Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

August 2018

Captain Mark Mayfield leaned back against the headboard in his officers' quarters apartment in Stuttgart's Kelly Barracks, the headquarters for U.S. Army Africa Command, and ran his hands up Private Boyd Talbott's naked back. The handsome, young, and fit Midwest corn-raised, blond soldier was straddling the captain's hips, facing away from him and rising and falling on the offer's cock.

The captain could easily pick them out–the new soldiers who would take cock. The easiest, like Talbott, were the ones who had taken it before entering the Army and quickly were hungry for it. The others–the ones that had only been thinking about it before enlisting–were harder and took more time to get under a top. Talbott was so good looking that Mayfield didn't regret the lack of conquest. All he needed to do was wait until Talbott had been without it for a couple of weeks and then get him alone, tell him he knew what he wanted, and command him to lie on the bed and spread his legs.

Mayfield had found Boyd a month earlier, in a broom closet, on his knees, sucking off a sergeant. The young man, a farmer by trade, had been assigned to the landscaping detail at the Army base. Captain Mayfield, impressed himself at the blow job and fuck he'd gotten after he'd pulled rank and taken the young man away from the sergeant, had gotten Boyd transferred to driving and maintaining his staff jeep. A farmer was as good at working and maintaining vehicles and other farm equipment as he was at mowing lawns.

And PFC Boyd Talbot was good–very good–at sucking cock and opening his legs to shafting.

Swiveling, Boyd changed positions to facing Mayfield's head, leaning back, palming the officer's kneecaps, and maintaining rhythm in rising and falling on the cock. In this position, Mayfield could grasp and drive the young man's cock like it was the gearshift on his jeep, and he did so until the young man gave a shudder and shot off onto the captain's belly. Boyd collapsed backward between the captain's spread legs, his pelvis still moving on the officer's shaft until Mayfield too had filled the bulb in his condom.

Talbot remained there, bent back onto the mattress between the captain's legs, panting lightly and slightly pulsating, as Mayfield rummaged around on his nightstand, came up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and lit up, enjoying a post-fuck smoke.

"Use my shower to clean up and then drive over to the post office and retrieve any mail we have," he said. "I have to go back to the office for a while. Pick me up at 5:00 at the office. We'll come back here and… you know."

"Yes, sir," Boyd murmured.

The captain hadn't noticed how jittery Boyd had been for the last couple of weeks–or how often he'd checked in at the base post office without Mayfield telling him to. For a month Nancy had sent Boyd a letter every day. She never had mastered how to use the computer, so there weren't any e-mails from her or face-to-face visits via the Net. Then it had been every two or three days between letters. Now he hadn't gotten a letter from her in over two weeks. He was worried. He hoped it wasn't about the baby she was carrying. He didn't know why the baby had popped into his mind when the letters just stopped coming, but it had. He's asked, subtly, he thought, about Nancy in his e-mail exchanges with Wayne, but Wayne wasn't forthcoming in that realm. Wayne increasingly had kept the exchanges to farm business. He, of course, had never alluded in e-mails to the relationship the two men had.

It was, in fact, about the baby. Standing in the lobby of the post office, not being able to wait to get to the jeep to tear open the letter he'd so belatedly got from his wife, he discovered that it exactly was about the baby. Nancy had miscarried. That had sent her into a deep depression. She didn't know what she'd do with herself, all alone in the farmhouse. It had happened a month earlier. She hadn't had even the energy or ability until now to write her husband about it.

Boyd didn't appear to pick Captain Mayfield up at his office at 5:00 p.m. The private should have come in to the office to tell the officer he was there, and Talbot was always quite punctual and he always was where he said he would be–or at least had been before. Concerned, Mayfield went out to the parking area. The jeep was there. He had his own set of keys. Rather than go back to his own apartment for the evening–although he did check there to make sure the private hadn't misunderstood him and gone back there–Mayfield drove into the red district section of Stuttgart, looking for his wayward boy toy.

He found Boyd at one of the dives they went to when they were slumming. It wasn't one of the strictly gay bars. Mayfield was too savvy for the military police ever to find him in one of those. It was in one of the "at the edge" bars, where both heteros and gays could be found, although most were hetero. The women there liked the likes of both Mayfield and Boyd enough that the men could easily switch over to women if military policemen were heard at the club entrance. There was a siren that would be activated by the doorman, if this were the case.

When Mayfield located Boyd, he found a young man nearly drunk on his tail, although still able to perform, and so steeped in grief and despondency that he no longer cared where he was and what he was doing. Where he was was in one of the back rooms in a basement bar that was also a brothel. What he was doing was fucking a call girl named Gretchen.

It wasn't a wild fuck. Boyd had spilled his guts to the woman who had been sitting at the bar, some twenty years older than he was, more Rubenesque than svelte, and somewhat wrinkled around the edges. But she was a woman with feelings, one who had lost a child herself, and when Boyd was so far gone in his cups and bubbling over with despair that he told her of just learning that his wife had lost a baby six months into a pregnancy, she became, first, a mother, and then a comforter in the way she was there, at the bar, to be.

Gretchen had taken Boyd to one of the back rooms with a bed. When Mark Mayfield found them, she was on her back, skirt up to her waist, panties on the floor, bodice flared open, legs spread, and Boyd was crouched between her thighs, nuzzling her ample breasts, embracing her, and well into the rhythm of thrust and fuck.

Seeing the tableau, the captain's first instinct was to be angry. Boyd was supposed to be in his bed, not some woman's. Not that Mayfield really cared if Boyd fucked women. He knew there was a Mrs. Talbot and he'd interacted enough with Boyd to know the young man was an "any port in the storm" cocksman. So was Mayfield.

Therefore, when he'd drawn close and Gretchen, who Mayfield himself had known biblically on previous visits to the bar, had given him the basic explanation of why Boyd was the way he was, the captain stood there for a while, rubbing Boyd's shoulders and commiserating with the young man.

As the fuck went on, though, Mayfield got horny and felt his rank. He not only had fucked Gretchen before himself, he'd joined with other men in fucking Gretchen. So, he did now too. He stripped off his clothes, climbed up on the bed behind Boyd, put his cock in position at Boyd's hole, while Boyd was still humping Gretchen, embraced his boy toy driver, mounted, penetrated, and fucked him while Boyd was trying to rub out his cares with his cock pumping Gretchen.

In the ensuing months, as Boyd's family tragedy simmered in letters from Nancy that came few and far between and gave very little information, Mayfield continued bringing Boyd to Gretchen–and then some of the other call girls at the bar and a male prostitute or two for three-way solace. In time, Mayfield was regularly fucking Boyd in a double penetration with other men.

Boyd was a private. Mayfield was a captain. Boyd did as Mayfield directed him to do. It didn't matter much to Boyd. Sex was sex was sex.

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