SkinMarvin Gay Stories

It was a hot, sweltering day, followed by a hot, sticky evening. The traffic on the M4 moved freely through the heat induced fug of early evening. Even though I was doing 70, I had all the windows open and it still felt muggy. After a few hours heading east, I pulled into one of the service stations for the obligatory pee, get ripped off at the cafeteria for a cup of tea, and some half-hearted people watching. Well, the pee was perfunctory, the tea expensive and the people boring.

Until I was back in the car and heading back onto the motorway, that is. On the runup through the petrol station to the motorway is where the hopeful hitchers wait, cardboard signs at the ready. I usually shoot straight past them, never looking back. This time, one caught my eye and I managed an emergency stop skilfully placed so that the passenger door was right in front of him.

He was a squaddie; fresh off exercise by the look of him. About 5'5" tall, close cropped dirty blond hair, full cammo kit, scruffy boots and a holdall nearly as big as he was. He leant in to the window, and I caught a whiff of fresh sweat; nothing unpleasant, just the scent of a bloke recently heavily exercised pre-shower.

"Where are you headed?" I asked.

"London," he replied, "staying with family. You headed that way?"

"Sure am," I answered, "I'll take you as far as I can. That do?"

"Deal," he said. "Can I stow this in the boot?" He pointed at the holdall. I got out, and opened the boot for him. Admittedly it was already full of my own gear, coming back from a week's contract in Bristol, but somehow the holdall was made to fit, though we were both sweating a bit by the end. I offered him some water as we got back into the car.

We got chatting as I pulled back onto the motorway; his name was Steve, and he was a Lance Corporal in some regiment or other. They'd been on exercise all week, and he'd got himself a weekend pass, but had managed to persuade someone in authority to let him go on leave straight from the exercise without heading back to barracks with the rest of his platoon. So here he was, headed for family in the London suburbs, chatting away in my car.

And the traffic stopped. Dead. Complete standstill.

What was completely annoying was that we'd passed a junction only a mile back, and on this part of the M4, the next junction was some way away. We couldn't turn back, and we couldn't go forward.

"Try the radio," Steve suggested, "never know, there may be some info."

I flicked the radio on. We had to wait about 10 minutes until a news broadcast came on, but there was a traffic report. And infuriatingly, there had been an accident at the next junction; a car had realised that this was the junction to take, and had cut across all three lanes to take it. The ensuing carnage involved a motorbike, two other cars, and the real problem - an articulated lorry hauling live chickens had jacknifed, overturned, and of course, the chickens got out. Instant traffic jam.

"Sounds like we're here for a while," I said.

Steve just shrugged. "Not expected at any time, no hurry." He looked round. "These seats recline?"

"Yup," I said, "handle on the side."

He found the handle, got the seat back as horizontal as it would go, and before I knew it he was asleep. The British soldier's ability to kip wherever, whenever. Bloody marvellous.

As darkness fell, and we still hadn't moved, I studied my dozing travelling companion at my leisure. He was obviously fit; the cammo shirt and trousers were tight across biceps and thighs. His sandy hair was buzzed on the sides but a bit longer on top - not much though - and he'd not shaved that day. He smelled heavily of sweat, not unpleasant, but as though he'd done a lot of work and it was drying off on his clothes. Have to admit, he was turning me on just a little, but I didn't think it wise to make a move, him being a trained squaddie and all.

About 11:30pm the traffic started to move; we'd been stationary for nearly three hours. Steve woke with a jolt.

"Look," I said, "it's still a long way to London, and I'm bushed. I'm sorry about this, but I'm going to pull in at the next Travel Inn, get a room and crash. Up to you of course, but you can either try and get another hitch, or you can share the room if want. Company's paying so no skin off my nose."

He looked thoughtful for a second. "Going on is tempting, but I don't think family will take too kind to me waking 'em up in the middle of the night, and trying to find another hitch could be difficult." He smiled. "The offer of a room is accepted."

The Travel Inn was just the other side of the accident site; an awful lot of white feathers strewn around the motorway like bizarre summertime snow. The car park was quite full - very full in fact, as I think we got the last space furthest from the lobby. This did not bode well, I thought.

The receptionist was as helpful as she could be. "Well, because of the accident, a lot of people have done exactly what you want to; the place is packed." She checked her computer screen. "I have one room left, a double." I turned and looked at Steve, his enormous carryall slung over his shoulder.

"I'll sleep on the floor." He shrugged. "Used to it," and he grinned.

I turned back to the receptionist. "Deal," and I handed over the credit card.

The room was at the end of a corridor. No sooner had I closed the door, than Steve had stripped off, leaving his clothes strewn around the room and was in the shower, making some kind of noise that could be called singing. I picked up his kit.

It was still damp from his sweat, still warm from his body. I buried my face in his shirt, smelled the mansweat still on it, and slipped it on over my t-shirt, feeling the rough fabric on my skin, looking at my reflection in the mirror. I was so self-absorbed that I didn't hear the singing stop, didn 't hear the shower stop, didn't hear the bathroom door open.

I did hear the polite cough from behind. I turned to see Steve, towel round his waist, arms folded.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, taking a step forward.

"Erm."

He took another step forward; he was now right in front of me, inches away. "Wanna play soldier do you?" He didn't give me time to reply. "If you do, you'd better do it right. Take it off."

I gulped, and slid his shirt off my shoulders.

"Not just the shirt, all of it," he said, looking from my eyes down to my shoes. "All of it."

I stripped. T-shirt, jeans, undies, socks, trainers, the lot. Stood there in front of Steve, slightly apprehensive, but turned on. Which he noticed. He took my dick in his hand, squeezed it gently as though to get it full size, then he dropped his towel and took his own stiff dick in his hand beside mine. He looked me full in the eyes. "Right."

He took a step back, grabbed the shirt off the bed. "Put that back on." and then turned to his kit bag, rummaged around and pulled out a pair of cammo trews. "Get them on," he ordered. He looked round the room, found his socks and threw them at me, "and them", then grabbed one of my trainers. He pulled a boot out of the bag, measured it against the sole of my trainer, smiled, pulled the other boot out of the bag and came towards me.

I'd got the shirt and trews on by now, and had sat on the side of the bed putting on the warm sweaty socks. He knelt in front of me and roughly thrust my feet in the boots, which he then laced up to his satisfaction.

"Stand up" he ordered. I stood. He moved forward, felt for my dick, and gave it a squeeze as though to check it was still there, still hard.

He got into his own trews, and pulled my white t-shirt on. He got another pair of socks from his bag, and put them on followed by his own boots. He stood up, moved in front of me. He just looked at me, checking me out, for what seemed like an eternity. Then he reached up and pulled my face down to meet his in a kiss that was at times passionate, then rough, then exploratory, the roughness of his day-old beard scratching my face.

"You know what the penalty for impersonating a member of Her Majesty's Forces is?" he whispered.

"No," I whispered back.

"It's pretty severe." In one swift movement, he had got behind me, and then got me down on the floor, one arm in his grasp behind my back, the other trapped in front of me. I then realised that the trews he'd made me wear had been slightly modified. I felt his hand go into one of the pockets, and through until he grasped my dick. At the same time I felt a hot wet pressure at my arsehole, and knew then that the seam had been ripped. He adjusted his hips a bit, and I felt his cock slide ball deep inside me, and his grip on my dick tightened.

"It's fuckin' severe, in fact." Somehow he lifted me to my knees and released my arm. I fell forward onto all fours, and he proceeded to fuck me firmly and wank me hard at the same time. I could feel my balls tighten prior to cumming.

"I'm gonna cum," I gasped.

"Not fuckin' yet you don't," and he stopped the wanking and fucking and pulled his dick out. He reached into his kit bag and pulled out a small tube. "Gonna make you look more like a fuckin' squaddie." He popped the end off, and applied the contents to his face. The cam stick left green and brown stripes, and he applied it with practised skill. He then turned the stick on me, drawing patterns on my face. He opened the shirt and wrote "Corps cunt" on my chest.

That done, he stood me up against the wall, reached into the kitbag again, and roughly cuffed my hands together behind my back. My dick felt like it would explode but he kept clear of both arse and crotch, just pressing himself into me, pushing me hard into the wall.

He grabbed my head and pulled it back towards him. "And I thought you was a nice straight guy giving one of Her Majesty's Forces a lift home." He then threw me face down on the bed, and jumped up on top of me, legs either side of my hips. "Well I'm gonna get my ride off you anyhow." I felt his fingers probe into my arse, first one, then a second moving up towards my prostate. I felt like there was fuck all else in the universe except his fingers up my hole, his hand on my back and his breath in my ear. The fingers withdrew, and were replaced by the slight pressure of his dick. He slowly but steadily pushed all the way in and held it there, as he reached around beneath me to embrace me in a strong hug. I could feel the sweat drip off his head onto my back, and knew he must be soaking my t-shirt.

Slowly he started to fuck me, his hips moving away and back in again in a measured way. His hands moved down under me to find my dick, and he slipped both hands into the slit pockets to massage my dick with its own precum. He gradually wound up the speed, fucking me faster and faster, matching each thrust with a hard and rough wank. With one last thrust he pushed hard into me and held it there; then he exploded inside me like a shell, pumping out spunk till my guts filled up. As his dick shot his first spurt, my own dick exploded inside his cammo trews, pumping away until I was spent.

I guess I must have passed out, as the next thing I knew was I was on the bed, on my back, and I couldn't move. I looked down and could see my legs spread, but couldn't lift them, and looking up my wrists were securely cuffed to the bed.

"So my squaddie fuckmate's awake now, is he?" Steve said off to one side. I turned my head to look at him; sweat streaked t-shirt grubby from rubbed off cam cream, dick and balls protruding from cammo fly, hands behind his back. "Your turn now."

"What for?" I asked.

"You get to fuck me," he said with a pleasant smile.

"How? I'm tied down."

He leant over the bed and felt my dick. "And enjoying every fuckin moment of it," he said. He undid the fly and my dick leapt out. He pulled my balls out through the hole as well, then he moved down and started to lick them. I closed my eyes in delight as he ran his tongue over each ball, and along the shaft of my dick.

I heard him open his kit bag again, and looked down just as he lifted my head off the bed, and put a leather hood on me. I could breathe quite easily through the mouth and the nose, but I couldn't see.

"Like I said," I heard him whisper in my ear, "you get to fuck me. At least, your dick is going up my arse, so that's technically a fuck, but I'm in control and don't you forget it."

That said, I heard him move down the bed, and undo the waistband of the trews. I felt his mouth take in the end of my dick as a hand massaged my balls. I felt him sit astride me, and shuffle up towards my head. My head was pulled forward, and his dick pressed at my mouth. I opened it, and his dick slid in. His piss slit was oozing precum, and I greedily sucked it out. I ran my tongue round the head, down the shaft and under the foreskin, tasting clean man.

His dick withdrew from my mouth and he moved back down my body. He lifted himself a little, and I felt my dickhead press up against something warm and moist. He pulled my foreskin back and eased his arsehole onto my cock, letting me get all the way in till he squeezed my cock tight. I felt his hands on my shoulders, and I turned my head towards one and stuck my tongue out. He got the idea, and let me suck on his fingers.

In the mean time, he had started to fuck himself with my dick, rising up and down and matching fuck thrusts with fingers in my mouth. He got faster and faster, and I could feel another heavy load build up in my balls. "Gonna cum" I said through his fingers.

"About fuckin time," he said, as I blew the load up his arse, almost seeing stars as I did. He waited for me to finish, then pulled himself off my dick, moved up my body and thrust his cock in my mouth.

No sooner had it entered my mouth than it went off like a jet; his cum tasted sweetly sour, and there was lots of it to swallow. He lay on top of me and gave me another one of those deep snogs, feeling me up and down as he did. He reached over, took something from the bedside table, unlocked my wrists from the cuffs, and then my ankles. He took me in his arms and I guess we fell asleep that way, each other's cum oozing out our arses.

The next morning, early, after a blowjob each, he gathered up my clothes and put them in his kitbag, and we left the motel still kitted up. When I dropped him off on the outskirts of London, he gave me a mobile phone number. "If you want your stuff back," he said just before I pulled away, "fuckin ask nicely," he said with a broad grin.

I did ask nicely. Still haven't got my stuff back yet though my collection of army kit and handcuffs is growing well.