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Sometimes inspiration, in all of its fickleness, strikes home with a veritable bolt from the blue, leaving an author all but helpless in attempting to stand in its path.

This story is one such instance. Aided by familiarity with personalities I know who fit the roles demanded by the scenario, I found this piece written in an extraordinarily short start-to-finish time, and the result is what you see here. Unusual, yes, and more "gritty" and realistic than much of what I write, but who am I to debate something that so very much demanded to be written up?

So though it is a bit different from my usual work, I do hope that you enjoy it.

---

So I was visiting my amigo Brandon's place the other night, and during the course of our rock-god simulation games, he and his roommate, who got the semi-derisive nickname "Benji" through a process Bran has yet to tell me about, were getting themselves absolutely smashed over the course of an album or two's worth of songs. It was Benji's idea, really--he was the one who broke out the tequila, the limes, and the salt, though I'll never know where he found 'em, 'cause the place is always a mess and they only do the dishes when the kitchen becomes so cluttered that you can't find anything any more--but despite attempts to derisively dismiss the idea, Bran was soon knocking back shots and salt every bit as zealously as Benji.

The two of them are both in the Navy, and the gay jokes are usually flying back and forth any time the two of them are doing things together in anything past the deepest introversive moods. I'm told it's an armed-forces thing, something about the majority still being guys even though women are starting to get their share in the enrollment numbers. Not really sure, though I remember hearing a saying along the lines of "you're not queer if it's moored at the pier," or something like that...makes me think the guys probably get a little desperate out there. Especially since the two of them operate on nuclear subs, which can (and do!) go several weeks underwater without even breaking the surface.

But the thing is, Bran is sort of a wicked intellectual--he can be nice if the situation really calls for it, but most of the time he has nothing if not sarcasm, even if it's often pretty witty. Benji, on the other hand, tends to be nice and slightly goofy, aside from the verbal jabfests with Bran. Both have a stocky build that probably comes from being bottled up on a sub for months on end with heavily-processed food and long sleep shifts--I hear they have gyms on those things, but it's so humid down there--who'd want to use 'em much?

The point is, Bran can dance circles of reasoning around Benji's more easy-going personality, and sometimes Benji won't even know he's being had, despite the fact that I'll be curled over with laughter on the other end of the living room. He usually -does- get it eventually, though...and considering that Bran is technically the primary renter on the place they share, in the end, what Bran says usually goes.

To say nothing of the kinda subby vibe I get from the guy. But hey, I like the males in life--something about not being a big fan of boobs, I'm guessing--so maybe I just pick up on that kinda thing where most don't.

But yeah, I got the feeling there was a bit more going on that particular evening when Benji was dishing out another round of shots, and spilled the salt on the back of his hand. No big, right? Except that Bran just leaned over and licked it off before slugging back the already-poured shot of tequila, then squelched a lime over his open mouth as a chaser. Whoa there!

I was startled enough that I actually let out something between a scoff and a snerk after seeing it. What a surprise, coming from two generally-over-the-top homophobes! Okay, I take that back a little--Bran once made a comment about how, to the average cock, it probably can't tell the gender of the warm, soft hole it's being stuffed into, or even if it can, it sure doesn't care. He had nothing against gays, but seemed pretty concerned with not being seen as one himself. Benji, on the other hand...all I had to go by were the gay jokes, and how reactive he tended to be about them.

Now, I don't drink, so I have the privilege of being sober for their intoxicated antics, but I knew from experience that they didn't remember the half of it later...like the one time that Bran bet he'd be inside Benji's new girlfriend within six months. Benji raised the stakes to a hundred--or was it five hundred?--dollars, and Bran accepted. Two days later, neither of them could remember a word of it.

But to my further surprise, they actually noticed my little noise of reaction. "What's so funny?" said Benji.

"Oh, nothing," I said, not expecting to have to cover for myself. "I just find it funny that Bran licked the salt off you instead of just like...scooping it off or whatever."

"Hey man, that's good salt," said Bran, though without much zest behind it.

"Oh hey, I guess he did," said Benji, as though it'd just now occurred to him. Traces of the salt remained on his hand, and he slurped the rest of them off himself.

I seemed to be the only one noticing the erotic overtones of the moment. "Hot," I said, adding a U-shaped inflection of tone to the word.

"Heheh, yeah," said Benji. "Maybe I should spill it again and see if he licks it up."

"You spill the salt again and you'll be the one licking it off the carpet," retorted Bran, only half-serious, his wit dulled somewhat with the liquor.

"I bet you'd like to see that," said Benji. "Homo."

"You're the fuckin' faggot," said Bran. "We all know why you like being assigned to tour." I wasn't sure if maybe Bran was forgetting that I wasn't also in the Navy.

"Homo," said Benji again. "You just want to see my ass up in the air." He was grinning haphazardly, and he tilted backwards a pinch, then clipped his foot back to retain his balance. Equilibrium for these guys was usually hard to get rid of--they lived on boats for much of the year, after all--but that didn't mean it wasn't still impaired by all the booze.

"Faggot," Bran replied, letting their little contrariness-fest continue, "You just want someone to rape you so you can enjoy it without the guilt. Your girlfriend would probably think it was hot, though," he said, letting the tangent run with him.

"At least I have one," Benji retorted. "You keep scaring yours away with all the man-porn you keep in your room," he said, pretty much on the brink of laughing. They were getting ridiculous now.

"There wouldn't be any if you weren't leaving it in there when you have your special wank time," replied Bran, his face split wide with a slightly-vacant grin. He made a jerking-off motion with one of his hands, then let it drop limply back into his lap.

Benji turned so that his butt was facing Bran and I on the couch, then gave it a clumsy spank and swayed it in front of us, grinning impishly over his shoulder. "Look at that ass," he said, "I bet you're getting hard just looking at it, 'cause you want man-ass like that." His tequila sloshed in the glass as he jiggled, and a dribble fell over the side of it. No one else noticed.

"Keep that up and I'll fuck you just because obviously you want it so bad, faggot," said Brandon, trying to sound authoritative but failing on account of how ridiculous all this was. And 'cause of the booze, of course. The spacey grin was still very much in place.

Benji backed up a bit, but since he was technically facing the other way, it drew him nearer to Bran, letting him wave his butt at the guy from even closer range. He collided with the small coffee table where Bran's sewing machine basically lived--long story on that one--and nearly knocked off a few empty beer bottles that had been there for heavens only knows how long. The impact put him a bit off balance, too, making his attempts at mock sensuality even clumsier. Wasn't enough to stop him, though. "That would make you the faggot, faggot."

At this point I could easily have psychoanalyzed the hell out of the situation and described it as a strange cat-and-mouse game in an attempt to prove that the other was gay while simultaneously not being gay himself. But I didn't. I wasn't mesmerized by Benji's terrible attempts at butt-jiggle--he wasn't my type, even if his face was a little on the cute side, and butts have never been a huge consideration for me anyway--so much as how surreal this whole mess was, and how weird it felt to be sitting right here as it took place.

But I was still grinning, 'cause it was hecka funny, in a weird sort of way. You know how it is.

"Get your ass out of my face, fag," said Bran, still grinning, but doing his best to sound unamused. When the shaking didn't stop, he leaned back and--somehow managing to miss the sewing machine--kicked straight at Benji's butt, sending the younger sailor reeling forward.

The angles involved meant that Benji didn't go perpendicular to the couch--which might have put him through the nice plasma screen they had in the room--but rather at sort of a diagonal, propelling Benji at the edge of the recliner next to the couch, which was set at an angle so it could also be used to watch TV. He probably would have fallen flat on his face if the chair hadn't been there to catch himself with. But even though he came to something of a halt, the salt shaker in his hand careened forward, showering the top of the recliner with white crystals.

"Shit, man, you totally...kicked my ass!" said Benji between laughs. He probably would have been really mad if he wasn't totally soused at the moment. Instead, he seemed to be really enjoying the fact that his roommate kicked him across the living room.

"Hey, you spilled the salt, faggot," said Bran, also laughing in that breathless-seeming way drunks do, perhaps because he normally might never have actually kicked Benji, but had just gotten away with it. "Clean it up."

"You clean it up!" said Benji, still totally amused. "I wouldn't have spilled it if you hadn't kicked me!"

Bran gave a scoff. "I also wasn't the one waggling a gay ass in my face! Clean up the salt!" The grin was starting to wane a little. Hmm.

"Fuck no!" retorted Benji. Of the two, he appeared to be the more intoxicated--he still thought it was a grand time, if the expression on his face meant anything. For some reason, though, he turned to look at the salt anyway. Maybe he was going to like...scoop it up and throw it at Bran, or something? I could imagine it.

The world may never know, though, because instead Bran was up in a flash, and with the most alacrity I may have ever seen a drunk sailor muster, he had a hand on Benji's back and another on the back of his head, and was pushing Benji's face down into the salt. "I said, lick it up, Reider." That was Benji's last name, pronounced like "reader", and it was the other predominant nickname Bran had for him. Its origin was a lot less mystical than "Benji."

"What the fuck, man--" said Benji, struggling somewhat, though clearly startled enough to not be able to respond well in all of his smashed glory.

"That's an order, Petty Officer Reider. Lick up the salt you spilled. Now." Bran's drunken grin was nowhere to be seen; instead, there was an evil grin ghosting his demeanor, the type of cynical face he usually put on when he knew he was about to cut someone's silly idea into little tiny chunks.

There's one thing I know about the armed forces, and that's that they teach people how to react to orders without thinking. Sure, Bran told me that the Navy was a lot more lax about it than, say, the Army's fabled drill instructors, but his way of looking at it was that since there hadn't been a significant naval conflict in years, let alone one that required nuclear submarines, he suspected none of the higher-ups really cared about it to the same extent.

So it was slow, and it was hesitant, but to my amazement I saw Benji's tongue slowly slide out and lick up some salt. Granted, the shaker hadn't popped open or anything, so it wasn't like a dune of kosher rock over there, but I'd personally be more worried about licking the recliner rather than the salt. Place was grody.

Then again, I wasn't the one being rank-pulled. Nor was I drunk. Oh, the things I miss out on...

They shifted a bit; I wasn't sure, from where I was sitting, if it was Bran or Benji that had made the movement, but with how close they were, they both ended up moved by it. Bran leaned in, his voice becoming suddenly much quieter, lower, a surprising shift for an inebriate. "Do you want this?" he said, to the point that I had to rerun the sound through my head to figure out what he said.

"Want--want what?" said Benji, sounding more than a little confused, his voice also hindered from the gout of salt he'd just downed.

This time the motion was much more pronounced, and with that repetition I could place it: Bran had just ground his package against Benji's butt! What was the world coming to?

Perhaps more importantly, why was I enjoying it so much?

"Do you want this?" repeated Bran, his tone virtually an exact duplicate of the last time he'd spoken.

There was a pause where all I heard was some breathing, and then, so quietly it almost sounded a breath itself, Benji responded, "...yes..."

Bran shook his roommate bodily, once, and roared, "I asked you a question, Petty Officer Reider! Do you want to be fucked soundly, in the ass, by your superior officer?!"

I can only imagine training must have kicked in again, because the "Sir, yes sir!" was nearly immediate, even if the tone in which it was given was rocky and tenuous. Coulda been the salt, but I had a feeling it was more from fear that Bran had something wicked in mind that had nothing to do with pleasant buttsex. Bran was indeed the devious sort, and though he was drunk, I wouldn't have been surprised if something demeaning was in order.

"Keep your head down and drop your pants, petty officer!" commanded Bran, in something a little less than the previous roar, but still in a voice that raged with authority.

Benji's hands flew to his own waist and began to undo the button fly and zipper of his shorts, but the mixture of adrenaline and ethanol in his veins made his hands supremely shaky. It took him several long seconds to muster the dexterity to undo them, and once they were undone, they stuttered downwards a few times before dropping to pool about his ankles. His boxers remained underneath--a green gingham plaid.

"Boxers off too!" continued Bran. I wasn't sure if "Drop your pants" in Navy-speak meant "all clothing below the waist" or just "pants or shorts", so I didn't know if perhaps Benji had defied original orders (or perhaps just plain messed up?) by leaving his boxers on.

Their waistband was elastic, and Benji had no trouble shimmying them off of himself--but the pace and demeanor with which he went at it conveyed a certain reluctance, as though in spite of what he'd just said, he wasn't sure if this was what he wanted. But Bran seemed patient in waiting, despite the zeal with which he was laying orders about, and soon enough they joined the outer shorts on the floor.

"Stay right where you are, sailor!" said Bran. He took his hands off of Benji's body for a moment to undo his own shorts, but instead of letting them drop around his ankles, he simply opened their fly with impressive ease, then threaded his own shaft out through the fly of his boxer briefs. I shouldn't have been surprised by anything, the way the evening was going, but I hadn't expected to see that his cock was quite hard already--had Bran wanted this, too?

At the moment, though, you can bet that I was focused on the sudden revelation of Bran's cock--I'd never seen it before, and what with having a taste for things with Y chromosomes, it was definitely relevant to my interests. The length was nothing to write home about--my untrained eyes guessed it was a 5 or a 6, but having not been with guys prior to that, it was a guesstimate at best--but the thickness of it was impressive...the fly of his boxer-briefs was stretched around it like a cock ring, and had he been any harder at the time, I'm not sure he would have been able to get it out of that opening.

Bran lost no time in resuming his position immediately behind his younger partner, and he ground the burgeoning sausage in the cleft between Benji's pleasantly-smooth-looking cheeks, eliciting a quiet gasp from the bent-over seaman. Bran was a white-blonde, and what body hair he had was always not easy to make out; Benji, on the other hand, had light-brown hair, and though his legs were unshaven, I noted that his groin was neatly trimmed--a bush enough to make out that he wasn't a teenager, but no unkempt, scraggly forest crowning his package, and his shaft and sac were also rather smooth, though a dusting of new growth was coming in: apparently it'd been a few days since the last trim.

"Fuck, I forgot lube," said Bran, in a completely normal and conversational tone of voice--a somewhat jarring transition. Chances are that he realized it wouldn't do either of them any good to do without. He swished his cheeks a bit, then spat, the resulting wad of saliva hitting about half-on, half-off his cock, the remainder a glistening spatter upon Benji's pale left cheek. He fiddled his hips a bit, smoothing a bit of it onto the far side of his shaft with the motion--but it certainly didn't clean up the bulk of the fluid.

Benji's body was already a wired mass of inarticulate tension, but as Bran drew down and back some, preparing to enter, the younger sailor tightened up like you wouldn't believe. His face was one massive cringe, and I knew that focusing on the pain instead of trying his darnedest to relax was going to make this hurt a lot more than was necessary. For a change, I wasn't at all surprised--to hear him voice obscenities in clear discomfort as Bran pushed in by measures, not taking it slow so much as finding it hard to cram the meat into a hole that was probably doing its best to shove him back out.

"Damn, you're a tight one," said Bran, his face squinched just a bit with the effort. "Maybe you're not sleeping around with gay seamen as much as I thought." It wasn't long before his cloth-bound groin came up against those rounded mounds, seeing as he wasn't a long-hanger.

"Fuck, man, what are you using back there? No fuckin' way that's your dick. Shit..." The angle Bran was using on him made it hard for him to spare hands without going face-first into the salt again, but it seemed to me that he wanted to reach back behind himself and feel if that really was Bran's cock, if I read the squirms correctly.

"It's all me, baby," said Bran, only partly tongue-in-cheek, his cynic's grin coming back in a show of devilish satisfaction. Rather than wait for the younger sailor to get adjusted, Bran began to pull back almost immediately, pushing on Benji's body for leverage. "All three inches across, and you asked for it."

I filed this measurement away in my mental repository of lurid factoids. One might never know when it could come in handy.

"Three...?" Benji laughed sardonically, possibly in part from the relief of the withdrawal Bran was performing. "Hell, that's...that's a frickin' wide thing...we use cables that big, don't we?"

"Only for the heavy-load lines," replied Bran, jamming his shaft back inwards with a quiet grunt. The two of them did electrical work as part of their duties, so I assumed they meant power cables.

"Ugh, god!" interjected Benji as that wide meat was forced back into him, this time at a faster pace. "Damn...I dunno how I'm gonna walk after this..." Again the sardonic laughter kicked in; I had a feeling the initial adrenaline rush was subsiding, and the alcohol was getting a chance to reassert its sentiments.

"I'll bet you've wanted heavy loads up your ass for a long time," said Bran, apparently still on the cable-comparison tangent. "Faggot." He continued working on the thrusting throughout, but it was still somewhat slow going.

"You're the one with your dick in a guy's ass," retorted Benji. "Homo."

"I took pity on you because you wanted it bad enough to ask for it," replied Bran, his tone reverting to his more mischievous bent. "That makes me a philanthropist, and you a dirty faggot. I'm probably putting myself at risk for catching the AIDS from you right now. Aren't I nice?"

Benji gave a laugh that I'd heard him use many times before--the sort of laugh that acknowledges the funny in an argument without acknowledging the point; the sort of laugh that usually precedes a change of subject. But then it got cut short by more interjections of discomfort as Bran jammed into him yet again. Ah, such schadenfreude could be had here...

There was no real conversation for a while, and I could tell from how much effort Bran was using and his pacing that Benji was gradually relaxing.

Then suddenly: "Ah! Fuck! Ah!" from Benji. A convulsion of sorts passed through his body, though fortunately both Bran (apparently) and I were able to tell it wasn't epilepsy-grade.

"What now, Reider?" said Bran, sounding mildly uninterested. "Did your ass suddenly shrink?"

"Ahh," repeated Benji, "No, just...something you did felt hecka good for a second there. Damn...Do it a--ahhh! Fuck!"

I wasn't sure, prior to that, what Reider's facial expression for bliss would be, but I think in that moment, I learned.

Bran's face lit up with infernal delight. "Hah, I knew you'd love taking it in the ass, you little queer. Now you're probably going to be begging me for it every time you're back from at-sea. Unless you find yourself a faggoty little boyfriend on deployment." His thrusts seemed a little harder while he said this, and I suspect it was pure sadistic glee that infused him with such enthusiasm.

"Shut up, homo," retorted Benji, apparently unable to compose a suitable witty reply to this. The periodic waves of sublime satisfaction that Bran was apparently granting him were probably not something he wanted to risk losing, anyway.

They continued for a while, the pace gradually rising, with Benji's ecstatic moans punctuating it once every couple thrusts. Then Benji again interrupted the sort-of silence: "Ugh, fuck, I wanna jack myself off but I can't--ugh--do it with you keeping me off balance like this..."

Bran came to a halt, a slightly-peeved expression settling on his face. "Fine, rebalance yourself and grab your dick, queer. I'm not giving you a reach-around, but I don't want to hear your pitiful whining. And you'd better not get stains on the chair or carpet," he added, as he shifted his own position, "or you'll be licking them until they're clean."

"Whatever," grumbled Benji, "just let me get some paper towels if I need to." He resettled himself so that he could brace himself with one arm and use the other to tend to his loins; Bran kept one hand firmly fastened over the crest of the younger sailor's hips, keeping them locked in coitus throughout--apparently he wasn't in the mood to pull out completely.

I was rather happy with the arrangement, myself, as it afforded a slightly better view of the two of them, and it finally gave me a realistic opportunity to spy on Benji's cock, which would soon be hard enough to actually gauge his endowment. Better for everyone!

Bran apparently interpreted Benji touching his own cock as a sign that he was ready, and kicked back into gear straight away. The new position seemed to even work a little better for him, as his thrusts became more potent without losing speed. It impressed me, actually, to see how much power my friend put into rutting--his girlfriends, whomever they'd been in the past, had likely been in for quite a ride, which would be less than I would have otherwise expected from the stocky, easy-going Bran.

There wasn't really any conversation after that...Benji was clearly enjoying it even more than before--a feat I didn't know was possible--and even Bran was getting into it, occasionally interjecting little dirty nothings like "you like that? Huh?' into the mix of sounds. It wasn't the slap-slap-slap one might usually associate with mansex, due to the underwear still on the older sailor, but the thumping that replaced it was still definitely audible. I wondered if perhaps he'd left them on so their balls wouldn't touch...

And of course, I got to see Benji's cock at full staff, which was a touch longer than Bran's (not that that was saying -all- that much) but rather slender--except for the head, which mushroomed out fairly well. His sac, though, was the real prize--apparently getting to jack himself off loosened them up, and I was treated to the sight of them dangling low and heavy, flailing back and forth with the impact of Bran's impressively-zealous thrusts.

Perhaps it was my greater command of all things gay that led me to anticipate it, but with how much Benji had been enjoying it prior to getting to jerk himself, I had a feeling that including masturbation would mean he wouldn't last all that long. Probably wasn't more than about 15 minutes before the sound of his fevered moans and groans of mostly-delight rose in pitch, and with one final "Ahh, fuck--!" he came, having had the sense of mind (at least) to aim his cock at the floor instead of onto the recliner, spattering it and his shed bottoms below. Several gouts of off-white jizz spurted from his cock with a healthy velocity, followed by several dribbles and a few seconds of ooze, his voice an inarticulate string of sounds to accompany the climactic myotony that racked his body throughout.

Bran gave only a few grunts in recognition of this--probably because Benji undoubtedly redoubled in tightness as a result--but kept going, unfazed. In fact, Benji's cock was starting to soften a minute or so later, and still Bran was going at it.

"Fuck, dude, how long are you going to--ah--keep at that?" said Benji.

"Shut up," said Bran. "Just because I fulfilled your gay fantasies and made you cum so quickly doesn't mean I'm done yet. I'll finish when I'm done with your ass. And I'm not going to pull out and give you a faggoty facial, either," he added, making it sound like a genuine afterthought. I wondered just how much research he'd done into gay porn traditions, after hearing that one...

Bran's stamina did nothing if not impress; Benji was already starting to get hard again when the older sailor finally gave warning with "Alright, here comes that heavy load you wanted so bad...", before giving a guttural grunt and pulling back on Benji's butt hard and driving himself balls-deep into the younger sailor, where his load was undoubtedly left, unseen for the moment. Benji gave a quiet groan as this happened--I wasn't sure if he was enjoying it or what, at this point.

Then Bran pulled out, and while I couldn't really see Benji's entrance from my angle, I did see a strand of Bran's spooge stretch from his tip to between Benji's cheeks, before it grew too long for its own viscosity and plopped to the floor. Benji must have been cleaned out or something, because for a bareback, Bran's cock was left surprisingly free of non-spooge gunk...his load was probably pretty good, given that his entire shaft was glistening.

"Now clean up that mess on the floor," said Bran, "or it'll be licking time for you, Reider." He grabbed a sock from a bin of laundry waiting to be folded, swept the cum off of his own meat, and tossed it back towards their washer, which was in a nook just around the corner from the living room.

Benji, having been released from Bran's grip, bent down to get his pants and boxers up onto his hips, and staggered over to the kitchen to apprehend some paper towels. Then he was on hands and knees, scouring it out of the carpet.

Bran casually refastened his pants after tucking his cock back into his boxer briefs, then gave a yawn. "I'm tired...I'm gonna go to bed," he said, to no one in particular. The two of them had been so seemingly oblivious to my presence throughout all that I wasn't sure if he knew I was still there; it wouldn't have been his first inebriated oversight.

I took that as a hint, anyway, and waited for him to vanish down the hall before popping to my feet and whisking out the front door. Benji was apparently either so fixated on cleaning the carpet, or so drained and buzzed, or both, that he didn't seem to notice my leaving. However, I tended to be only half-visible to him when I was over, anyway; most of his dialogue was with Bran.

I talked with Bran the next day. He called me to invite me over to watch some shows on his DV-R--he had cable, whereas I never bothered to pay for what I could watch on "Hulu" if I really wanted to--and while we were on the line, he asked me, "by the way, Reider is walking a little funny today. I remember we got totally drunk last night--did he trip and fall on something?"

I decided to tell part of the truth and see if he remembered the rest. "You kicked his butt. Literally."

"Oh. Shit." There was a pause. "I totally don't remember that."

"Well, if he hasn't said anything, chances are he doesn't, either," I offered.

"Naw...I guess not. Huh. Don't remind him, okay?"

I winced inwardly. "Alright, I guess..."

A pity, though...that was a show I wouldn't mind seeing twice.