Copyright  2003,   Matt Finnish.  ALL Rights Reserved

This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit or on another website 
without the written permission of the author.  The author may be contacted 
by writing mrdouble@mrdouble.com.

Original posting date: 
Friday PM, Feb 28, 2003


A Resident Author story from MrDouble's archive, 
Filename: fleetwee.txt
http://www.mrdouble.com
 



Fleet Week

Written by Matt Finnish


	This was Fleet Week in San Francisco. Aircraft carriers and other ships in the Bay, and at night the Embarcadero was filled with sailors in their summer whites. I was down there a lot-—military men are a passion of mine.

	Early Saturday night, I walked down Folsom to one of my favorite sex spots, a bookstore with gloryholes in the booths. I go there all the time and really enjoy sucking off men. But sucking guys through gloryholes in San Francisco is probably different from anyplace else: the opportunities are so plentiful that guys get jaded. They let you suck them a little, then they go on to another booth and get sucked by someone else, then again to someone else. It's weird: I like it because you get a lot of cock, and I hate it because you rarely connect as completely as two men can through that hole.

	As I got close to the bookstore I passed a small group of sailors, all dressed in street clothes. If you know military men, you know they have a particular way of dressing when they go ashore out of uniform. The clothes fit a little too well, are always well pressed, are usually either a little too fashionable or look like they've been ordered from a catalog. You can always spot a sailor, whether he's in or out of uniform. This group was amped-up on puppy-energy, horny and excited. They were going to the Covered Wagon, a straight bar where you can meet boozy young women.

	I passed them and went into the bookstore, heading back to the booths. The place was almost empty, very unusual for a Saturday night. I went into one of the back booths and watched porn for a while. Something with Vince Bandero pretending to be a wrestler, feeding some lucky guy that big fat uncut cock.

	I heard someone come into the next booth. I went down on my knees and peered through. I never look up at faces. There's so much information— usually enough for me---in the region of a man's crotch. And what I saw through the hole was enough to tell me this was one of the men from the group outside, a sailor who had come in to either watch a movie and jack off, or to get sucked off.

	He unzipped his pants and reached inside. He played with himself for a while. Then he bent over just a bit to check to see if anyone was in the next booth and saw just enough of me in a kneeling position to know that he could get what he needed. He fished his cock out of his pants, a nice cock, not completely hard yet. He moved closer to the hole and I put my fingers up to the hole to let him know I wanted it. He moved closer and I put my mouth up to the hole and felt the heat of his cock before it slid into me.

	You could tell that it had been a while for him. You can tell when a man is getting something he really needs and this sailor needed this. I kept my head still as he slid in—you can tell a lot about a man by the way he puts his cock in your mouth. It grew until it pulsed with his heartbeat, hard and big and curving slightly upward.

	When you get a chance like this, you know what a great thing it is to "service" another man. I nursed on his cock, I sucked and tasted it and gave it the best I had. The most intimate connection in the world is between a man who needs to suck cock and a man who really needs to get sucked. When it's right, it takes a couple of steps on the spiritual side of sex. Even when there's a plywood wall separating the two men.

	Sometimes he'd move in and out of my mouth a little, but mostly he just held there pressed against the hole, giving me everything I wanted, letting me worship and love this young sailor's pure virility. I kept having images of him at sea, aboard an aircraft carrier, surrounded by miles of bright blue water, a long tour of duty, intimate with nothing but his duty and his work.

	He didn't know you can lock the doors of the booths, and once in a while someone would jerk his door open. He'd pull it closed, almost slamming it. But even though it would soften a bit when this happened, his cock never left the hole. It was mine. To put it mildly, I had his undivided attention. He seriously needed this.

	He suddenly got harder and shot in my mouth, down my throat. Five or six hot jets that were the saltiest I've ever tasted. Afterward he kept pushing against the hole, his hips jerking a little. Then he stopped pushing and relaxed and for over a minute we just stayed still. His cock in me, my mouth around him, the taste and smell of him, the heat of his young flesh that was still steadily oozing cum.

	He pulled out and stepped back. I swallowed and watched as he slowly stroked his softening cock. He was thinking about this, maybe feeling guilty, maybe feeling ashamed, maybe feeling grateful, maybe just relieved. This may have meant a lot to him; it may have meant nothing. I'll never know. But I loved watching his hand moving slowly as he thought about it.

	Then he opened his pants, tucked his cock in, and adjusted his clothes perfectly. He'd been trained by the military to be careful with his clothes. I put my fingers on the edge of the hole, like the goodhearted whore saying goodbye to the sailor who's about to disappear forever. He left he booth and I could hear his quick steps as he left the bookstore.

	I sat for a while and felt lucky and something else. Fortunate to be who I am, what I am, where I am. But still again something else. Someone tried the locked door of my booth. Someone else walked into the booth where the sailor had been. I stood up, straightened my clothes and walked out. The place had filled up. One or two of the men lining the walls were way too well groomed and nervous to be locals: more young sailors in need. I grinned to myself, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I could have stayed and kept the booth to myself, trying to suck off more men, hoping to get another man, another sailor, more cocks and loads.

	 	 









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This story is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.