinner. If he bolted, I'd hit the party by myself and console myself with some guy that I'd pick up.

The scrimmages were similar to the week before. Tory was developing nicely. He concentrated on the action of the play, demonstrated skill and creativity, and seemed to be acting "normal"--whatever that is. Afterwards, we showered at the athletic center and changed into dinner/party gear--jeans and collared polos. The gang shower was a typically crowded and busy place so there was no opportunity for fun and games--or conversation.

Dinner was simple and informal--the only kind of dinner available in Eden. Tory even participated a little in the conversation. But I didn't disclose anything about my current lifestyle after all--at the dinner or during the short time we stayed at the party thereafter. He was opening up to me, and it didn't seem right for me to interrupt with "my" issues.

That situation didn't change in the coming days.

In fact, after six weeks of art classes and intramural football, I still hadn't opened up. And there had been no repeat of our shower intimacy. But, things had changed in subtle ways. Tory was lightening up, talking, joking, returning to his sarcastic self. He was coming out of his self-imposed shell. And, more importantly, he was often touching me--throwing an arm over my shoulder, tapping me on the butt, faux-fisting into my gut. I was responding in kind. I guess you'd call it initial male bonding. We were rebuilding childhood memories.

I, in turn, had been celibate for the month plus, and it was tearing me up. Thank god for internet porn. Several of my fuck buddies had even called to ask whether I had become a vegan--their way of asking whether I was out of the meat market. But, I blew them off (not literally). It was time. I needed to tell Tory--and confess that I was falling for him. We were either going to become best buds, maybe with occasional benefits--or our friendship was going to end. I couldn't handle it any other way.

8

It had gone to six weeks since I confronted Tory in his home after his return from combat in the desert. I had cajoled him into getting out. Six weeks--twelve sessions-- of coaching intramural football at SICC; six afternoons of art "therapy" at the Foley Art Center; twelve dinners (six in "family restaurants" and six at my apartment over the garage). I had done all the driving. We had showered and changed in the common lockers at SICC. We had had conversations about the "old days" over the meals and in the car, but I did 80% of the talking. I had suffered through long minutes of silence on his part. But I hadn't yet been willing to make the big disclosure or risk ending our time together. I was absolutely at the end of my leash. I'm told that is a "guy thing"--maybe it was just cowardice on my part.

Tory had made broken progress in a return to normalcy. He had applied for a few jobs with local craftsmen and repairmen--but hadn't yet landed anything. At least he is applying, and at least one of the positions--at a local car dealership facility looks promising.

It's Friday night. I've ordered pizza and we are waiting for the delivery. Each of us is holding a cold can of Bud. Sitting on my threadbare sofa, again almost totally in silence--except for the music I had turned on when we arrived. TV news was out of the question. The war was still ongoing, seemingly endlessly and without purpose.

Tory waited until I was ensconced on one side of the sofa and had taken my first big gulp. He faced me, smiled and toasted before he too took a swig. "I got the job today, Ollie. I start Monday. At the big Ford dealership between here and Indianapolis."

"Thank you for these last few weeks. I couldn't have done it alone. I love you, Ollie."

Then, he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, "When were you planning on telling me, Ollie? Were you planning on telling me? Or maybe you were planning on getting me drunk; then making your move without any prior warning when my defenses were down? I've known since the first shower after my return that you are lusting after my dick. I assume you're bi or gay--at least for me. You've wanted to fuck me for almost two months. Did you really think I was that dense? That I didn't see the hunger and longing in your eyes? Or the chub in your jeans? Give me some credit, Ollie. I may be depressed sometimes, but I'm not dumb."

I froze. How could I have been so obtuse? He's known all along. But, I didn't respond. I couldn't. I had no idea what to say. If he's known and hasn't done anything about it, he must not be interested. Now that he's got a job, are we breaking up? Fuck, we aren't even really together. How do we break up?

Before I could say anything, he continued, "I had some experience with sex with the guys in the desert. I think most of us did. I was there almost four years for Chrissakes. Only a week of R&R in Dubai every six months--which was just as Puritanical as the Marines. Of course I experimented. Jerking. Blowing. Topping. And yes, bottoming. It wasn't gay. It was necessity. Theraputic. We were so fuckin horned all the time. None of us knew if there would be a tomorrow. So why not?"

I decided that he was ready to talk about sex. I jumped in with a question. "So what did you try? And what did you like best?"

"I think we tried about everything--at least anything that can be done in a shower, silently in a barracks cot, or quickly when at a post where interruption is always possible. I like topping. I like getting reamed roughly. I enjoy a good blow. I don't particularly like taking advantage of a twink--it's too much like getting rough with a girl--but thankfully there weren't many twinks in the Marines. All my partners were consenting, capable adults. Nobody was forced. No orgies. I guess you could say that I'm up for just about anything that feels good and makes me forget--so long as no one gets hurt. When you're on the battlefield, Sunday school platitudes don't count for much."

"And there's always the danger--of being found out (and don't let them fool you, "Don't ask, don't tell" is not operative in the Marines. They find a way to get you out if they find out. Fuck, they'd have to discharge half the Corps if they did. So they don't look too hard."

"Then there's the hard part. It's got to be mechanical. Don't even think about getting attached. Two of my partners didn't make it back. One of them caught it the day after he fucked me. It wasn't our first time together. We had had a wild night. I had dumped an enormous load in his big muscled butt. Then, a few minutes later, we flipped. Fuck, his damn seed was probably still swimming around in my gut when a sniper got him early the next morning. I cried and cried and cried. I was the last person into whom he was going to load his seed. The last person on earth to hold him closely. The last to kiss him, and be kissed by him. For a little while, we held each other and hugged and gave and took pleasure; then in an instant, a few hours later, he was gone. I didn't clean myself out for days. I wanted to remember his smell. And feel his seed deep in my gut. And we weren't even regular boyfriends! That's when I started to think that maybe I was gay. I don't think straights feel that way about casual fucks of necessity."

"I'm bad news, Ollie. Guys who get close to me get killed. I can't do that to you. And I can't do it to me. I think I'd end it if it happened again. And I'm still confused. I can't be gay. It's going to wear off. I'm pretty sure. Just waiting for the day. I'm the only son. Dad would die."

I sat there silently, trying to make this right. "Tory, I like you. A lot. Maybe more. Sure, I'd love to play. But, I wasn't going to risk blowing up our friendship. Or, seducing a guy who had been on the receiving end of my sorry therapy. Of course, I've lusted after your bod. Who wouldn't? You are a prize, Tory, a fucking prize. I'd love to trace those deep cuts with my fingertips or my tongue. I'd love to coddle and suck on those balls. I'd love to eat your ass until you scream. I'd love to stick my dick wherever you'd let me. Or take yours. Or both. I am definitely gay--especially for you. My body is so fuckin' attracted to yours. It feels almost like a powerful magnet. And, for the last few weeks, I've pictured you every time I jerked. Every time."

"You know that crap about bad omens and bad luck is just that--crap. I'd take a chance with you anytime. If that's what it takes, you can fuck me anytime. I'm your bottom, Tory. Your fuckin' bottom. And, if I need to stop being your bud to make that happen, I'd even consider it."

He sat quietly, thinking. I thought it was equally possible that he was going to get up and leave or take me to bed. "Well, if that's the way you feel, I'm in. As of now I am no longer in need of your therapy. I'm not your patient--or your bro. We're going to see where this goes tonight. It's getting old. Going home and jerking while imagining your sorry butt."

"Fuck. You go home and jerk? I do too, every fucking night. And by the way, no one has ever described my butt as 'sorry'."

"I kinda thought so. I've definitely noticed the chub in your shorts when you drop me off. And I guess you're right. I'd draw that butt anytime. You've got a very nice one, Ollie. Maybe you'll give me some private modeling sessions."

9

"Get naked, boy. And stretch out on that bed. We've got a lot of time to make up for."

"Are you sure, Tory? It doesn't have to be gay if you don't want it to be. Just guys getting it off for the time being."

"Fuck, I've only had a few swallows of beer. And six weeks to stew over it. Of course, I'm sure. Now, stop playing the psych. Shut up and strip. Or do you want me to tear those fuckin clothes off you and rape that not-so-sorry ass?" I noticed that the serious frown had turned to a big wide toothy smile. I guess I was in for a Tory Aikman desert fuck. Let's see what the desert taught him.

And maybe I'd get to return the favor.

My apartment wasn't large, and the bed was only a few steps from where we were sitting. I stood in front of him. It took me all of ten seconds to pull off my tee and drop my jeans. I was commando. My cock flipped out and hit my abs before pointing straight out at him. The hood had rolled half back revealing a deep purple head, glistening with precum. I fluffed and separated the balls. I stood there pretty damn proud of how I looked.

"Fuck, you look good. That's what I've been dreaming about."

I moved away from him as he stood and pulled off his clothes. We stood there, facing each other, legs akimbo, arms crossed, cocks erect. Two warriors with their weapons at the ready. Absolutely pregnant with possibility and sexuality. Something flashed through my mind. Wouldn't the guys at the art center like to be drawing this? They wouldn't have to exaggerate the size. Or maybe film it? Yeah, film it. This was going to be good. And violent. And fast.

I stepped into Tory and his arms encircled my neck as mine encircled his waist. Our lips touched. They were burning hot. Our tongues invaded and dueled, evenly matched. Our chests met, pumped up with masculine musk as our cocks frotted together. We necked for several minutes until Tory groaned--a deep moan beginning with a vibration deep in his gut. Then he voiced it. "I need your ass now, Ollie. Are you going to give it up to me?"

I didn't answer. I was going to jump onto his waist and let him carry me to the bed, but decided we were about the same size and I might cause some unintended damage. So I moved to the bed, nestled my head in my arms, spread my knees apart, and pushed my glutes high into the air behind a deeply curved arch.

"Oh fuck, yes."

His hands were all over me in an instant, fisting my shaft, cupping my balls, pinching my nibs, and then, at last, opening me. He spit into his fingers and started to penetrate. But, I knew he was too big. I was going to need lube. I stretched toward the side table and withdrew the tube, throwing it on the sheet beside our knees. Then, I felt the cold greasy cream on my rim, inside and finally deep inside as far as my nut. His trigger finger knew exactly where to tease. And when a second joined it and started to press hard, I felt the electricity climb up the ladder of my spine. He added a third, and I involuntarily shivered in anticipation.

"Put him in, Tory. I'm ready"

I felt his muscular chest on my back, the head of his dick at the entrance and the hardness of his upper thighs on mine. He was positioning. Then, the pressure. I breathed out and relaxed and he popped in and froze. He leaned in and penetrated a little over an inch, stopping at the hardness at the front of my chute. It hurt. He was big. But, I once again reveled in the joy of having another man's cock inside my ass. That was enough. Another bolt of lightning shot up my spine. This one even bigger than before. Drops of precum fell to the sheet. There was pain, but not much. I wanted this part of the act to last. I wanted to remember every instant of our first. And yet I wanted more. So I pushed hard back into him. He slipped in, at least six inches, and I felt his free hanging balls bounce against my own as his shaft stretched my chute. Again he froze, but brought his hands around to grab my belt and hold me still and tight.

"Oh fuck, Tory. You feel so good in there. It's where you belong. You are so fuckin' big and hard and hot."

He slowly pulled back, re-lubed and drove again. This time he bottomed. He was entirely inside. And I felt his balls slapping against mine. The pleasure was intense. And then he did it again. And again. Now he was driving, hard and deep. He shouted out, "Ollie. Your chute was made for my dick. Why didn't we ever know this before?"

He continued, alternating between long and hard, crowding the nut, and short aimed at the love nut. Both of us were overheating, sweating musk, grunting, groaning and moaning.

My dick had hardened so much it was painful. It was high and rigid against my abs. I needed to blast.

Finally, he drove deep and forced me to the mattress, falling with me, enveloping my legs with his muscular thighs. I felt his gut tighten on my ass cheeks. His head bent to my nape and began to suck. And his hands held me tight. Another pound. And another. "Fuck, Ollie. Here it cums. I'm gonna fuckin' fill you with my spunk. Until you fuckin' drip. Until I fuckin' breed you with my swimmers!" I turned my head and his lips met mine.

And then I felt it deep inside. The spasms. The lengthening of his cock. The expansion of his dickhead. Stretching my chute to the max. The red-hot spurts of his spunk. It was enough. Too much. More than I needed. I was totally stuffed. A dick-puppet, being handled by a massive and talented dick. I felt the deep orgasm building in the base of my gut. It spread through my chest, hardened my nipples, stiffened my arms and my legs, tingled my fingers, curled my toes, contracted my anal muscles. Fuck, was I having a heart attack? Then, I too blasted into the sheets, soaking them with my musk-filled cum. Abso-fucking-lutely the best of my life! Not a heart attack. Fuck. No. He was a fuckin' pacemaker planted deep inside. It was a heart attachment!

He rested on top for several minutes, holding me tightly under him. Finally, our breathing slowed and coordinated. His tongue traced the outline of my ear and tickled. He bit down on the lobe. Then slowly, his cock withdrew, drawing a gush of cum with it. Instantly, I felt the void. He scooped up a finger full and stuffed it into my mouth, pushing my lips down as he did so. He rolled to the side and pulled me into a spoon, resting his shrinking dick between my thighs. "Fuck, Ollie. That was intense. Never before. I think I've just surrendered my manhood into your ass." Then, he started to giggle--a sound I hadn't heard in years.

"Somehow, I think you must have had some good teachers in the desert. I've never had it better, Tory. Never."

"That was worth six weeks of waiting, Ollie! But, fuck. It's not going to be another six weeks. I'm spending the night. My dick is already getting hard again. My balls better catch up and manufacture some sperm. I intend to wear myself out fuckin' your brains out all night."

10

"You're welcome Tory. But the next round is mine. I've been staring at the cute little ass for weeks. OJ has been good so far, but if I don't let him play soon, he's going to revolt. I'm not just a bottom." And with those words, I rolled out of his spoon and partially over him, pushing my thigh over his body as my hand reached out and gripped his right globe and squeezed it like I was testing melons for ripeness. It wasn't ripe. It didn't give. It was hard and smooth. But, it was my turn, nevertheless. You squeeze them; they're yours. They were mine now. At least until they've ripened. I allowed a finger to drift into the crack, and my thumb starting playing with his rim.

He squirmed. His sleepy eyes popped open. "I guess fair is fair. I'll be your bottom boy, Ollie."

"But, don't lose that feeling. I've gotta do something first. I'm gonna call Mom and explain that I've had a few and that I'm crashing with you. Otherwise, we're likely to see the Eden PD before morning. That would take some explaining."

He got up and stood to call. I could not believe how great he looked. Just standing there in front of me, all hot, sweaty and hard. Finally, he crawled back into the bed and stretched out on top. We necked for a really long time as we both reheated, squeezing asses and pinching nipples.

I wanted this round to be just as memorable for him. So I pushed him on his back and inhaled his dick, washing the head and shaft with my tongue. Quickly he hardened. His hands went to my head to hold me in place as he slowly began the motions of a face fuck.

Finally, before he erupted again, I pulled off. He groaned, "Don't leave me there, Ollie. I'm close. Real close."

"Forget it, stud. I have no intention of leaving you anywhere. You are mine. This is my turn. Suck it up. I'm gonna stuff you better than your Mom does the Thanksgiving turkey. I'm gonna take very good care of you." I spread his legs and knelt into the vee. Kissed his dick head for good luck and to taste his precum. Then I dove in to lick his taint and eat his ass. He jolted. Then began to keen like a cat in heat.

When I thought he could take no more, I grabbed behind his knees and pulled up, vee-ing, rolling him into a tight jackknife. He was by then resting on his shoulders, and with his feet under the brass bar of the headboard. I couldn't believe his flexibility. He was like a fuckin' gymnast. His torso was now almost vertical and his cock was hanging mere inches from his lips. I stood on the mattress and positioned so that my cock was nicely poised over his hot red hole. I reached over and grabbed fingers of lube and spread it around and in. Then I squatted, bent at the knees and plunged. I froze at the entrance and waited. Seconds later his eyes popped open in welcome, and I felt the sphincter loosen. So I dropped further and touched his love nut. It was a hard direct hit. Drops of clear fluid emerged from his dickhead and fell to his lips. And with the sight of his tongue emerging to lick them in, I continued the descent, soon bottoming. I had a flashback to the military porn flic that I had watched over and over on PornHub. It was the same position. We were fuckin' porn stars.

His toes released from the bar and, after resting his ankles briefly on my shoulders, he wrapped his legs around my waist, holding me deep and hard. I leaned into him, stiffened my legs so I was in a push up position and started to really pound, using gravity to push ever deeper. "You are so fuckin big, Ollie. I'm stuffed. And it feels so good. Harder, man. I can take it. I'm a Marine. Oh fuck. I'm cummin, Ollie. I'm cummin. Drill it out of me."

I released a little, allowed him to drop back almost to the mattress, but I followed close, staying deep as our chests touched. Our faces were now very close. And I could see the fire deep in his eyes. I felt my spunk rising, thickening the tubes on the underside of my dick. I drew in my gut to cock. Then the head expanded and I felt the first spasm. Dry. But, the next was full, very full. And the next and the next. I filled his gut with my pearly cum just as his shot down onto his chest, chin and lips. He shouted at the depth, "Yes, right there. Fuck meeee!" Then I collapsed onto him, squirming our chests together in his spunk. My lips reached for his. And this time he didn't pull away. We connected, opened and tangled tongues.

Despite our lip-meld, I think I heard the muffled words of pleasure, "Fuck, you're pretty good at that, Ollie."

"Only pretty good? I seem to think that I deserve a little higher praise. Maybe even a few stars."

"Stars are for generals. And I'm finished with that life--and even thinking about it. But, you could always try again." Then there was the smile--the broad toothy smile that I had been waiting for. It warmed my depths. I released him, but this time he took me into his spoon and pulled me back into his concave gut. One leg shot forward to separate my thighs. He moved in close and planted his semi where it belonged--in my crack. Fuck, he was still hard! And I loved having his weight on top.

Somehow I guessed we weren't going to sleep much that night.

The dam had broken so to speak. The next few days were the best of my life. You can probably guess why that was so.

As we slipped into sleep, I began to think Tory is going to make it. I'm not naïve, however. He's going to have some rough spots. Some nightmares. Some tense moments when he has flashbacks. But, I intend to be there. I think we're going to make it. One fuck does not make a life. Or a partnership. Maybe not even a few days of intense pleasure can do that. But, we are going to try.

We were attached to each other in various ways for the next two days--cumming up only for water, pizza and the occasional shower when the cum began to crust. Of course, our love was really not new or sudden. We had had a long boyhood together; he had experienced a trauma that changed and hurt him deeply--but it had also matured him; and finally, we had met again man to man. That goes a long way.

Particularly when the sex is so good. The next weeks were going to be filled with sex. And then, we'd see. I was pretty confident. I was thinking about the future. But, I'm pretty sure that Tory had not even begun to think about the consequences if we were to become a thing. Like the time in the desert, Tory was enjoying the moment, or rather the moments, without much thought about tomorrow.

We were riding together again. We had a whole playbook of things to try. And it wasn't going to be in the backseat of a decrepit old Impala--even if he refused to part with it.

BD

Author's note: This is obviously a longish introductory chapter which is atypical for me. Ollie and Tory have become players in my literary imagination. There'll be more--although as of now I haven't written anything. Tory is starting a new job. Tory is not "magically" cured--he's got a long way to go. Ollie's VA volunteering is going to result in a part time position in therapy, but it'll be at a VA Hospital that may require a move. There will be questions about living arrangements--and the long term commitment. The folks have to be told. And then there is the reaction of a conservative rural community to the gay disclosure of one of their heroes. But, through it all, the intensely compatible sexuality of these two hunks is going to overflow onto the pages.

Let me know if you've got any specific ideas of where you'd like to see this story go.