Turned Out on a Bet Ch. 01

First Sergeant succumbs to horny corporal

[A true story as told to me by a contributor. Names, places, etc. have been changed]
Dedicated to LUCMAN85

The Wager

At Ford Ord, California, in 1989 (five years before they closed “the most beautiful Army fort in the USA”), I sat in a Jeep drinking coffee from a Thermos with a gay soldier, one Private O’Connell. I met him in the barracks latrine. Back in those days, getting “acquainted” with a GI you suspected was gay was a very careful dance of many small steps. But we went through it. Soon we were hiding behind Deuce-and-a-half trucks in the motor pool swapping blowjobs.

That afternoon in the Jeep, we were taking usage statistics on the Fort Ord firing ranges at the beach-bluffs. Beautiful place, really, with the soldiers firing at targets at the edges of the bluffs high above the beaches, the Pacific Ocean and blue California sky in the background.

Boring work, though. That’s how I got into the bet: “Anybody can do it,” I bragged. “If you just get into a guy’s pants, doesn’t matter how straight he is. Once he gets a blowjob, he can’t resist being rimmed. Once he’s rimmed, he can’t resist getting fucked. Once he’s fucked, he’s turned–never goes back.”

“Bullshit. There is such a thing as a stone-straight guy. I know guys you could never get to. They would beat the shit out of you at the first hint of cocksucking.”

“No, it’s true! If you can just get past his outer defenses, any man will turn bi, if not outright, full-on bottom-bumper gay.” I knew what I was talking about. In my last few months in high school, I discovered there are two kinds of men: those who like to get fucked and those who don’t yet know they do.

I had a certain advantage–I was a big kid, nearly six feet tall as a teenager, with a big physique (I was automatically on football teams). I also had a nice cock, bigger than anybody else’s in the showers (which meant I had admirers): Coach Abel came on to me in his office one afternoon. Wanted me to show it to him. Wanted to touch it. Wanted to kiss it.

A few minutes later, getting my first blowjob and cumming down his throat, I learned about men who like sex with other men. Coach Abel taught me even more when he dropped his pants and bent over his desk.

My first time fucking a man! Damn. I had no idea. I could never look at a mahogany desk again without getting a hardon.

Coach Abel wasn’t all that attractive, though–pot belly, pudgy face, breath like he sucked on our dirty jockstraps–but shooting my load up his ass gave me bigger visions: I wanted to try hotter guys.

Back in high school, young men were like calves, and I turned them into mature bulls. Never had a failure. By the time I left St. Cygrido High School, I’d fucked (and broke to the saddle) the entire football team and three of the teachers. So I was confident.

Maybe too confident. A cocky 19-year-old.

Private O’Connell stopped the Jeep, looked over at me, and took a swig from the Thermos bottle. “I bet you 50 bucks I can show you a guy you’ll never turn. The 7th Infantry just got a new First Sergeant. He’s checking in next Monday. I know him from when I was back at Fort Bragg. You’ll meet him sooner or later.” He grinned. “Rock-hard straight. Probably doesn’t even jack off. Nothing but pussy ever touches his cock.”

“An old First Sergeant? You want me to turn some 70-year-old lifer so far above me in rank I’m like an insect to him?”

“Oh, not so macho now, are you? Want to chicken out?”

Damn, an old, gray-haired lifer? What have I done? I gritted my teeth. “Naw, I’ll do it.” Shit, this could be tough. An old man!

He grinned. “Fifty bucks says you’ll never turn that guy. Take all the time you need. He’s a pure straight-arrow.”

I took the Thermos and got a sip of coffee to cover my nervous gulp. What have I gotten myself into?

On Monday, I saw the object of the bet, and my mouth dropped open. Mamma mia, what a stud.

The moment I laid eyes on First Sergeant Kovachek, I was in lust. What a monster. Late 40s. Had to be something like 6’4″ and, ohmigod, around 250 pounds. Career soldier (a lifer), probably been in the Army since Valley Forge. He showed up at the evening formation as we were all standing at Attention. What a stud. He strutted proudly to the front of the formation, his boots shaking the ground like an approaching earthquake.

What a male, a walking festival of jackoff fantasies. When he stopped in front of us, looking out over the lines of soldiers, we were supposed to be at Attention (staring straight ahead, eyes caged), but I glanced over at him. Even the loose green cammo uniform couldn’t hide mountainous shoulders, pecs like gun turrets, mighty arms, and long, powerful legs. My eyes moved to his crotch, of course, but (damn) his pants were too loose there, of all places.

I don’t remember what he said to us–probably something about working hard, reaching new goals–I was turned on by kilis escort the man himself, his loud, growling voice, his confident swagger, his perfect body and handsome face. My boner painfully ripped out crotch hair as it uncoiled in my pants and struggled to stand up straight.

First Sergeant Kovachek inspected the troops, and when he got to me, “You a clerk in the battalion office, Powell?”

“Yes, First Sergeant!”

“Well, you ‘n’ me are going to see a lot more of each other, then. I always work close with the clerks. Tomorrow I’ll show you something I hope you can handle.” Up close, his voice was deep and powerful, and with pale-blue eyes cutting into me like laser beams, it was Superman barking at me. My cock had finally thrust up through my crotch hair and throbbed at Attention inside my pants.

He took off his baseball cap for a moment to wipe his forehead–Fuck! Shaved shiny bald! What a stud-warrior! “Yes, First Sergeant! I can handle anything you’ve got!”

I had to have him. My bazooka ached to attack that big male tank, slide between those husky buttocks, and fire a boiling love-missile up his obscene, hair-ringed hole. When he moved on to the next soldier, I let out a sigh. I knew his ass would fit me like a glove.

Or would I lose a 50-dollar bet?

Once I got to know First Sergeant Kovachek better, I was even more doubtful–he was bad news. Tough as nails. Didn’t give a shit about anybody. The Army was his whole life. No friends. Associated with nobody. On duty, he was official, efficient, effective, and inflammable. Off duty, nobody knew where he disappeared to.

Everybody in the company was afraid of him–he had a short temper–but I still made plans. I dared to lust after a man so much older and bigger because I knew something about men. And he was defenseless against what I knew.

A long, slinky seduction takes a long time and is very dangerous in the Army. When I spotted an ordinary GI I wanted, I waited around until he was alone in the showers, then overpowered the guy enough to hold him still, gradually letting him know I wasn’t not going to hurt him, getting him to relax a little. Then I started with the caresses. Rubbed his chest, tweaked his nipples, caressed his throat.

Oh, yeah, he would be yelling, but when I got to the point my hand was on his tool–and no man can resist a hand insistently stroking his meat–automatically his thought processes moved down to his crotch. He couldn’t help getting horny. And curious.

In all honesty I had to admit the opening moves were a matter of force. It worked for me because I was big, bigger than most. But in every case, struggles and defiance turned into surrender and cooperation. I broke six or eight guys at Fort Ord.

Breaking First Sergeant Kovachek was a challenge. He was super-big, not some kid I could manhandle in the showers, and he had supreme authority over me; he was not someone I could order around. And he was much older.

All that plus a quick temper meant lighting his torch would be a matter of strategy, not force. But I had one little skill–somehow through the years I’d I learned to spot a certain look, an expression, a sideways glance, something hard to explain, a look or gesture or something vague that let me know a man is “available.” Interested. Curious. Or maybe even secretly craving it.

My desk in the HQ building was just down the hall from Kovachek’s office, so I was around him often enough that every once in a while I saw The Look. Yes! I had a chance. But I had to be slow, easy, and careful. Very, very careful.

Baby Steps

The campaign started out simple. Offered him a cigarette. Ran errands. Helped him with office chores (“what he hoped I could handle” turned out to be in a file cabinet, not between his legs. Damn). But I worked hard in the office doing favors for him.

All the time I kept my crotch toward him, casually but blatantly adjusting myself whenever he was looking. I found a pair of cammo pants in an old locker; some departing soldier had left them behind. They barely fit me: too small, very tight–but they showed off my package very nicely. I wore them nearly every day.

Even when I fucked up: “Powell, you dumb ass! You left out the Company C requirements! Get in here!”–I raced into his office, stood facing him, my hips ever so slightly forward, accenting my package in those tight cammo pants.

“Powell, you stupid bastard, your rifle looks like you buried it in the sand! Clean it again!” Knowing he would come back to check on my progress, I set the M-16A1 across my knees a little forward of my crotch. Anybody looking down at the rifle couldn’t miss the bulge in my pants.

Yes, I had a hard dong for him–but nobody would say anything about it. Long before “Don’t ask/Don’t tell,” any mention of a man’s sexual organs was strictly out of line. If Kovachek thought I had a hardon, he just had to live with it.

And think about kırıkkale escort it.

Such work on Kovachek was easy since I always got an erection when I was around him, and the pants made it easy to see. In other aspects of daily life in the HQ building, I moved in smaller, more careful steps: I murmured how good he looked in his uniform. I complimented him on his great physique. Asked him if he worked out a lot. Brought him coffee.

And I smiled a lot. Friendly. Loyal, hardworking soldier. A good guy.

Sometimes he smiled back, and I figured I was making progress. And sometimes that very day he would rave at somebody for being a spineless, limp-wristed pansy! Shit.

A man fell down the front steps of the building and twisted his ankle. When he was still limping around hours later, the First Sergeant roared at him to “be a man! Suck it up and go about your duties! Stop that feeble limping!”

Fuck. Maybe I bit off more than I can suck.

But the very next day I was treated to the vision of First Sergeant Kovachek in the sexiest outfit the US Army provides–the PT uniform. He came walking through the office in the skin-tight gray t-shirt and the small black boxer shorts, just back from an early morning run. Bare legs. Bare arms. Muscles like rhinoceros armor. Chest and torso like a castle.

“Just here for a minute,” he said to anyone listening, “sign a few papers. Then back out to the Obstacle Course maintenance project for the day.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Although he wasn’t talking to or even at me, all the while he was in the room, he kept facing me, his crotch toward me. I had to avoid staring, but my eyes kept going back to the black cotton bulge. Oh. My. God. What a sight. It must be! He’s coming on to me!

The next day, I was on the verge of watching to see when he went into the latrine and going in there with him. Maybe show him a little skin. I had such a hardon, I could hardly walk.

Then he deflated my dick like he shot a hole in my tires. “Powell, I think it’s about time you got some new fatigues. Those are so small on you now, you can hardly walk.” He dropped a quartermaster requisition form on my desk for six sets of new fatigues, signed by the First Sergeant. Shit. Maybe there was such a thing as a stone-cold, ironclad straight.

For four days I came to work in loose, saggy cammos–exactly how they’re supposed to appear, camouflaging the soldier, making his outline harder to see, the colors making his proportions vague and unclear. Shit.

Then he passed by my desk in the morning. Asked me to get my clipboard and come into his office. He had a new project for me.

I walked down the hall to his office, opened the door, stepped in–and my mouth fell open. First Sergeant Kovachek was bare-chested! What a sight. Fuck, I could hardly breathe. That hard-muscled chest was covered with a thatch of curly, dark brown hair. And he had big nipples. Most guys have little, token nips, but Kovachek’s aureoles were big as half-dollars, with points in the middle as thick and tall as pencil erasers. Son of a bitch!

“Gotta change uniforms for the graduation ceremony,” he muttered, “haveta give you the assignment while I change.” With that he unbuckled his belt and pulled open his pants. I felt my knees go weak. “Take a seat, Powell. This’ll just be a minute.”

Dumbfounded, I sat in the brown leather chair, my head suddenly at the level of his crotch. When he pulled down his pants, I had to choke back a gasp. A jockstrap! He’s wearing a jockstrap! My cock was instantly so hard, it was almost tapping the bottom of my clipboard.

The First Sergeant constantly faced me, but when he turned around to take the dress uniform from the closet, I got a good view of his ass. Magnificent. Two hard, rounded footballs of meat outlined by the white elastics of his jockstrap. My hands ached to reach out and feel them.

Then the unbelievable. He bent over to pick up his black oxford shoes. There it was, his asshole. Exactly as I dreamed of it that very first day. A dark, hair-circled pucker that looked like a black hole into another dimension. I had to force myself not to start panting.

He stood up and turned back to face me once more–again that big, mesh pouch in my line of sight–and he went on with the assignment. It was a miracle I ever finished it. I was so hypnotized by the super-hero’s body, my only salvation was my cave-man survival instinct.

My over-stimulated brain shut off a section from all sexuality, and that part listened to Kovachek raving about “battalion mess halls’ use of water, statistics on availability of fresh vegetables, new logistics requirements, and other blah-blah,” stuff I could not remember at all when I left his office.

Like some automatic glandular activity, I’d written down quick notes, and when I studied them later, I saw I had his instructions. Damn, was that close! When I finished watching the man dress himself, kırklareli escort heard him wind up the explanation of the assignment, and when I left his office, I had to hurry (almost run) to the latrine, close myself in a stall, and beat the meat.

No danger of incriminating noise. I was so horny I got off after only about five strokes. I cummed so hard, bolts of my jism hit the metal stall wall with a sound like heavy rain hitting a sheet of tin.

I went back to my desk, my mind a smoking ruin. I was confused. They say the big ones are always dumb, and that seemed to make sense. The big, stupid fucker wasn’t smart enough to figure out anything about sex. But I knew that wasn’t true. He didn’t get where he was by being stupid, which meant–Oh, fuck! It’s TRUE!

Sure enough, gradually, gradually, gradually I detected a change in the air. From his eyes looking me over and a certain, growing nervousness, I could tell the seduction was working. Never was there the slightest action or non-action that couldn’t be explained away as something innocent. Never the slightest come-on.

But I knew. Kovachek could be broken! My cock throbbed in my pants. One day–or night–I would ride his ass!

I just had to handle him, corral him, and train him to the saddle. As days went by, we were on better and better terms. We weren’t “buddies,” of course, but whenever he passed my desk, I made small-talk with him, scratching my balls, bitching about not getting enough sex–the eternal gripes of all soldiers, anything to get his attention down to my crotch.

I learned through the grapevine that First Sergeant Kovachek was divorced, had three children who lived with their mother, and he had an apartment in Senior Enlisted Housing, not in an apartment building in Seaside or Monterey–which meant there was no chance in hell that we would be “getting together” at his place.

I also learned that he stopped at the NCO club most evenings. Fort Ord’s NCO club was a nice joint, not the log-cabin or old motor pool garage like on some posts, but it was still nothing like the officers’ club. Luckily the Fort Ord NCO club allowed corporals, so I could get in. The plan became simple: get Kovachek drunk.

I Spring The Trap

One night when a country-western band was playing onstage, I spotted him at the bar. I sidled up to him. “First Sergeant, let me buy you a beer–“

–“I don’t drink with subordinates.”

As if I didn’t hear that, I called out, “Bartender, bring the First Sergeant another beer.”

The bartender threw me a curve, though: “The First Sergeant drinks only 12-year-old Scotch.”

Shit. On the shelf they had Chivas Regal and Glenlivet. Ten bucks a pop. What the hell. “Pour us both a Glenlivet. On the rocks.”

It worked: Kovachek took it–and I was out 20 bucks. And I realized I’d been had. The First Sergeant had a glass in front of him with something the same color as Scotch–but it had bubbles in it. Ginger ale or something. Damn bartender scored on me.

But what the hell. Kovachek warmed up a little–but still the Iron Man. But something else: from whatever he’d been drinking, probably a ginger ale cocktail with cheap vodka (mutter! grumble!), he was already lit by the time I got there, and my extra Glenlivet loosened him further.

“Gotta tell ya somethin’, Powell.” He stared off into the distance. “When you move up in rank, you get a lot of stress.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

“Lotta fuckin’ pressure, the Army.” Long pause. He tossed back the Scotch. I bought him another one.

“Pressures,” he went on. “Responsibilities. Preparedness. Life and death of men. Sometimes it really gets you down…”

I offered to buy him a third round, but he refused. So I had to cheat a little. When he looked away, I dropped a little pill in his glass–fascinating stuff, one of the date-rape drugs. It sped up and exaggerated the effects of alcohol. Instant drunk, so to speak.

A few minutes later, First Sergeant Kovachek was groggy in his chair, knocking over glasses. “Thas’ strange–fuckin’ glass fell off…”

I lowered my voice. “Hey, First Sergeant, some of the other NCOs are glaring at us. Maybe we better leave. Don’t want them to call the MPs on us.”

“Yeah–mebbe–canna figure out wha’–fuckin’ drunk–wha’ they gimme?…”

Rapidly drunker as I helped him out the door, Kovachek staggered out to the parking lot–and collapsed into my car. He passed out as I drove to a cheap motel in the nearby town of Seaside, where I registered for a room in the back and hauled him out of the car.

Out cold, he was hard to move, but I finally wrestled him inside, and he hit the bed like a corpse. Green walls, green blanket. Hell, is there nowhere around here I can get away from the Army? The blanket wasn’t exactly Army olive-drab, though, so it wasn’t itchy Army-surplus wool. I rolled Kovachek onto his back and started to work. I’d brought in a satchel of “special tools.”

Cooking Dinner

Off with the boots. Off with the shirt. I pulled his pants down and off. There it was. The jockstrap. Kovachek was a real old-school soldier. Damn. The Army hadn’t been handing out jockstraps since the ’50s, but this guy still wore one, an old, yellowed Bike. Army probably gave it to him 30 years ago.