Mutt

"I wake early most days, pain is my alarm clock. It is also my constant companion, my only companion. I don't feel sorry for myself, there are those who suffer worse. I would not exchange a month of this infernal aching for one less day or hour of honor defending my country. It is now decades since I have left the service but the routine and discipline remains a part of me. Old soldiers never die, they linger on almost interminably to bore others with our stories of bravery and glory past. It is our fate, this duty. I make my bed up and like every day before the corners are perfect. I wash up and shave, with a straight razor of course, the man in the mirror is now older, wrinkled with time and trouble, the handsome young soldier is hard to find but if I turn my head just a shade to the right, point my chin down a notch and a half, I can see him and it brightens my mood, if just a bit.

The dog is a creature of habit too, his cold snout pushing insistently at my knee, surgically scarred of course. He needs to do his business so I open the front door and let him run free. I turn about face and walk through the darkened hallway, the gloom comforts me somehow, the house in its dilapidated condition fits me like a proctologist's glove. I climb the stairs to the second floor, my knees and the worn boards beneath creaking in unison. I may have forgotten to tell you that this morning is different, the house is different. I have a house guest, a very rare occurrence. I have no use for human beings, I sometimes wonder was it worth the sacrifice my comrades made for such a miserable and ignorant lot but that is the price we pay to live in a democracy, the freedom to be no account mindless fools as well.

The house guest's name is Brad, a young buck from Kentucky when we first met at Fort Bragg as we prepared to take down Saddam Hussein in the military action known as Operation Desert Storm. We were both Airborne, I was his Platoon Sergeant. Old comrades are the only human beings who are welcome in my home. It doesn't happen often but from time to time one of them is passing by this way on business and they will call or contact me by electronic mail to alert me of this occurrence. I am happy to take them in for a night or two and catch up and reminisce. Brad and I had stayed up late into the evening doing just that, sharing stories and a bottle of bourbon after a dinner I had cooked myself from the remains of a deer I had scraped off the pavement of Route 26 months ago. Of course I told him that I had shot the animal myself just the other day.

I tiptoed quietly down the upstairs hallway where the bedrooms are situated not wanting to disturb Brad if he was still asleep. We had plans today to visit ol' Crater Lake, a local sight that he is anxious to see. Brad is an avid outdoorsman like myself and recently divorced. I remember him being quite the ladies man, a high school football star. As I approached the guest bedroom I saw that the door was ajar, I stepped no further. There he was, still asleep I thought. I could see only his top half through the narrow opening. The early morning sun shone down on his body, his shirtless body. I could only see the back of him as he appeared to be sleeping on his stomach or perhaps a three-quarters position. Brad's broad back even at rest was defined with large muscles, his thick neck wrapped like a cobra. He was no longer the young buck but at nearly 40 years of age he had not aged much that I could see. Something came over me, it frightened me. I could not move, I could not stop watching Brad. What were these feelings I asked myself? Why can't I turn away? My body and mind are betraying me. The stirring in my loins could not be ignored, my testicles swelling like a musical crescendo. I did not want to look down and see what I feared most. I have lived a life of danger jumping from airplanes into war zones as enemy artillery whizzed past my ears but this fear that gripped me now was a terror I had never felt before. The blanket half covering Brad's body was now moving, up and down, he remained still. He must be scratching an itch while still asleep to cause the blanket's rapid movements. My eyes remained transfixed. My heart was in my throat, I realized that unless Brad had some horrible case of psoriasis that it was no itch that he was scratching! And I still couldn't turn away, I was on fire. My little soldier was now saluting me at full attention, mocking me, daring me. Anger consumed me, I took my bare hands and choked that little soldier with all my might. He was strong and would not submit, I choked and choked him again for good measure and soon was choking him in a pounding rhythm. My eyes now alternating furiously between the battle down below and the action beneath that blanket. I wanted to kill myself but I also felt more alive than I have ever felt alive.

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CaptainHowdy

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SekobA

too long to be read

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stoka

haha encore, encore!

MrBottomTooth

Great stuff. Lol

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beerptrol

clickity click

Nice story, theking would like it,

candyflip

This Is Not Pathfinder XXX

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Spend you some brain.
Email Me

MrTrollkien

Where I can purchase your books?

Mutt

The scene where theking walks in the house to find himself slumped over his keyboard dead - then runs to GFY to post that he's found himself dead.

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oppoten

by his standards it's short

beenthereb4

pigshit this is pure pigshit , that did not happen .....tell me it didn't ....please say it ain't so ?

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Pantyhose content needed

seeandsee

cliff notes or GF YOURSELF

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