It was a hot muggy evening and it had been a long hot muggy day in Bristol. I was driving back to London along the M4 and had stopped off for a pee, a coffee and a break – not necessarily in that order. The services were busy, busier than usual. The loos were full of coach parties, and the coffee was expensive for being so poor. There wasn’t even any decent people watching in the cafeteria, so I checked my watch and decided to press on.
As I was leaving the services, and on the slip road, there was a squaddie – the uniform’s usually a give-away – thumb up, and a few cars had already sped past him. I pulled to a stop beside him, wound down the passenger window.
“Where you heading?” I asked.
He looked eastwards. “London, mate.”
“Hop in. Headed that way. Can get you close at least.”
He smiled and picked up a large kit bag. “Room for this…?”
“In the boot.” I got out and opened the boot. He threw the kit bag in on top of my holdall and laptop bag, then he got in the passenger side and started to strap himself in. I closed the boot, got back in, seat belt on and started the car up. In seconds we were on the motorway and travelling Londonwards.
We got chatting, as you’d expect. His name was Simon, he’d been out on exercise and had an early leave pass for the weekend. Instead of going back to barracks, he’d chosen to chance his arm at the services for a ride, and thanks to me, he’d got one. I let him know I was in the IT business, systems analysis and all that. He seemed genuinely uninterested, but we chatted about this and that for a while.
We’d just gone past a junction when the traffic, all three lanes, ground to a halt. We sat there for a minute or two, then with an ominous look, Simon pulled out a phone and started fiddling with it.
“Next exit ramp,” he said with a grunt, “lorry hit a car. Could be a while.”
“Fuck,” I said, turning the engine off. “Well, no hurry. Just bloody sticky out here.”
“No worries.” Simon reclined the passenger seat and before I knew it was asleep. Marvellous – the British squaddie’s ability to sleep anywhere.
I had the windows down just to keep the breeze, such as it was, flowing. I took the opportunity to study my passenger; about 5 foot 5, stocky but fit, sandy buzz cut hair, a bit grubby round the edges and he’d definitely been exercising hard – that smelled good. Also, he didn’t snore.
He slept the entire three hours we were stationary, and only woke up when I started the engine and we crawled forward, then picked up speed.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m bushed, it’s still two hours to London from here. The next junction’s the services and a motel. I’m taking a room there. If you want a bed, fine, the company’ll pay, else chance your arm with another ride?”
He scratched at his stubbly chin. “Nah. If I turn up at home at gone 2 there’ll be hell to pay, so the offer of a room is accepted! On the company, of course,” and he grinned.
As we pulled off the motorway up to the services we saw the extent of the accident. Simon had pieced together what had happened; a car had cut up a lorry transporting live chickens which had jack-knifed. The resulting mess, and the escaping chickens, had taken a good while to clear up and the motorway on both sides was still covered with feathers.
I parked the car in the now full motel car park, we took our respective luggage from the boot, and wandered in.
“As you can imagine,” the Receptionist said, “we’re almost full. One room left, a double.”
I looked at Simon. “Take it,” he said. “You’re knackered and I’ll sleep on the floor.” He shrugged. “Used to it.”
“I’ll take it,” I said. She handed over a pair of access cards and we trekked through the corridors to the room – right at the end of a corridor, ground floor, as far from Reception as you could get. I opened the door, turned the lights on, and before I knew it Simon was past me, into the room, kit bag slung into a corner.
“Slept in worst,” he said, promptly stripping off all his clothes, dumping them randomly on the floor, and closing the bathroom door behind him. I heard the shower go on, and something that resembled singing start.
With a sigh, I put my bag on the bed and started to pick up his clothes, tidying them up. I must admit the smell coming off his t-shirt was quite intoxicating, and his sweaty socks, trousers and boots were turning me on. I tidied most of it into a corner, and kept hold of the t-shirt, sniffing it. I stood in front of the mirror, holding it up in front of me, seeing how I would look in it.
I didn’t hear the singing stop, the shower turn off, and the bathroom door open. I did see the scrubbed, naked and extensively tattooed body appear beside me in the mirror.
“So,” Simon said softly, “fancy yourself a squaddie?”
“Erm…” I replied, not sure what to say.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” he said. “Your clothes. Off. All of them.”
The look in his eyes, twinkling though they were, brooked no discussion. I stripped off my t-shirt, shorts, undies and shoes, stood naked before him. “Promising,” he said, looking down at my swelling cock. He picked up the t-short of his I’d been smelling. “Put that on.” He rummaged around in his kit bag and pulled out some cammo trousers, “and these.” He picked up my shoes and placed them sole to sole against the boots he’d chucked on the floor, then chucked me the socks he’d been wearing all day. “These on too, then the boots. May be a bit loose but who the fuck cares.”
I did as I was told, putting on the sweaty kit he’d been on exercise in all day. Felt good; felt my cock was hardening.
He’d gone back into his kit bag, and had pulled out a grubby white t-shirt, some more cammos and a set of socks and boots, and was in that lot by the time I was starting to lace and do up the boots. “I’ll do them,” he said, and knelt down to firmly lace and tie me into the boots. Satisfied, he stood up, toe to toe with me and looked me hard in the eye.
“If you wanna play with a squaddie, you do it proper, ok?”
“Ok,” I mumbled.
“Fuckin’ ace.” There was a pop and he started to draw on my face with a thick stick. “Cammo paint. Don’t fret, it’ll come off easy enough after.” After he’d finished drawing on me, he turned the stick on himself, covering his face in a pattern of green, brown and black.
He stood toe to toe again looking up into my face. I could feel his breath on my lips, the damp soapy smell of him, his cock in his cammos pressing against mine. He reached up, licked my lips, then with a hand on the back of my head pulled me in for a proper kiss, tender and rough at the same time, getting more and more frenzied. I had my hand on the back of his head, the other round his waist hugging him tight, getting off on the moment.
Without any warning he did a quick squaddie like movement and I was on my front on the bed, arm pulled up behind my back, with him on top of me breathing hard into my ear. “Both know how this goes, mate. Just how rough?”
“You got me at a disadvantage in so many fucking ways, cunt, so bring it on fucker.”
Next thing I knew he’d shifted position so he was sitting on the bed, but my back was pressed into him with his arm round my neck and he was slowly squeezing my windpipe. I had both hands on his arm trying to relieve the pressure when I felt his hand slip into my cammos and grab my cock. His thumb ran over the end, and smeared the precum over the head. “Right fucking horny bugger you are,” he said jerking the arm round my neck. “Have to see what else you’re packing.” He let me go suddenly, and as I was regaining my breath he’d leapt off the bed, grabbed something from his kitbag and was back on me. My hands were grabbed and I felt something cold snap round one, then the other was pulled behind my back and that one snapped too. I was pushed onto my back and Simon straddled my chest, hands either side of my head.
“Much better,” he said. He leaned in for a rough kiss, hand round my throat, then left his fingers in my mouth. With his other hand he undid his fly and pulled his cock out. The head gleamed purple-red in the room lights and the next thing I knew it was pushing at my lips and then inside my mouth. Fuck, it tasted good, pushing deep in my gob, and he fucked my mouth deep and slow. I could feel my own precum leaking out my cock, wetting the commos. I was sweating buckets too, soaking his t-shirt, and I could see sweat stains in the white t-shirt over his chest and armpits – having a good time too.
Without his cock leaving my mouth he swivelled round on me to face my feet. I felt my fly get opened and his mouth sank down on my hard as fuck cock. His hands were working my arse cheeks as he fucked my mouth and licked at my dick and balls.
He slid off me and roughly rolled me on my stomach, pushing my face down into the pillows. I felt my arse exposed to cooler air and fingers start to poke at it, work it, feel it. He leant over the top of me and pulled my head to one side. “Breathe deep,” he ordered, and I inhaled a familiar sweet smell. My head started to fill with lust and all I wanted was his cock, his cock in my arse, his cum in my arse. I was pushing my arse back and up and he took the hint and my arse got filled with his cock, in hard and fast and deep.
He pushed it in, held it in there a moment for me to get used to it, then started to slow fuck me, my hands still cuffed behind my back, both of us sweating, him groaning, me flying with lust, just wanting this cock in me, wanting this cock to own me. He kept this up a good while, reaching under me to pull me up to him, both arms round my chest, sweaty body to sweaty body, building up speed, harder and deeper, then with one last thrust he pushed in deeper than ever and I felt his cock pump cum into me, blast after blast.
And then I blacked out.
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