Just before it spurted

Randy, excited, with cock stiffened by the texture, look, feel and smell of all that khaki, with its army/scout/policeman/workman memories and male associations, I only wish there had been a man's mouth there ready to catch and swallow my hot, fresh spunk. When there's no mouth or bumhole available to shoot into sometimes I toss myself off into the flap back pocket of a pair of army shorts. As I don't like to wash the dried spunk out (the filthier it gets, the better!), over time the pocket lining gets crusty and hard and makes it uncomfortable to rub my poker-stiff hoosie against it - it can even cut if I'm not careful. Because of this, through the years I've gone through quite a number of shorts, some of which have eventually disintegrated through the extreme rough treatment and pumping they get, if they last that long. Coming up to the moment of climax I like to imagine I'm an army rookie, having been ordered to lick clean the unwiped shithole of a sadistic sergeant who's just had a cack and thinks it a great joke to make me use my tongue as toilet paper, maybe having plopped a big, warm, choc-fudge coloured, steaming, plump turd onto the middle of my naked chest - or face. "YES SIR!!!"  (By the way, I've just creamed myself writing this.)

Army life can be so fuckin' tough!

What a laugh! These two squaddies discovered in the latrines having a quickie, secret cock-suck are then dragged out and, deeply ashamed, forced to perform their cock-fun under the contemptuous glare of the drill sergeant, the air blue with his cussing and swearing at them as they desperately try to get it over with. He orders the one doing the sucking to toss himself off while sucking and swallowing all his pal's spunk down to the last fuckin' drop. However, they know only too well that when this part is over they'll be cacking their shorts as he'll have some additional devilish punishment for this hapless duo to undergo for their disrespectful breaching of stringent army rules regarding friendship. Ha ha ha! The whole situation makes me almost piss myself!

My second-ever experience.

   WEARING MY WRANGLER JEANS RATHER LOW

My jeans were a pretext and feature of the second sexual experience I ever had, just as my scout shorts had been for my first.
      I would have been 15 years old, three years after that very first time. Quite a long gap but after being 'corrupted' in the Scout movement my mind and fantasies had been working overtime during that period, despite my Catholic upbringing shouting at me that even thinking of sex was a mortal sin for which I'd be condemned to hell-fire for eternity - at least if I didn't confess to a priest

     I got the idea that I'd go to a cinema and, for the first time since I'd been forced to smoke a cigarette in that incident where older scouts had taken my virginity at my top end (making me drink beer for the first time as well, before turning their attention to my 'lower parts'), I'd steal a ciggie from my Dad's drawer where he always left an open packet, and smoke it in the cinema. It's the one and only time I ever stole anything from my Dad, and I've been thoroughly ashamed of that act ever since. It's difficult to explain why I found just the thought of doing this thing (which had come into my mind quite spontaneously), as sexually-charged - but it was the association of smoking to that scout-camp sexual experience that turned me on.
    Anyway, having stolen the fag, as I was going to see the film (this was at a time where smoking was not only permitted in cinemas, but practically the whole audience puffed away) I realised before I got there that I had nothing to light it with. I'm sure that I was already semi-hard and finding it difficult to walk, but when I went into a newsagent just to buy a box of matches, the recollection of my first time (which had also involved using matches) my cock was fully stiff and I was, very awkwardly, practically bent double with one hand thrust deep into a pocket. I bought what I wanted and hurriedly exited, hoping that others seeing me would think that I was just in pain with that stoop and conspicuous limp. How I didn't cream my jeans before I got to the cinema I don't know.
    When I entered the auditorium, with the lights still on, as it was a very warm afternoon, there were very few people in - just a few singles dotted here and there - and a couple of middle-aged men sitting together in the back row. I felt their eyes on me as I went into one of the empty rows a few in front of them, and sat right at the end against a wall, waiting for the lights to go down.
   Eventually it darkened and, taking a deep breath, felt that my moment had arrived. I took out the cigarette, put it in my mouth (the very first time I'd felt a ciggie on my lips since that incident, three years before), struck a match and sucked in the smoke. The taste and sensation brought back vividly my abuse. My cock had risen right up, under my lightish blue jeans. Just as I was closing my eyes to drink in the memory (I wasn't paying the least bit of attention to what was happening on the screen) I felt a movement along the row and saw a chap, one of the two men from the back row, coming towards me. I froze as he approached, sitting on the seat beside me.
   "Got a light, mate?"    He'd seen the flare from my match.
Wanting him away quick, I took out the matches and gave him the box. He lit his own cigarette, then gave the box back to me. But he didn't get up.
   "Nice jeans, mate."
He put a hand on my knee, rubbing it. He still didn't get up but sat there, now with his hand motionless on my be-jeaned knee. I had, by now, turned to stone. I couldn't say anything, move or even hardly breathe. I can't even remember if my own cigarette was still in my mouth. I was too nervous/excited wondering what would happen next. He too was silent.
  Then his hand slowly moved up my thigh. I waited. My cock was, of course, still as stiff as a poker.
Eventually, his fingers touched the bulge in my jeans. He could feel it was hard. I heard a gasp of satisfaction - from him? from me? from both? I don't know.
    Then he started fumbling with the buttons of my fly, all the while I sitting there immobile, fascinated, excited, but feeling mortal-sin dirty. Eventually he undid a couple of buttons - and my cock sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. (I was wearing no underpants so it was inevitable - just as the scout rule that had forbidden the wearing of anything under shorts had also contributed to my 'downfall').
   Now this is the part that seems a blur, but after touching and gripping the shaft of my hard hoosie (the first time anyone else had touched it in all that three year gap), he took my own hand - and put it on his own stiff cock which was also standing out free although I don't remember him undoing his own fly. Of course I had never touched anyone else's cock before - and what I remember most of all is not only its hardness but its heat! I felt I was holding onto a red-hot iron bar or something. And I could feel it pulsing in my grip. I couldn't loosen my fist. It was still as though my entire body was paralysed. I couldn't move it up or down, my hand just remained fastened to that throbbing, hot shaft.
     But he was now not just holding my own cock but moving his own hand up and down. I knew what he wanted was the inevitable result, and I had no power to resist. Up and down his hand went. But I'd been in such an excited state for so long now that it didn't take much before the expected occured and, stifling a loud moan, I shot my load - the first spurt landing back on my knee, subsequent spurts over his wrist, still working actively up and down, but also gently, as though with consideration. "Aaaaaah!" he said as my warm jizz flowed down over his hand, like lava from a volcano. Then I was spent. He took his hand away. Somehow my own hand had become detached from his cock. I didn't see him putting his cock away - surely it must still have been stiff? Without a word he got up, walked along the row (did I really see him licking his hand?) and returned to his seat behind me, whispering something to his companion. Was there a chuckle between them? I think so.
    So I was left, sitting there spent of energy and spunk - and feeling dirtily guilty again. My cock had now returned to a soft state and I tucked it back into my jeans. I didn't know what to do next. One thing was certain, though. I couldn't face the embarrassment of seeing him and his companion again in the full light of day.  I had to get out. So, despite my having paid admission, I got up and, hoping that they thought I was only going to the toilet to clean myself up, I went out and left the cinema.
   It was a sunny day and. looking down at my jeans, I could see a fairly conspicuous wet patch on my knee, as well as few flecks of wet around the crotch.  I couldn't do anything about them so I walked to a deserted area and walked up and down till the hot sun dried away the wet patches, leaving them a bit white and a bit crusty.

So that was my second-ever sexual experience - and both times had not been at my instigation.
My first time I'd been frightened, had resisted (albeit against the overwhelming force of the perpetrators) and afterwards had deeply resented it.
This second time, although a bit nervous, I looked on with interest at what was being done to me, and afterwards felt that I'd grown a bit.
I was yet to take my first cock in the mouth, my first cock up the bum and yet to put my own cock in those openings of others. (The beautiful hole-licking experience was yet to be some time away.) 
But at this stage it really wasn't to be that long before I expanded my experiences to those areas, taking the initiative myself.  However, one thing was clear - there was to be no going back now.
My active sex life had really begun.


     

If only........

Well, I can dream, can't I?

A gift I got from 'Anon'.

I so wish I knew who was the anonymous guy who sent me this drawing and poem a few years ago. It was received not long after I'd posted onto another gay site my experience in the scouts when I was bum-caned (with shorts on, but no underpants) before being expelled. (The full story will follow, I promise - sure as shit.)
    I'd mentioned in my story how this experience had drilled a fetish into me of all things not just scout-related, but in addition, relating to the army,  especially when the uniform was similar -  and for corporal punishment as well, particularly having one's bum beaten. And he's picked up on all these and combined everything into a brilliant single feature.I find it impossible to believe that he doesn't share at least some of my tastes. So please, if you happen to see this, you Boy Scout/army/C.P. fan, get in touch with me again and maybe we can have some F-U-N!
   I realise that for many of you who read my blog it will not do anything. It's a fairly specialised area.But I'd like to think that there are maybe just one or two out there  whose hoosie gives at least a little twitch at the sight of this - especially in India, that proud original country of k.d. shorts (albeit through British military occupation, which is another story) So, well? Does yours twitch?



I've just noticed that his poem might not be easy to read, so here it is again:-

Young soldiers at play can be really quite rough.
Here's one beating another to see if he's tough
Tight khaki drill shorts let the beaten one feel
 every whack nice and hard, as weal after weal
 is laid stinging across his pert, jutting bum.
I'd love to be able to join in the fun.
I'd be equally happy were that me with the stick
  OR the one bending over....
    Now which would YOU pick?

Brilliant, eh?

If I asked for your help, what would YOU do?

I use a match to light it, but if I ask you to put it out without blowing, would you use spit or piss? - or both? I'd be happy with either - or both. Doesn't matter to me if, when you spit, it goes too far and lands on my face or anywhere else between that and the candle. Nor when you aim your cock and your stream of piss overshoots its target and wets my head, even drenching my hair. But whatever you do, do it quickly before the candle wax softens from my body heat and it starts to droop. I don't want to end up with roast nuts if the candle falls forward and sets alight the hairs on that stretch of skin and muscle that connects your balls to your shit-hole (which I so love to have licked), or, if it falls the other way, I don't want the indignity of suffering bum-burns!

Peek-a-boo!

I wonder if this scout knows. Certainly his shorts are very... well, 'short'. If ours had been like that, in a troop where it was a strictly enforced rule that no underpants were to be worn (as this one also seems to be in), we could hardly have avoided going around exposing our little, boy-sized hoosies and barely-ripened and newly-functioning little plums.
  Our shorts were standard knee-length, or, at the highest, just above the knees, and so there was little risk of inadvertently 'airing the canary' - at least until, in my case, on that traumatic day for me at Summer camp, when I was grabbed and held with an older scout's arm around my neck while another scout violently pulled my shorts right down to the ankles - and then.....well, maybe that'll be for future blog. (I've already described at length what happened on other sites so I'm not racing to repeat it all again here, though it was some years ago. But if the mood takes me, who knows?)

Bumming a ride.

It's some years since I last did this, but a few times I went for hikes in the countryside attired like this, in full K.D. My army surplus haversack would contain a few cans of strong lager and at various points in the hike I'd stop for a drink - sometimes going into a pub if there was one around. There'd usually come a point when I found that I'd got myself a bit sloshed and, consequently, randier as well as a bit braver.
    I'd try to hitch a lift in this 'uniform', which was quite eye-catching anyway, people thinking I was an overgrown Boy Scout (Yes!), a big-game safari hunter, or a World War II British Army 'Desert Rat' fighter from El Alamein. Whatever they thought it was certainly conspicuously unusual enough for passing cars to notice - even before I raised my thumb..I did usually get a lift - eventually - but I think it scared off at least as many as those who were curious enough to stop. The togs I was wearing probably gave the impression that the wearer was somehow 'unstable' or, at least, not to be trusted.
(My particular experiences while getting a lift will have to wait for another blog, otherwise this entry will be getting too long.)
   Anyway, once when I'd got myself pissed enough I had the idea of walking along the side of the country road, thumb out, and just as I heard a particular vehicle approaching behind me I'd 'accidentally' let my shorts slip down - and make a great show of trying to get them back up quickly (as well as making great show of my arse!). As in my Scout Troop, where we weren't allowed to, I would never wear anything under the shorts. But it all needed perfect timing which, in a half-befuddled state, wasn't always easy to achieve. First I'd have to look out for the approach of the car or (better) lorry or van by finding a vantage point where, with my pocket binoculars, I could spy on vehicles coming towards me from a distance away - and make sure there was only one male, the driver, in it. (Two men would have been a nice idea but under the circumstances was too risky) These were the only ones I wanted to give me a lift.
  With alcohol coursing through my body, sometimes I made a clumsy mess of the plan. The vehicle's driver would sense that I was half-drunk and after maybe slowing down, would be scared off and speed away again. Sometimes I'd get a honk of the horn, (No, I don't mean THAT horn - at least not yet.), but I wouldn't know if it was an acknowledgement in friendly fashion or a hoot of derision. Sometimes I'd even hear them shouting out something, but never managed to catch the words from the moving lorry etc.
    But very occasionally (stressing the 'very') things would work out close to what I'd intended. Once in the cab or car I'd mutter an apology about my shorts slipping, which would get a response of the "It doesn't matter, ha ha!" variety and I knew then that there were 'possibilities'. If he HAD been shocked or offended, he certainly wouldn't have stopped for me. Then, wearing shorts and sitting down beside him with my bare knees and thighs, I'd edge closer to his left hand, far enough for him to 'touch' my leg as he went for the gear lever (again, accidentally, of course). In addition, having drunk all that beer I couldn't last long without needing a piss so I could also work that round in my favour.
  But on a couple of occasions the driver sussed out what I was up to and, suddenly stopping the vehicle, ejected me, with some choice words ringing in my ears. I did come close to being beaten up on at least one occasion. That's the trouble with drinking - it makes you bolder but it simultaneously clouds the judgment. However, just once or twice (well maybe slightly more than that) the guy was willing to 'play'.....
.
     As I say, all that will have to wait for a future blog.

Writing on toilet walls

I got all my early sex education from reading shithouse walls. It must have been one day when I was in my mid-teens when I needed a cack and was far from home, so my choice was whether to go in some bushes or to enter one of these dark, mysterious, ramshackle buildings - all unattended in those days. I'd never been into the cubicles of one of these public toilets before, though I might well have been in there just for a piss.
   If there was the odd scribblings on the walls outside of the cubicles, nothing prepared me for what was beyond the door. It was unbelieveable -  jokes, stories, suggestions, commands in many different handwritings and sorts of pen, pencil, biro, marker pens etc - and many drawings too, all of some sexual act. I was fairly, though not entirely, 'innocent' then, but still had the capacity to be shocked. And I was profoundly horrified at the crude depiction of a stiff-cocked, naked man with another man's stiff cock in his mouth. It had never even occurred to me at my then tender age that such things were done. It made me feel sick! I'm not sure if on that occasion I ever actually had the shit I so badly needed. It could well have been that I was so horrified and distracted by all these 'disgusting' writings and drawings that that particular need was no longer there. I left that toilet in a state of total confusion, appalled at what I'd seen.
    But the dam had been breached. I could never 'undo' that experience no matter how I wished I could. But over the next few days the horror of what I'd seen written and drawn up there gradually lessened, though I could not get it out of my mind. This harsh feeling then reduced and was transformed into one of interest, then curiosity - and finally, into one of desire. Alone in my bed every night I'd get hard just thinking of some of the things that I'd read. Even sucking didn't seem quite as ugly as it did at first. It even became intriguing. I had to go back - just to check that my eyes hadn't been playing tricks with me. (I suppose some might say that I'd now been well and truly 'corrupted'). So after a few more days back I went - and found that not only had I seen and read it all correctly, I was finding it not just fascinating, but even 'exciting'. The 'filthier' the idea was, the more it excited me. I started exploring more toilets, more and more till I'd been to all the public toilets in the town. Sometimes there was so much scribbling that you could hardly see the fuckin' wall! I could have spent 24 hours in there and still not had time to read everything. There were always some drawings of and stories about women, but they didn't interest me. And, of course, there were holes knocked into walls and doors at a very 'appropriate' height, often blocked up with screwed-up bog paper which was dead easy to remove - but that's a blog for another day. I started grading the toilets in my mind to determine which were the ones worth re-visiting. When making some of these visits there'd be men already in there, making out as though they were having a piss but, as I soon was to find out, just loitering around until someone came in who had the same thing on their mind as they did - quick sex. (I'll tell about these actual physical experiences of mine in a later blog.) But for the moment at least I ignored them and their advances. Sometimes they even waved their big reddish horn at me! But at the beginning I was too embarrassed, even frightened, to take up their offers, though there were always some who found it hard to take 'no' for an answer. I discovered early on that now and again there'd be a bloke so desperate that he'd try to hold on to me to prevent my leaving, but I always managed to escape (though there were a few hair-raising experiences). Once outside I knew I was safe as I knew that he could never come chasing after me with a hard todger protruding out of his trousers. Anyway, they sometimes had their pants round their ankles anyway.
    I got an insatiable craving to do the rounds of these shithouses and to read more and more of these 'dirty' stories. I just couldn't control it. I saw that some were messages suggesting appointments to meet up. I started writing answers to some of these but for a while was too scared to follow them through. Then I started writing my own stories on the walls (mostly out of my own fantasies as I didn't have all that much experience then.) as well as doing my own crude drawings of men fucking each other or sucking each other off, spunk dribbling down their chins. Even though I had this particular fascination of cocksucking, at this point I hadn't yet tried it myself, either giving or receiving. Nor had I yet been fucked up the bum. Funny, but I even thought that after being fucked the man's cock would come out covered in your shit! In time (not that long) I was to experience both fucking and sucking - both as doer and receiver, but that was a little way ahead as yet.
   But in the years since that time, all writing on shithouse walls has fascinated me deeply. It's such a fuckin' shame that all those old, crumbling, unattended public shitouses have gone - and largely been replaced by (far fewer) horrible, well-lit, clean bogs, often attended, or even with CCTV cameras in them, ostensibly as a deterrent to drug-dealing, but deterring also a lot more than that.
    So, that time has past. I'm grateful for those exciting years, but even more grateful to those kindly shithouse-wall 'artists, poets and writers' who gave me my valuable sex education - and helped me, in my own way, to pass on their and my acquired knowledge to younger guys than I am, before it was too late and these wonderful 'educational establishments' passed away into history for ever.

Another humiliating army punishment.

Whenever I want to be cheered up I only have to look at a sketch like this and I'm pissing myself with laughter. A 'bad lad' being forcibly tossed off by one of his mates, and having his balls licked at the same time, under the stern watch of the drill sergeant who gave the command, while two more squaddie victims await their turn, quaking in their army boots - and cacking their shorts, I bet. Terrible for those who've never yet touched a cock other than their own - and for the others who have, it can't be much fun being made to do in front of their sadistic commanding officer what they do to each other in private in the showers or wherever. I wonder what they did to deserve such embarrassing punishment. I reckon it could only be that one night out on leave they went out to a pub, got themselves sloshed and in their usual macho way ("mine's bigger than yours") they bragged about how many girls each one had fucked, got into a brawl and were hauled back to barracks by the military police who'd been called out to break up the disturbance. So it was only right that their punishment would be something to take them down a peg or two, something they wouldn't want their mates knowing about. But one thing is certain. They sure as shit won't forget their punishment in a hurry. - Ha ha!

Bumhole licking - Sublime. So why don't ALL guys do it?

It may be just my bad luck but I've found that out of all the guys I meet and have cock-fun with, it's only a minority who will engage in this most beautiful of acts. I cannot understand it. I usually start by being the one who licks their hole, which is fine by me, because I get immense pleasure from being the active partner in this act too. Once I've started with my tongue I hardly ever get anyone telling me NOT to do it. They clearly love it having done to them as much as I do - after all, the bumhole is the most erogenous zone after the cock itself - for some guys even moreso,
When I'm licking them around and inside their hole they'll moan and quiver in ecstasy, giving themselves up totally  to this most heightened pleasure. Yet when I ask them to do the same to me, many are not so keen. If they answer at all they'll mumble something about "not doing that sort of thing" (when they just fuckin' LOVE to take it!) or they'll pretend that I didn't say anything..Why is this? It seems so fuckin' selfish. I'm just an average human being who likes to receive pleasure too! If they're worried that I might not be clean, if I'm in my flat I'm happy to do an extra wash in my bathroom for them. If I'm out in bushes or in a public toilet I always carry bottled water around with me so don't mind at all giving myself an additional, precautionary hole-wash - which is, by the way, something I don't usually demand of them, unless my exploring their bum leads me to think that they also need a wash. But usually the excitement of the moment carries me through and I don't give a thought to it until I ask them to lick me.
  In so many videos and porno photos, like the one above, you see guys only too willing to lick the shit out of each other. I only wish that every guy I met had the same healthy mentality. It's frustrating to be denied it right when you're nearing the peak of your pleasure. Do you other guys agree with me? It's perfectly natural, nothing to be ashamed of - and it's just so fuckin' BEE-YOO-TEE-FULL!

I find these old-style British army K.D. trousers SO fuckin' sexy!

                                                       I reckon they must have been designed by a gay chap - they are so macho, with two dirty great flap pockets on the bum attracting one's attention to that area. When I'm wearing them out on a windy day I like to walk in front of a group or couple, of nice, youngish guys, 'accidentally' leaving one or both flaps unbuttoned so they flutter like two little flags on my bum. Sometimes I swear that I can almost feel their fascinated gazes focussed on my khaki-clad backside.
 When I'm having a session of cock-fun with another guy I sometimes like to get him to put these trousers on and, kneeling, suck him while my hands roam round to his back and play with the flaps, buttoning and unbuttoning them while my head goes back and forth, sometimes trying to thrust my hands deep into the pockets - which can be a bit awkward, but it all adds to my state of excitement.
By the way, when I'm having sex it doesn't necessarily have to have a khaki dimension. It's just an occasional added feature. I like stark bollock-naked sex too - as well as sex while wearing denim, leather, rubber, (I've got several army surplus rubber capes), P.V.C. ( Got a great workman's P.V.C. worker's black, hip-length, rain-jacket. A real turn-on.), plastic macs (sometimes useful in pissing games) - in fact I'm quite catholic in my fetishes, though khaki drill is the number one (almost certainly arising as a result of my abuse and humiliation at the hands of older scouts during Summer camp).. In fact I'll actually wear anything - as long as it's masculine!
 Okay, so now would you put on these K.D. pants on for me?

Holy Dancer

This guy really turns me on. Would be fuckin' great to feel my naked body in his arms while I in turn cling onto his naked brown body. He can do his dance in my bedroom any time - and I know just how to pay him for his trouble - like inviting him to rest that bouncing cock in my open mouth. And as a bonus I'd say he can sit on my face while I lick the shit out of him.

A colourful bouquet of rubbers.

I used to have an uncontrollable urge to go out on Sunday mornings after a mild Saturday Summer's night to look for and pick up used rubber johnnies, particularly in an area that was well known for outdoor sexual activity. Of course not every single one had been used within the few hours previously and if there was any jizz in it it had sometimes turned to the sort of brown watery-substance we are all familiar with. But there were certainly those containing fresh spunk, still milky-white, and when I found one of these I'd there and then hold it up over my open mouth and tip the contents onto my tongue and feel it sliding down my throat. It was exciting seeing the thick gooey cum slipping down the length of the johnny - I'd get hard in anticipation of the great moment of satisfaction when I felt a stranger's jizz plopping out onto my tongue.
   It was obvious by the smell of the johnny when the guy had fucked a woman, which was usually the case, but I didn't let that stop me - after all, spunk is spunk!
   When I'd finished my search I'd stick the rubbers in my back pocket, take them home, and, after sometimes turning them inside out to lick the insides to make sure no cum was wasted, I'd then wash them and put them with the others in my colourful collection. Some would disintegrate in the process of cleaning but all in the above photo are still good and now and again when I'm feeling randy I carefully try to fit one over the head of my own stiff todger and toss myself off knowing that mine was in the same place that a stranger's once also was.
   Nowadays if I see a discarded used rubber johnny outside somewhere I still pick it up but I don't go on a special safari for them any more.

I'm olny daring to show thsi pic of me becase Im fuckin pissed...

Seeing hooded indan cocks on other sites vgets me so fucking vrandy. I'll probly delete this whenI, soberd up so hav a fckin good look now allyou randy buggers

Young squaddie on morning inspection couldn't help his willy stiffening........

.....but tough shit! The punishment he's about to get will serve him right, the dirty little bugger - ha ha ha!

(If I was given a prolonged vicious caning on the bum by our sadistic scout troop priest-leader - and in front of the entire assembled troop too - I don't see why others shouldn't have to undergo what I went through!)

Anyone got a match?

Quickly - before my body heat melts the wax and makes the candle droop, or I inadvertantly fart it out!

It's not their hands I'd want to be shaking........

.....I'd want to be on my knees sucking each one of them off, one by one - till I fuckin' burst with all that glorious tasty Indian Hindu spunk. What a way to go!

Army bad lads given degrading military punishment.

Just imagine being one of these unfortunate squaddies and being forced to perform this act under the stern, watchful eyes of the sadistic drill sergeant who is ready to leap at the slightest infraction of the detailed instruction he's given to the unfortunate pair. So fuckin' humiliating! How what is it decided which of the two was to be tied to the frame with his shorts fly unbuttoned and his willy pulled out, and which to get down on his knees all trussed up like this and have to carry out the demeaning command to lick and suck his army buddy? What if it turns out that they were actually brothers. The fuckin' horror of it! After the inevitable climax shown here were they then made to change positions? And I bet that even when this particular insane punishment was over, while both squaddies wanted the earth to open up and swallow them, it was only just the beginning. Whatever next? Were they then forced to eat each other's shit? -  (I fuckin' well hope so. Hee hee!)

Watch out! It's the Caped Cocksucker!

This is about one of several fetishes I have which can be traced back to my short time in the Boy Scouts before my caning at the fateful Summer camp and consequent expulsion. ("Entered Scouts as a 'tenderfoot'. Kicked out with tender bum!") By the way, August 5th is the anniversary day of this life-changing event. I always cringe inside when this date approaches. 
   Before going to camp (just outside a village on the Yorkshire moors) I was given this ex-army brown rubber groundsheet/cape by an old uncle who used to be in the army but didn't want it any more. He could have had no idea what the effect on me would have been. I'd already got the heady rubber smell when packing it, but on that first night in the tent when I laid it out on the grassy ground and lay on it to sleep, it took me onto an entirely new plane.
I don't think there's any need to describe what was happening to my body inside the sleeping bag, but the masculine army smell from the cape made it almost impossible to sleep. I was sharing a tent with a Scout one year ahead of me at school, who embarrassingly for me, didn't worry at all about stripping off his shirt and shorts in front of me (no underpants, of course). I have a memory of him kneeling shamelessly stark naked (the tent being too small to stand up in), with a tuft of dark hair on his groin, making small talk with me, quite friendly but not overly so, and slowly checking the money from his shorts back pocket (teasingly slow - was he tantalising me?) while I was trying my best to avert my eyes, before he dived into his own sleeping bag resting on his green groundsheet. I only took off my own shorts and put on pyjamas under the cover of being inside the bag, which was very awkward. (Didn't I at least once during one night hear a rhythmic, rubbing-motion sound? Maybe - but if there was I wasn't the one causing it. I was too shit-scared to let anyone else think that I played with myself, although I'd already started doing that in the privacy of my own bedroom.)
Anyway, getting back to the cape, after I was booted out of the Scouts I kept the cape - my uncle didn't ask for it back. It wasn't long before I was 'using' it in a way that it wasn't intended for, in my bedroom seclusion back home. I just couldn't help myself, even though I knew it was a 'mortal sin'. It got me so fuckin' randy. I can't say how many times I employed it for this purpose during the rest of my adolescence but when I eventually moved to a place of my own I really let my hair down! I not only did the same things with it - lying on that cool, smooth rubber against my naked body - but I took to wearing it out in the rain for its other purpose as a cape - but only in the dark. I wasn't brave enough to display myself wearing this fetish in broad daylight - yet.
    Sometimes on these nocturnal perambulations in the rain I'd unbutton my fly so that my cock had the freedom it was demanding. But, of course, you might guess what often happened. I'd not go far before I lost control and the path behind me would be spotted with white 'goo' mixed with the rainy surface.
    But this particular 'garment' has given me immense 'satisfaction' on countless occasions, and I trust will continue to do so.
    Once, a late contact of mine,who was a real sadist, made me put on the cape over my naked body, as above, but still wearing boots, and made me, in the dusk, run round the circumference of a golf-course near his house, he watching to see that I followed his instruction to the letter. I couldn't refuse because he'd hidden away my wallet and my house keys as well as my return train ticket. So I just had to do what he said, much to his own amusement and entertainment, the nasty bugger! It's a wonder I didn't twist an ankle or worse, running about there in the near-dark in boots on uneven ground.
   I have to say that the original cape given me by my uncle eventually disintegrated with all the 'battering' it took. The rubber side started to come off in flakes. So as recently as just 2 months ago I binned it. The one shown in this pic is a newer hardly-used one - bought at a high price. They're practically museum-pieces now- but from precisely the same World War II period. (The British army capes in the 1960s were changed to a green colour and, though rubberised within, didn't have that sexy, cool, rubber external surface.)
     I've also got yet another rubber army cape which, very curiously, has it's waterproof rubber surface on the inside. The outer side is a lightish sandy-khaki colour which looks almost fluorescent - very conspicuous. I've never yet dared to wear this one out yet. I'm sure I will sometime, but I'd have to get myself pissed first - and anyway, how many steps could I take before the feel of that rubber surface against my protruding cock will have the inevitable effect?

Couple of sketches

Both feature me - but in the one above, which one?

Why do I find Indian men so damn sexy?

Even when it comes to dubious organisations like the RSS here, when I see a group of them like this, or individually,  I feel I'd be putty in their hands. Naturally, in their high-kick positions like in this photo they are just asking me to imagine myself putting my hand up their roomy shorts, stroking their hot, brown-hooded cocks till they harden and then to toss them off. (I wonder if some of them are not wearing anything underneath? I bet a significant number aren't.)
In videos, at least, Indian men don't seem to have the same hang-ups that we Brits have, treating man/man sex as perfectly normal and natural, which, of course, it is - added to the fact that they're so fuckin' randy too! Also love to see them fooling around in horseplay, stripping each other and laughing and giggling at the victim's discomfort and embarrassment, though he usually takes it in the fun spirit it's intended. Only usually see that sort of thing on other videos when the group is drunk, whereas Indian young guys are much more matter-of-fact about their bodies and their sexuality.
   Often wondered if, in my infancy in India outside my memory, I had my young private parts 'manipulated' by a good-looking, native Indian male (khaki-clad?), and this has given rise to this lifelong attraction, which I don't mind in the least. In fact I love it!. However, that possibility must remain a fantasy, though an intriguing thought. 

Should my bum be spanked or fucked?

How about BOTH - repeatedly! And, between spankings, being licked all over with lots of warm spit, to ease the pain.
Fantasy - having a long queue of burly soldiers, some in uniform, others stark bollock-naked, being ordered to, one straight after another, get their weapons cocked, to mount, penetrate, ride hard, and then fire their 'silver bullets' as far as they can, deep into the dark - then withdraw and retire to the back of the line till their turn comes round again, by which time they'll be expected to be ready to repeat the action on command. This continues right until all that bollock-generated, goopy man-cum is drooling out of my mouth - and ears!

Question: Why was my Scout Troop forbidden to wear underpants under our shorts?

I don't know how many of you were in the Boy Scouts, but my brief membership had a profound effect on my life which has lasted to this day.
We didn't question the rule that underpants were NOT to be worn under our shorts because that was also the case during our P.E. classes where, if the gym master suspected that we were wearing anything under our black gym shorts, we'd hear something like the following exchange:-

"You boy! Have you got anything on under your shorts?"
" N-n-n-o, Sir."
"Come here! Let's see."

The boy would then apprehesively approach him and stand nervously while the sadistic master pulled out the elasticated shorts waistband, peer down, and then, invariably, let it snap back cruelly onto the boy's body. We'd always hear the boy's "Ooooo-yah!" or "Ouch!" while the rest of the class would try to hide their sniggers. This ritual was quite funny for us other boys witnessing the scene, but for the 'victim' it was a brief moment of sharp pain, as well as being humiliating. It happened to me just the once, but that was enough to know how it felt. (To be fair to the master himself, nasty bugger though he was, he always pulled the boy's shorts out on the side before looking down - never, as far as I know, either front or back.) The punishment if ever a boy was found to be wearing underpants was, after removing them, being made to take off one of his gym shoes, made to lie stomach down over the vaulting horse, his shorts then pulled down, and then given six sharp, severe slaps on his bare backside with his shoe. I saw it done only twice in all my years at school, but that punishment was so humiliating in front of all the class, even without the pain, that one had to wonder why a boy would ever chance being caught. It was far less humiliating to remove the underpants before the gym class started so you wouldn't have to face the possibility of this happening.

Anyway, that's all leading up to my saying that, as we saw scouting, like P.E., as essentially to do with physical activities, as far as I know no questions were asked about this odd requirement at the time. It was only later that I found that the 'no underpants' rule in our Scout troop was not only unusual, it was practically unknown elsewhere. If I'd known about this before joining it might have saved me a lot of anguish as it turned out that this practice was to contribute to an excruciating sexual humiliation for me during Scout camp, at the vulnerable and impressionable age of 12 - and which may not have happened at all if underpants had been worn. Details of what happened will have to wait until a future blog. Actually it'll cover a number of them as the details of that fateful Summer camp will take some time to tell, and it would be unfair if any readers of my blog were not to be told ALL the details, painful as it is to me to relate it.

Now after many years of discreet enquiries and research, and failing to find any other scout troops which had this 'no underpants' rule I'd come to the conclusion that it must have been pretty well unique to my own Troop which was, incidentally, run by Catholic priests. One can make an assumption about the reason for this rule, after the secret activities of a significant number of priests have now been opened up to the world, that this  was applied for their own shameful, randy purposes. But again to be fair, I never ever heard of any of these sorts of goings-on at any time when I was a pupil, though one can argue that if things actually were happening, would it have been widely known anyway?

I never heard of any scouts defying the rule, or even questioning it. What I do recall is a group of them, among the smutty laughs of boys their age, saying that you have to avoid farting as this will give rise to 'skid marks' inside the shorts. In fact they would sometimes laughingly refer to their khaki shorts as 'cacky shorts'. (In colloquial English, 'cack' is another word for 'shit'.)
Not wearing shorts did have one advantage, though. When a scout had a piss, instead of undoing the fly-buttons and then re-doing them up afterwards, he could just lift up the shorts leg and piss out from under it. This also lessened the chance of getting the shorts wet. Because of the light colour, any drops not properly shaken off would soak through the drill material and show up clearly on the outer surface of the shorts, causing amusement and teasing from other scouts, and huge embarrassment to the victim.

Now, right up to date. Only quite recently, someone contacted me by e-mail, having seen one of my previous postings on this topic on another site, and he assures me that the 'no underpants' rule was certainly not unique to my Scout Troop. This is very interesting indeed, and comes as quite a revelation after so many years. Currently, as he's busy, I'm awaiting precise details of what he knows. If there's something worth posting I'll do it here on my blogs. Meanwhile, this opens up the subject very tantalisingly. Watch this space!

 

Self-portrait

My cock has been in a lot of mouths and up quite a few bumholes since this photo was taken - and I'm nowhere near finished yet!

Cocks galore! - at MY kind of religious festival.

I

I doubt if these Hindu saddhus would appreciate my comment, but I find them so damn sexy.  In this pic especially the two on the extreme left and the whitened-up guy in the centre brandishing his big stick. If I was walking along with them stark-bollock naked like this, seeing their cocks bobbing up and down and their bare bums so freely available to view (Though not to touch. Such a fuckin' shame!), I wouldn't get very far without betraying a conspicuous boner. Once again, India shows the world how to do it!

Did this shithouse drawing change my entire life?

I would have been just 13 years old, maybe 14 tops, when I went to a public shithouse to have a shit for the very first time in one of these strange, creepy,  rundown little buildings - and burned deep in my memory is this crude drawing on the wall in the cubicle. I'm quite certain that this representation is very close to being accurate - the dotted line of an outlined stiff cock, the 'unusual' shape of the other guy's hard cock on the right.
I was at that time very nearly totally 'innocent' (apart from the sole incident of my being sexually humiliated in the Boy Scouts, but that's maybe a story for a future blog)..Being so ignorant of sexual matters, at first I couldn't work out what the drawing was supposed to be showing. Although I'd heard of the word 'circumcision' I had no idea what that process entailed - so I assumed that that strange shape on the right was a circumcised cock! I wondered if circumcision meant that a chunk was removed from the actual cockhead.
I also, at that tender age, had never seen, let alone touched, a rubber johnny - though why the cock on the right in this situation should have had one on at all didn't occur to me.
   There were, of course, lots of scribblings of 'dirty' words and stories as well as other drawings on all the wall surfaces and the back of the cubicle door all over, but it was this particular drawing that had the most profound effect at that moment, and indeed, on all my life since.
   Can't recall if, in my astonishment, I ever did have the shit that I'd come in for, but after realising what the drawing was, and feeling both total horror and disgust, my initial feelings gradually changed over the ensuing period.Those feelings of disgust gradually diminished. They became an interest, then a curiosity,  and then finally this became a fascination - a burning one! Had I really seen what I thought I'd seen? I had to go back to investigate, just to be sure for my own satisfaction. So I returned - again - and again. I  read the sexy stories and I got really involved. Soon I found I had a craving to read more and more. Christ, it seemed the whole world was having sex, sex sex - apart from me! It was not that long before I dared myself to start adding my own contributions on the wall, both crude drawings and stories, depicting things I'd never (yet) done. The more I went to these shithouses (Note: not just the one - it was now an addiction to visit them ALL) the more I started noticing that there were oddly behaving men hanging around in these places, sometimes whispering to each other, other times just waiting looking round and waiting for something. Sometimes when I was in there avidly lapping up all the filthy stories and drawings they'd knock at the cubicle door. Then some days they'd even try to push the door open, which was quite scary to a young lad like me - and when there was no bolt (which, if there was, was almost invariably broken) I'd have to push back hard to keep them out. But, inevitably, because of my then tender age, it wasn't that long before the attraction of my younger body to other guys became too much for me to resist. They just wouldn't take 'no' for answer. So I started my active sexual life with an attitude so unlike the unwillingness I'd tried my best to maintain (unsuccessfully) in that scout-camp incident. (I'll have to talk about the struggle with my own conscience shaped by my strict Catholic education at some other time.)
   So, was this drawing of a man with his cock up another man's bum the 'tipping point' at which I was 'corrupted'? Maybe. Or maybe the tipping over actually took place earlier with the sexual initiation and humiliation which I've referred to. Who knows? But to whichever guy had drawn this (I feel sure it was a lad in his mid or late teens), after a lifetime of great sex-crazed experiences, many of which took place in or were instigated by public shithouses, I'd like now just  to say "Thank you!"  .

Q & A - about my shithole.

Q. Well, Mr Khakibum, you've kindly agreed to answer some questions about the activities of your arsehole. We all know what comes out, but our current interest is in what has entered it. So may I begin?
A. Yes, go ahead. And by the way, you can just call me 'Khaki'.

Q. Thank you, Khaki. Now to start with, can we talk about foreign bodies pushed into your hole i.e. inanimate objects? Is that a big thing with you?
A. Not quite as big as it used to be. You know, when we were younger, in our early teenage years, I think all boys liked to experience those new-found feelings of sexual pleasure and experiment with them. I don't think I was any different from most lads in pushing small objects like smooth stones, pieces of coal, bits of soap, up my bum. As I grew I looked for new sensations, pushing the necks of bottles up there too. One of my early 'findings' was to push the corks from bottles inside me, later tied with a piece of string so that I could pull them out easily rather than shitting them out, which could be rather painful if one got too carried away with the initial insertions. Then I progressed to carrots and then further to candles, but found that although they were ideal in terms of shape, one's own body-heat would tend to melt them inside, sometimes with pieces breaking off. Not always so pleasant! Then, as an adult, of course I progressed to butt-plugs and rubber cocks or dildos with batteries that vibrated. But, as I say, it was never really a great interest with me as nothing can beat a real, big, hard, greased-up cock.
Oh, and I ought to just say that, having had a strict Catholic education there was always a mental tussle going on between my desires, which I knew to be 'sinful', with inverted commas (Laughter) and the need I felt to satisfy these urges. It hardly needs saying which one usually won, but for years I was blighted by feelings of guilt, thanks to our Holy Mother Church, I don't think! (Applause)

Q. Well, that's a really full description of your activities in that area. But now getting to the really interesting part, can you tell us, up to today, how many cocks have entered your hole? Just approximately, of course! (Laughter)
A. Actually not all that many in total, as I've always preferred the oral side. But to answer your question, I'd have to divide that question up. Firstly, the number of rubber-johnnied cocks which have been up me is, frankly, rather less than I might have wished. On the other hand, the number of 'bareback riders' I've allowed in is a bit greater than I ought to have allowed. But, you know, when one has had a few too many drinks one gets carried away and you behave in ways which, totally sober, you would have considered unwise.

Q. Yes, I know what you're referring to. But clearly you've been very lucky considering some of your past experiences.
A. Yes, I'm shit-sure that I've been very lucky indeed.

Q. Now, how many tongues have been there?
A. Do you mean actually entered, or just licked and slurped around my hole?

Q. Well, both.
A. Not enough of both! (General laughter.) It's an activity I just can't get too much of. I fuckin' LOVE it!

Q. Well, well! That's clear enough.
A.  And can I just add that my other end - my tongue - is never satisfied in having too many bumholes to penetrate. If a guy's naked hole is presented to me I've just got to lick it all round and gently push my tongue in and lick all I can inside. I like to lick the shit out of guys - literally!  (Applause.)

Q. Now can I just ask you one further question on that? You may not wish to answer but if you'll just allow me to ask it anyway. Using both your arsehole and your tongue in an activity which you clearly love to engage in, have you ever experienced any nasty after-effects, if you get my meaning?
A, Yes, I certainly do know what you are referring to. I must once again thank my uncanny luck. I have never once experienced any trouble at either end as a consequence of this particular activity. At least so far. I certainly don't intend to give up doing it, but am always aware that any day my luck may change. But, as I say, so far, the gay bum-sex gods have been looking kindly on me, though any day they could turn round and give me a really nasty bite on the arse.

Q. Ah, that's excellent. Thank you, Khaki, for giving us the time to speak so frankly to us on this delicate but fascinating subject.
A. Not at all, Sir. It was a pleasure. Now, (licking lips) turn round, drop your pants and bend over! Ha ha!

(General applause and cheers.)
 

My (long ago) teenage shiny purple-head nob.

Even at my then tender age I'd have been longing for a man willing to suck this off for me - rolling it round and round in his wet mouth like a large boiled sweet (a gob-stopper, literally!), lashing, stroking and licking it with his tongue until it spurted my 'cream' into that spitty receptacle, and me watching to see his Adam's Apple bob up and down to show that he'd swallowed all my precious 'gift' gratefully.

When first shown this I nearly pissed myself.......

......not only because I thought it funny (I think it'll raise at least a smile on my blog-readers' faces), but because this depiction of army corporal  punishment being meted out to a hapless squaddie has firm resonances to my own experience in the boy scouts (even the uniforms are similar, while their colour is identical), when I was given the caning of my life during a country camp just after my own sexual humiliation by older boys, and immediately prior to being permanently and ignominiously expelled from that illustrious organisation. In my case, though, I had to bend over a low-hanging tree branch whilst trying to keep hands on knees - and the sadistic bugger who gave the caning was the Scout Troop Leader who also happened to be an Irish priest. It was delivered in front of the entire assembled troop as a warning that any future 'gross misconduct' (of which I was totally innocent) by ANY scout would have the same result. Was it any wonder I turned out the way I am? But this blog is running too far ahead. When I get round to it I might give fuller details in future blogs, probably in instalments as it's a l-o-n-g story.
But back to this drawing. I hope you all like it as much as I do.  Ha ha ha!!!

Calling all MEN! Fancy a lick? FREE for all men with a tongue..

If you want more than a lick, that should be possible. If it's unusual it might have to be the subject of negotiation but I'm sure an arrangement could be made (depending on if I'm pissed at the time and to what extent). But even totally sober I am quite broad-minded.

Btw I am NOT a male slut! I'm just a humble, khaki-skinned chap offering assistance to other guys wishing to experience simple pleasures.

If this man in khaki came at me, waggling his lathi........

.......would I get on my knees? Hell, sure as shit I would!!!! And not only that, I'd do WHATEVER he commanded me.

Sunny Deol (in film 'Jo Bole So Nihal') - sexy as hell with a beard - but, for me, not nearly so without it.

Why all this KHAKI?

Well to start at the beginning.......
Because of my ancestry, my skin has a sallow-swarthy complexion. At school I was not only the darkest in the class I was also the only non-white face in the entire school at that time.
One day in our geography class our master (one of several Irish priests) picked me out to answer one of his questions, which I did correctly. His flippant comment was "Yes, that's right, you little khaki bomb!" Of course the whole class erupted with hilarity at this witticism, which I'm sure was meant to be jocular rather than offensive. I was more discomfited by the attention put on me than the words said. But that was the very moment when my lifelong association with khaki began.
Of course, boys being boys, they weren't going to let the remark be forgotten. In the ensuing recreation periods wherever I went I was greeted with the new nickname which was sometimes 'Khakibomb' but was soon transformed into 'KhakiBUM'!' I was asked several times - "Hey there, is it right that you've got a khaki bum? Ha ha!" . This sort of remark continued for some time to my annoyance. Now I ought to mention that up to that point, in the same manner that someone called Robinson will be called 'Robbo' , or a Smith will be called 'Smithy', my class nickname was already 'Carty', playing on my actual surname. As the sounds of that name and 'khaki' were very close, one quickly and easily got changed into another. The 'bum' part was dropped, and I began being called just 'Khaki', which, after a while, I started getting used to. This continued for the remainder of my school life.
After leaving school and starting work the nickname dropped out of my life apart from with the three of four school mates I'd continued to have contact with. After a while, when fully an adult, I decided to resurrect it and use it generally - and have been known as 'Khaki' by lots of friends and acquaintances ever since. I like the word, the stuttering sound of it, the spiky look of it when written, the musty male smell of it, the gritty taste of it, the rough feel of it, the blunt, work-a-day functionality of it, and its masculine colour - though its military associations I don't care to dwell on. The single word itself wasn't available as a name for this new blog of mine, which would have been my first choice, so for the sake of uniqueness I've reverted to the now gently self-mocking title of 'Khakibum'. So now you know.

Oh, I can just mention that back at school after this new name became established it was suggested that with a name like mine it would be especially appropriate if I should seriously consider joining the boy scouts and wear their uniform (hence the picture at the top of this entry).. I was initially reluctant, not being a very sociable animal, but the repeated suggestions grew in volume which eventually led me to join that 'illustrious' organisation - a decision that would seal my fate and get me caught in a particular khaki web of fetishism from which I've never been able to escape, though I enjoy it too much to really want to disentangle myself - and NO, it's emphatically NOT to do with boys!!! . Intriguing? I hope so. But details of what happened next in my development will have to wait for a future blog.......

They're off!

Testing.....testing. Here I come.