Poof! You’re suddenly gayer…


Nightcharm publishes fun topics relative to gay men: Art, sex, humor, erotica and spirituality. The site was founded in 1998 by David K. Its current editor is Matt Pizzuti.

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High Maintenance: Military Mechanics Get Hot For Each Other, Have Sex

by Nightcharm

“Where ya headed, sarge?” The scruffy-assed two-striper dispatch driver doesn’t even look at me when he speaks.

“NinetyRow. It’s the only pig goin’ on “The Pad” tomorrow and I hear tell it’s been out in the sun all day”. Jeez. I hate when they do that. Could be 130 degrees inside.

“Hey — radio MaintenanceOne and check if power and a/c carts are runnin’ out there, willya?”

The driver smirks. “At 4 o’clock? During shift change? Care ta take any bets?” He calls in my request. I’ve got a summer headache. Driver’s got the speaker volume up so high the truck’s ignition whine won’t squelch. My head starts to pound. And it’s fuckin’ hot in here. The squelch breaks.

“Negative on the a/c, A M Thirty” drones the crewchief. “Power’s been out there half an hour for BombNav. You still want a/c?”

Shit! I knew it! The black box’ll take me half hour to install. Hell..it’ll take dispatch that long to get a/c out there. “Nah” I mutter.

“Negative, MaintenanceOne”, the driver smiles releasing the xmit key. “Good thing ya didn’t bet me, sarge.” Comm chatter blasting out the speaker is making my head hurt. God it’s hot. Please get me outta this truck.

“Come back in :45″ I remind the driver.

“ECM’s at the aircraft.” I hear the driver radio in as he heads back down the flightline toward civilization.

NinetyRow is way out in the boonies. No birds. No sound. Nuke igloos off in the distance. The silence is deadening except for the drone of a lone power cart providing juice to this pig. Trudging over, I drop my toolbox onto the concrete, take off my fatigue shirt, pick-up my kit and head up into the main hatch. The whine and smell of overheated B52G electronics assaults my senses. The heat suddenly opens my pores. I head up the ladder toward the upper deck where the “E-Dub” sits. That’s GI slang for Electronic Warfare Officer.

Well lookit this. A pair of combat boots attached to a long set of legs splayed on either side of the hatch. Oh yeah. The BombNav guy. Head tucked up behind a wire bay. This boy’s long torso is married to a snowy white T-shirt generously smudged with greasy finger marks and plastered by sweat. Airman Faceless is unable to see my smile as I head up to complete my task, taking it all in.

Out goes the bad box, in goes the good. Testing the AN/ALR20A takes about 15 minutes after warmup. Heh. Warmup? Get real! You really could fry an egg up here. I think the only dry spot on my T-shirt is a small strip across each shoulder. No breeze. Just stale, ozone-activated metallic air. A few tweaks later and this pig’s ready to go to war tomorrow. After finishing the shutdown checklist, I’m scanning around for the aircraft log. Supervisors can fix and signoff. Joy. I feel so privileged.

Although the image is upside down from this position, I take note of Airman Long Legs n’ Boots. BombNav’s T-shirt has untucked itself from his fatigues, displaying bare skin from about his two lowest ribs, right down to his navel. Smooth. Defined. Yum. I guess reaching for his tools has also caused airboy’s baggy fatigue pants to slip down enough to expose two inches of out-of-reg, powder blue boxer shorts. Saliva squirts into my mouth and a skipped beat caused by equally squirting hormones washes over me.

“The log, Steve”, I remind myself. I’ll bet it’s on deck one with Airman Nekkid Tummy. I gather up my stuff and head down the ladder until I’m standing on the main hatch entry ladder located between his legs. I drop my toolkit to the concrete outside, peer over the boy’s body and spot the logbook. It’s tucked under the RadarNav seat position right next to Airman Sweatytits. Then I notice sumpthin’ that makes me suck air.

BombNav’s spoogetoy musta got caught in a fold in his fatigues. He’s plainly filling out the boxers as I stare.

Oh yeah. The log. Reaching over but not touching his body, my fingers are about to make contact with the logbook. Then “it” hits me. His body, warmed by the intense heat inside the bomber, is generatin’ it. Sweat. Skin. Soap. Whiz. Crotch. Unmistakably maddening, saliva-squirtin’, sex scent. I’m hooked. Lost. On automatic. With a mind of its own, my pecker rapidly rushes toward my belt buckle, sandwiched between my body and a layer of briefs, fatigues, and the metal bulkhead that forms the main hatch entryway. Distracted by a vehicle horn outside, I remember I’m an NCO at Ellsworth AFB, standing in the hatch stairway of a B52G. But then again, only one person at a time could fit here, I reasoned. Closing the hatch would be too suspicious, plus it’s way too hot. Just stay where you are.

Focusing back on Airman Innocent, I’ll bet he prolly doesn’t have a clue I’m between his legs. With a mind as sharp as Lucy Ricardo, I come up with a scheme.

Blowing a short steady stream of air onto the bulging mound makes him respond with a deliciously long throb. Prolly involuntarily. His tinkering stops. Oh! Perhaps it wasn’t involuntary. Nervous but excited as hell, I purse my lips to exhale another stream, then a second right behind it. Under his sweaty clothes, I can plainly see the bulge produce two long flexing movements after stream number two. Those were voluntary. He knows something’s up.

All my erotic wires are overloading on this primitive morse code. With about three inches of boxer fly showing, another throb slides the entire mass next to opening. A small tuft of blonde hair and a promising thickness lurks in the shadow. The next throb produces two inches of cut, fat, pretty pink flesh. Further movement seems restricted by the strangling fatigues and shorts so he flexes his butt a bit to adjust. Surely he can feel my breath. Moving closer, I inhale the scent that’s been driving me nuts. The skin beneath the head is so incredibly taut, it shines. On the next pulse his cock lurches drunkenly forward, closing the gap to my lips. I hang onto half an inch, waiting for a reaction. He barely squeezes his buttcheeks and another half inch slides into my mouth.

OK boy, you asked for it.

The business end of this boy’s bone was shaped like a bullet. Practically no groove behind the head. Widening slightly as it poked out of his boxers, I wondered just how deliciously thick this pink pocketrocket might be. Lips still lightly capturing only the first inch, my tongue set out to explore. Another strong surge of blood. Guess he likes my wet tongue swirling against his cum tube. My right hand reaches under his grimy tee, roaming over the smooth wetness of his chest. My left hand cups his torso where waist turns into bubble. A barely perceptable clenching thigh alerts me to the fact that he has more to feed me under these buttonfly fatigues. Both my hands work his belt and buttons. Confined only by the boxers now, another four or five ever-widening inches are exposed as the flimsy undergarment settles against his groin, releasing more of that fragrance. Yum. This boy’s growin’ a wedge outta his pants, surrounded by curly blonde hair. Between his juice and my spit, whatever I can’t hold is streaming down soaking his shorts. I want to see more.

Gripping the elastic of his boxers, I let go of his toy. It quivers but remains at the same angle rising up toward his navel as I stretch the band up to clear his bone and slide them along with his fatigues down until his kneecaps show. Fuzzy blonde haired balls are pulled tightly against his body. What a studpup. From this angle I can see the cleft of his ass pressed against the steel grate that serves as flooring on Deck One. How will he explain the cross-hatch marks on his ass and thighs? I bury my nose into the space below his gonads and lap at his flesh. Restricted by the clothing wadded up around his knees, BombNav tries to widen his legs to give me better access. He gives me just enough room to poke my tongue against his pucker and take a long wet swipe up to his balls. Enough of this foolin’ around. He’s horny and I’m hungry.

I line my mouth up with his pretty pink marble pole. Hearing him grab the wire bay access panel with both hands for leverage, he begins to arch his torso, not stopping until his cockhead nudges my throat. This is more like it. My lips drag along his rod as he relaxes his body back down. Just before the head pops out I feel a strong palm against my head and the hiss of air through pursed lips. I test to see if I can back all the way off. No dice. His hand makes sure I won’t.

I slide back down to bury my nose in his fragrant bush, tongue swirling across every ridge and vein, all the way down. Both his hands are on my head now, and I can feel the pressure of something hard against my skull. A heavy gold class ring, I’ll bet. Unauthorized for work around electronic gear, but silent witness to the boy’s youth. Both of my palms are wrapped around his slim, firm waist. The pressure is insistent. His need is urgent. He’s makin’ sure I’m gonna take whatever he’s about to dish out. Pushing my head down now makes that fat wedge lodge in my throat and cuts off my air. He holds me there for a heartbeat, letting his cock soak for a moment, then relaxes his grip so I can inhale a lungful of air through my nose. This dude’s gotta be close. If he pushed any harder I’d have a lump on the back of my neck where his bullet keeps trying to force its way through.

Thru the hormone induced haze, a truck horn honks in the distance. Dispatch is back so soon? His quivering left leg brings me back to matters at hand. A firm tug cuts off my air again. Another quiver. My throat stops my lips from touching his tummy again. He’s so damn thick I can’t go all the way down. Heaven! A half dozen bobs later, his thighs slam to the grate as he pulls my head tight. A tightly whispered gasp tells me why. “Uunnhh. Gonna cum… UH! NOW!”

The first three contractions are dry but terribly exciting. His dick expands as he moans a breathy “hmmmm…” with each throb. The fourth contraction delivers a starchy, high-speed bullet of hot spooge that ripples up and splats against my tonsils. I’m moaning on his mouthful. I can’t breathe. I don’t care.

Not letting me back off, the next squirt is as thick and gooey as the first. My brain is reaching maximum overload. I’m seeing pinwheels of light from the lack of oxygen. Without warning, my own dick strains against my tummy and explodes its first volley into the band of my briefs. My dick pumps twice against the metal bulkhead for each single throb that empties his balls into my gut. Loosening his grip, he starts to rub my crewcut furiously as more squirts sting the back of my abused throat.

Taking in a short breath, I’m moanin’ and squirmin’ against the bulkhead as my load continues to blast into my briefs. The warmth is soaking thru my t-shirt and fatigue pants. He suddenly lifts my head off his now sensitive rod. I watch it sway wildly, still gently contracting and oozing as it points in the direction of his right nipple.

Dizzy, and gasping for air, I close my eyes and lay my forehead on his right thigh, hands now grasping his bubblebutt, waiting for my composure to return.

Another honk. Omigod. I’ll bet the dispatch driver sees my toolkit on the ground outside the hatch. Looking down to my crotch, I can see a huge wet dark stain on the front of my olive drab fatigue pants. In a panic, I tie my fatigue shirt around my waist hiding the splotch of cum. I step down the hatch ladder, pick up my kit and head to A M Thirty.

“Didn’t ya hear me honk?” When I don’t answer, he looks over at me sitting down, leaning against an equipment rack, all wet and just toasted. “Jeez. You’re sweatin’ up a storm!” he blurts out. My t-shirt is soaked and about two inches of my soaking crotch are exposed to his view. “You OK?”

Right now, I don’t care what he sees. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s go home.”

“Sure thing, pal.”

I can smell BombNav’s and my cum all the way back to the Squadron. I wonder if the driver can? We pull into 28th Avionics Maintenance dock and I jump off the stepside and into the shop. “Hey, Jose!” I scream, dropping off my toolkit. “Look…. I’m outta here. Couldn’t find the log to signoff the alert-ready “BUFF” out on NinetyRow. Wouldya cover it for me?” I don’t even give Jose a chance to respond as I head for my car. I race for the barracks, run up to my room, and collapse on the bed.

The stickiness in my pants is annoying the hell out of me. I have this urgent need to clear my throat and I again notice the taste and smell of BombNav’s cum on my lips. I take off my clothes and bring my briefs up to my nose and inhale.

I start giggling from tension release. I can’t believe what just happened. Thinking about it all, I feel the beginnings of another hardon. Taking my rising flesh in my fist, I replay it all in my head one more time.

1 CommentLeave a Comment


  • 8by6

    2 years ago

    amazing!

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