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Trench Charge
We had dug ourselves in nice and deep. When the attack came, our
trench would offer shelter to the living. When the battle was over and we had
filled it in again with the bodies of our enemy, the trench would offer
sanctuary to the dead. Our snipers were ready in the trees and on a nearby hill. The machine
gunner with the requisite bright yellow helmet was joking with us, taking
bets on how many Bundeswehr he could kill in a
single swoop of his weapon. The German special forces were to come at us Army
Rangers from their position in the east. Their objective in this chapter of
the Wargames was simple: kill the guy in the yellow
helmet. We had the job of keeping our targeted gunner alive and killing as
many Bundesboys as we could. We had the trench and
the snipers, they had sheer numbers and whatever soldiers' luck might come
their way. The Germans knew that without defensive cover and in the wide open
terrain that lay between their position and our trench, a lot of them would
bite the dirt that day, but all it would take was one German to get close
enough to finish off our gunner with the yellow hardhat. The rules of
engagement are clear: if the offensive force gets the machine gunner, the
game is over--they win. We were determined not to let that happen. This was our first death maneuver in the
trench. We knew the German elite forces who would charge us had already gone
through a similar exercise against a force of Australian SAS men the day
before, so they were battle tough. The Germans had been on the defensive
against the Aussies and had done a magnificent job protecting their yellow
helmet. Word was they had completely wiped out the crack SAS force that
charged them. We had heard that the German sergeants even tattooed themselves
after the battle: "100% SIEGREICH." Under the circumstances this
was an important advantage that the German troops enjoyed: Wargames rules specify that the number of troops an army
can deploy be equal to the number of men that force killed in its previous
engagement. Since they wiped out all the Aussies, they were coming at us with
at least 300 men, minus whatever losses they had sustained in the previous
combat. Besides their numbers, the Bundeswehr
enjoyed the confidence that comes from previous experience and a clear-cut
victory. Now though, it was time for the Germans to be on the offense and get
the hell shot out of them by US Army wargamers. We
Rangers were just the team to take them down a notch, too. Our dicks were hard with confidence and with bloodlust. We didn't talk
much about the Wargames schedule for the following
day, though it was on all our minds. Those of us who survived the German
onslaught were scheduled for a trench offensive the following day against a
battle-tested contingency of tough Canadian blue berets. At this very moment
the Canadians were digging their trench in another field and painting their
machine gunner's helmet yellow. But we would cross that bridge when we came
to it. "Any man who lets an enemy soldier get past him into the trench,
has me and my best friend to answer to," said our lieutenant, the
ranking officer on the American side. On the other side of the field,
whipping up his troops' morale, a German lieutenant was likely giving his men
a similar hard-assed warning. The American lieutenant held up his Colt
sidearm, the "best friend" he had alluded to. His message was
clear. His own ass would be dead meat if the Germans broke through the line,
got into the trench, and killed the yellow helmeted Ranger gunner. There was
no doubt in the minds of any of us that the lieutenant would personally snuff
any man who let him down during the battle. My dick was hard in my camo trousers, and I
know my best fuckbuddy Ryan, standing next to me,
was hard as a rock too. We aimed our rifles over the edge of the trench,
scanning the distance for movement, our trigger fingers itchy. Neither of our
dicks had been soft for the past 24 hours. Both Ryan and I had slept with our
M-16s in our bunks last night, caressing the weapons, letting the cold oiled
steel arouse us to the point of fucking and killing. "Those Bundesboys are tough fuckers,
huh?" asked my buddy Ryan. "No tougher than we are," I shrugged in response.
"They'll cry pretty good if you shoot 'em in
the gut." "I like to get a man in the chest, myself," said Ryan.
"Easier target, and the only thing that might save him is if his rifle's
in the way of the shot." "I drill 'em in the skull," I
said. "It's cool to go back later after it's over and check out the guys
I whacked. Sometimes the whole back of their fuckin'
skull is blown off. I like to see how close I got to getting them right
between the eyes. I hear that's how most of the Australian guys got
it--German sharpshooters got them right between the eyes." "They've got some pretty good shots then, huh?" asked Ryan,
trying to conceal a bit of mounting anxiety. "Yeah, but they eat bullets and die like any other soldier,"
I said. "Just mow the fuckers down." Our buddy Morris, the company jokester, interrupted our conversation
by whistling for our attention. He had unsheathed his knife and was jerking
it upward over his crotch area, making a grunting noise, contorting his face
in pain, mimicking radical castration. "Fresh German sausage!" Morris whispered. "I can hardly wait!" We grinned and told Morris to shut the fuck up. But it was true, we
all looked forward to claiming some dickmeat. In
earlier maneuvers they had the surviving troops go
through the battlefield and pull the dogtags off
the corpses when it was time for the bodycount.
Then some of the participating forces sent their men in without dogtags, just to foul up the statistics. The deflated
numbers gave the team an unfair advantage in the next battle by allowing it
to deploy more men than it deserved to have on the field. So the
administrators of the Wargames abandoned the dogtag idea, and we were all trained to cut an ear off
the dead guys so the casualty figures could be added up that way. But a
problem came up with that method too. When the Wargames
command counted the bodies and the number of ears, they found out that there
were more ears than KIAs. Some of the guys were getting a little over-eager
and were cutting both ears off of the corpses, inflating the figures. So now
we take the men's dicks after we kill them, or their dicks and balls both if
it's convenient. It's a little more difficult to get to, because we have to
cut through their BDUs, but there's no way to double count if you're adding
up cut-off dicks. We trained with our combat knives, learning not only the
best CQC techniques, but also how to slash the uniforms of the battefield dead when the firefight
was over and it was time for "mop up." We'd gotten the technique
down pretty well: slash, grab, and slice. Every German sausage we could bring
back from the field meant one more guy on our team the next time we fought. The sound of sniper fire from the hill signaled
the beginning of the latest round in the Wargames.
The Germans had begun the near suicidal advance required of them in this
terrain. Already young Bundeswehr troops were
dropping from the deadly fire of well-positioned Ranger snipers on high
ground along the perimeter of their assault. Our tree snipers opened fire as
well, taking out a few more of the enemy. Anti-sniper units fell out from the
German ranks and scattered around the suspected locations of US sharpshooters
while the main force of Germans continued its rapid advance. The Bundeswehr spotters painstakingly isolated the trees
holding the Ranger riflemen, then assigned one of their own sharpshooters to
shoot each sniper from a ground position. The Germans successfully spotted
two Ranger snipers after the Ranger marksmen had gunned down five or six
advancing German troops from their perches. Both American snipers took a slug
in the head and fell crashing through the foliage to die on the ground. The
Germans moved in on the fresh kill, using their bayonets to slash the BDUs of
the dead Rangers. They were starting the cock count early. The American
snipers lost their dicks to German steel. It wasn't long before the Germans drew close enough that we could see
them charging us at a run. We held fire as instructed by our lieutenant,
allowing them to advance into surer firing range. They were muscular,
well-built studs, tall and broad-shouldered. I could see that they ran with
their rifles held in front of their chests, the muzzles angled toward their
left shoulders. They had fixed their bayonets and looked mean as hell. If any
of the Germans made it into the trench, there were sure to be several gutted
Army Rangers in the dirt before we could finish them off. I glanced over at
the machine gunner, whose required yellow helmet made him a sitting duck,
which was exactly what the inventors of the Wargame
intended. Our machine gunner was holding fire as well, glaring steadily
forward, ready to mow down the fighting men who were out to kill him. The lieutenant gave the signal to open fire, a deep-throated war cry,
and banged the gunner's yellow helmet with a hard slap of his left hand. The
machine gunner began spitting his deadly steel toward the Germans, and we all
opened up with everything we had, peppering the opposing force with rapidly
fired M-16s. The results, as we expected, were devastating. The front of the
Germans' BDU jackets turned splotchy red before our eyes as their chests were
punctured with multiple gunshot wounds. They screamed briefly from the pain
of hot steel streaking through their chests, then stopped in their tracks.
The force of their momentum often meant that they would plummet to their
knees, stand upright in a kneeling position for another moment, often taking
still more ordinance into their doomed bodies. Then they would fall backward
in the dirt, their mutilated chests turned skyward. Even at a great distance
the machine gun could slam them with such force that the Germans were
propelled backward, often falling as a bullet-ridden corpse onto their asses.
Some of them bucked and lurched after they hit the ground, grabbing their chests
and lifting their crotches upward in eerily sexual death throes. Their
crotches were tentpoled with the stiff,
cum-spurting cocks of men meeting their fates on the field of valor and death. A lot of them were lucky enough to die
quickly, but it was also possible for the writhing to last quite a while,
sometimes even outlasting the battle. If they were still alive when it was
over, we would be putting them out of their misery during the mop up by
slitting their throats, gigging them with bayonets, or shooting them in the
head. It was clear the Bundeswehr was well trained
and confident. The Germans ran in steady waves of determined, camo-clad men, like a wall of uniformed muscle acting in
complete concert with one another, undaunted by the initial slaughter we were
inflicting on them. At regular intervals an advance line of Germans would
drop to one knee and aim their rifles at us, but even with their lower
profiles, the stationary targets were easier for us to hit. We slaughtered
the riflemen like flies, preventing them from inflicting more than a few
casualties on us. I got five of them myself, drilling a round from my M-16
into three handsome close-cropped blond heads and pumping ordinance into the
sturdy camouflaged chests of two other men. The head of one of the Bundesboys blew apart like a melon when my shot went
through his skull. As the attack progressed, they got close enough for me to
hear them grunt deeply when I shot them, and that made my cock harder.
Unfortunately the Germans took out some of our guys too before we mowed them down. One of the men they managed to get was
my buddy Ryan, who took an enemy slug squarely in the face as he stood next
to me in the trench. I guess it was just Ry's time
to go. My buddy's blood and brains splattered all over me as I killed the
kneeling German who had fired the successful shot. The German was propelled
backward and died flat on his back, his arms spread, his cock spurting death jizz into his pants. It was a damned shame about Ryan. He
was a good buddy and the best cocksucker I ever knew. It was clear our side
was going to win, though, even if it was without Ryan. So at least the enemy
wouldn't get to him before it was over. At least he'd get bagged with his
cock still between his legs. As part of its gamble, the Bundeswehr
appeared to be sacrificing its younger men, putting them up front to be
killed in the initial onslaught. More seasoned fighters, who might have a
better chance in close-quarter combat, should they penetrate the trench, came
up in the ranks farther back. They called out a fierce war cry, but it was
hardly audible due to the incessant barrage of gunfire coming from our side. A hopeless but obligatory flanking maneuver
by the Germans proved unsuccessful, as our lateral outposts detected their
movement in the brush and killed all of them before they could get behind our
trench. Man after man went down in the tall grass, a spray of bullets tearing
his broad back open or catching him in the chest or belly. Unfortunately the
men in the flanking advance managed to kill a couple of Americans before they
were all wiped out. That's how my buddy Morris got it. He was part of the
lateral outpost and found himself surrounded by four Bundeswehr
troops. They peppered him good before he could even get a round off, and that
poor bastard Morris got both his dick and his nutsac
sliced off of him by the Germans. It was as if he had been pantomiming his
own fate when he was clowning around back in the trench. The Bundesboys who carved Morris soon met their own fates,
though, as they were surrounded by Rangers and went down in a hail of M-16
fire, screaming in agony. Morris' loss was avenged fourfold. With their
flanking attempt foiled, all the Germans could do was charge us in a full frontal
assault and sacrifice huge numbers of men as they tried to bowl us over and
penetrate the trench. Of course, if they could get our machine gunner, it
would be worth the sacrifice. "This will thin their ranks," I yelled, as I continued to
pump round after round of ammunition into strong and youthful specimens of
German manhood. Thinning ranks was, after all, one of the purposes of the Wargames, which were an effective way of reducing the
numbers of men in uniform, accomplishing reduced staffing levels without
waiting for attrition, and giving the survivors an incomparable training
experience. The numbers of German dead were now so great that successive waves of
soldiers had to leap over the piles of shot-up bodies as they continued to
charge toward our position. The Ranger machine gunner who was the target of
the assault had a great time pelting the Germans as they leapt upward to
clear the piles of corpses. He cut several men in two while they were in
midair, splattering guts everywhere and sending them sprawling in pieces onto
the bloodied earth. One of the Germans took such an intense stream of machine
gun fire that his legs separated from his trunk and twitched on the ground as
if trying to dance or at least get up and walk. A pile of bloody guts that
had slipped out of his body cavity lay nearby. I saw several enemy soldiers
lose their heads as the withering machine gun fire caught them in the neck
and acted like a headsman's sword. Their bodies continued running for a few
more paces before stumbling and falling headless to the ground, chest down, a
gusher of scarlet arterial blood emanating from the stumps of their thick,
muscular necks. The air was thick with the smoke of hundreds of weapons
discharges. I felt something moist in my trousers and looked down briefly
toward my crotch, wondering if perhaps I had been wounded. I realized then
that in the excitement of battle I had unthinkingly shot a load of cum. Even
so, my dick did not lose any of its hardness. I knew a lot of the Germans
lying dead out on the battlefield had died shooting final cockshots.
Sperm from the men on both sides boiled up in our loins as we went about the
manly task of fighting, killing, and dying. They kept coming, defying our constant expectation that their ranks
would be depleted. Slowly the kill line advanced as more and more of the
stubborn Bundeswehr men managed to get closer to
our trench before they were cut down. I began to wonder if our ammo would
hold out. Often as many as ten Germans would get hit in the chest or face and
fall to the ground simultaneously, writhing briefly in the dirt before giving
up their lives. They began to fall so close to our trench that we could make
out their facial features, despite the camouflage paint they had applied to
themselves. One handsome German fighter fell dead near my position, his blue
eyes staring at me as they froze in death, blood running out of his mouth. I
began to call out targets to the guy beside me, a young corporal named MacIntyre. "I'll take the one on the left!" Mac
would yell, or I would cry out "Right one's mine!" I put round
after round into the skull of an attacking German soldier. I watched the
close-cropped heads of several men blow apart after they took close range
head shots, and I reveled in the sight of other
soldiers' boots flying up in the air as they flew backward with a chest full
of American steel. They landed on their asses, their boots flopping down
shortly afterward, their legs spread, the toes of their army boots rotating
outward and pointing skyward in the soldier's final repose. Several times my
dick throbbed in my pants when I saw a fountain of blood shoot up out of a
man's mutilated head. Often they would continue running for several paces
even after getting head shot, trailing blood in a plume behind them before
collapsing dead on the ground. The pelvis of one such man was moving up and
down in a humping motion as he spurted his last ejaculation while lying face
down on the battlefield. It was as if he were fucking the earth. My new partner Mac tried to get his targets in the heart. If he got a
German in the chest, I would often fire a second round, placing a bullet into
the head of the man before he went down, in order to finish him off more
decisively. Mac missed a couple of guys, though, and before I knew it two of
the fuckers had leapt into the trench, very close to the machine gunner with
the yellow helmet. The trench proved to be too narrow and crowded for their
rifles and bayonets to be of much use. They probably knew there was no way in
hell they were going to emerge from the trench alive anyway, so both Germans
abandoned their rifles and whipped out long, wicked-looking combat knives.
Before we could stop them, each of the enemy invaders claimed the life of one
of my comrades who were running interference for the machine gunner. I saw
one Ranger take German steel through his kidney while the German expertly
clamped his left arm around the American's forehead, then rapidly finished
off the Ranger with a second knife stroke -- a deep slash to his throat. The
other Ranger who bought it drew his blade and engaged the German knife
fighter, but he was outskilled and took the
German's blade in his gut, right up to the hilt, then again in the side of
his throat. The Ranger spewed blood like a stuck pig, coating the ground and
both sides of the trench as he sank to his knees and collapsed. He shrieked
vile curses at the man who had gotten him, holding his hopelessly wounded
neck with one hand, his gut wound with the other hand, then sank to his knees
and collapsed. A clot of camo-clad US Rangers was
on top of the two German knifemen in no time. The lieutenant himself put a
.45 caliber slug through the forehead of one of the
invaders, and the doomed soldier took six or eight knives in his back and
sides before he hit the ground. His comrade fared no better. Trying to cut
his way through to the machine gunner and score a victory for the Bundeswehr, the tall, lean German fighter was tackled by
a burly Ranger, who grabbed his knife arm and blocked him from carrying out
further slashes. The two of them went down onto the bottom of the trench and
rolled a couple of times in a pitched fight before we de-animated the German.
His tackler pinned him on his belly and forced his head back to expose his
throat, which we promptly cut from ear to ear. His face plopped into the
dirt, and he was still making gurgling sounds and thrashing his legs when I
drew my sidearm and squeezed a round off into the back of the German
soldier's close-cropped head. Our machine gunner, still safe and still
shooting the charging enemy forces, turned briefly to me and the lieutenant
and said "Thanks for saving my butt, guys!" Then, as suddenly as it had started, the maneuver
was over. An orange flare fired by one of the snipers on the perimeter was
the pre-arranged signal to indicate that the German advance had been
expended. The lieutenant stepped on the upturned ass of the dead German who
had made it inside our perimeter. He cautiously lifted himself up and climbed
from the trench with his sergeant and a corporal and sauntered toward the
enemy dead. "Forward!" yelled the lieutenant satisfied that there
was no remaining wave of enemy warriors to charge them. "Fix bayonets!
Gig these men!" Only the dead counted toward our overall score. Repelling
the charge ensured our victory, but a high body count made it sweeter and
would help us in the next battle. Besides the practical benefit of allowing
us more men next time out, a high cock count becomes part of an outfit's
reputation and hopefully intimidates the opposition. We set about sticking
our bayonets into the bodies of German soldiers that lay about the field,
finishing them off if they were alive, otherwise making sure they were dead.
Some of the men were moaning in pain when I sank my bayonet into their guts,
chest, or back. Others appeared to be dead but uttered a sharp grunt after my
blade entered them, betraying that they were not dead at all. To be on the
safe side, I stuck my bloody blade into every casualty I came upon. One young
Bundesboy lying on his belly with gut wound waited
for a Ranger to approach and bayonet him, then suddenly the German rolled
over to expose a pistol he had concealed underneath him. He fired directly at
the Ranger's face, killing him instantly. Before the possum could aim his
pistol at any of the rest of us, six Rangers had descended upon him. I kicked
the pistol out of the young soldier's hand, then placed my boot firmly on his
right hand, pinning it to the ground. Mac did the same with the fucker's left
hand. The German craned his head back and forth between us, squinting and
grimacing from the pain in his guts and the anguish of his defeat. He had
managed to kill one more Ranger before dying, but the look in his eyes made
it clear that he knew his cock now belonged to the US Army. "Scheisse!" he yelled, just before he took four
bayonets in the chest, all at the same time. A couple of bayonets became
lodged between the soldier's ribs and were extracted only with difficulty.
The Rangers pressed down on the German's chest with their boots and yanked
their blades out of the muscular young soldier's rib cage. Then, just for the
hell of it, they rammed him through a second time to avenge their dead buddy,
who lay on his back with his face blown off. After we were through gigging
him we slit the fucker's trousers open and cut his dick off. Meanwhile the lieutenant, his sergeant, and a corporal were stepping
over the shot-up German corpses and making their way across the bloody field
to a point at which one of the rear-position Army snipers met them. They
shook hands, congratulating each other for their rout of the Bundeswehr. The Ranger snipers had descended from their
perches and were force-marching a small contingency of prisoners ahead of
them. The Germans' hands were clasped behind their necks in the traditional
posture of POWs. One of the prisoners was their lieutenant. "The Bundeswehr lieutenant wishes to
concede the maneuver," a Ranger sniper
informed his C.O., hardly able to contain his enthusiasm over the Americans'
clear victory. "Surrender accepted," responded the American lieutenant.
Then to his sergeant and the corporal, "Execute the surviving enlisted
men. Send the lieutenant back to his lines." We knew that once he got back to his side, the unfortunate German
lieutenant would be executed by his own superior officers. A quickly
assembled firing squad was the common penalty for losing a round in the Wargames. The lieutenant, however, a tall, good-looking,
battle-seasoned man in his late 30s, requested of his captors that he be
allowed to die there with his men. The American lieutenant consented and
ordered Mac to fetch a length of rope. It was an odd and old-fashioned custom
in the Army--hanging the captured commanding officer--but military traditions
die hard. The handsome German lieutenant watched quietly, no expression on
his face, as a Ranger sergeant quickly fashioned an expert noose on one end
of the rope, then tossed it over a tree branch. I tied the man's hands behind
him. "Pech," was all the German said as
the noose passed down over his eyes. The sergeant who was doing the hanging
had the nickname "Knots," for obvious reasons. Knots snugged the noose against the prisoner's thick throat and
pulled the knot back behind his left ear. We decided to let him live long
enough to see his Bundesboys off. The six German
enlisted men who had been rounded up still alive ranged in age from a tender
but masculine 19-year-old to a brutally handsome fucker about 29 who scowled
at us with a fuck-you attitude. I noticed his dick was hard and bulging in
his cammies. I guessed correctly that this man was
one of the crack anti-sniper shooters who had bagged our tree-boys early in
the conflict. The German marksmen were excellent: it was clear that if the
battle had been waged solely on sharpshooting ability, the Rangers might not
have fared so well. This one wore a marksman's patch on his BDU jacket, and I
knew that his knife had cut American cockmeat. We ordered the doomed men into a line, then made them get down onto
their knees. We prodded them between the shoulder blades with our bayonets
and told them to unbutton their flies and pull their dicks out. The
good-looking sharpshooter in his late 20s grimaced as he pulled a huge
purple-headed boner out of his uniform. He was fiercely stiff, and he had to
fold his uncooperative shaft in order to get the meat out of his trousers.
Once it was extracted, his impressive ramrod stood at full mast, throbbing in
time with his steadily beating heart. In lieu of tying their hands, the lieutenant
grinned and told the Germans to grab their dicks with both hands. "Make
'em grab their throttles," was the way he put
it to us. I went down the line of humiliated soldiers, pulling their dogtags out of their shirts and placing them into each
guy's mouth while he held his own cock in his hand. Mac, under Knots'
supervision, was given the honor of executing the
six prisoners. The young corporal hadn't seen much action prior to today's
battle, so the killing would be a good break-in for him. He followed me down
the line of men. After I stuffed their tags into their mouths the corporal
stood back, straightened his firing arm, and shot the prisoners one by one
through the back of the neck at close range. They plopped forward, face in
the dirt, each man biting down on his dogtag and
looking over with an anxious expression on his face to see the buddy next to
him get shot before it was his turn. They died with one hand under their
corpse, clutching their dicks in death. With a pained expression on his face,
the noosed German lieutenant watched his boys die in humiliation, reluctantly
accepting the wages of a lost Wargames battle. The yellow helmeted machine gunner arrived on the scene just as we
were about to shoot the last German through the neck "Fuck!" he
grinned, walking down the line of corpses, stepping on the dead men's asses
like stepping stones. "Total wipe-out!" It was hard to say if he
was jubilant over the Ranger victory or over his own survival as the Germans'
target. "Hey save this last guy for fucking!" he suggested. "I
want to rock and roll." The gunner thrust his pelvis back and forth,
grinning lasciviously, a hard dick causing his crotch to bulge. "Good idea," we all chimed in. The final German in the
line-up, the 19-year-old, was spared for the time being. We told him to pull
his uniform down over his firm, round ass and bend over. He reluctantly did
so, aware that we were about to visit the ultimate humiliation on him. A
couple of us piled two dead German soldiers on top of each other and forced
the survivor down onto the dead men. We draped his belly over the bodies so
his ass was sticking up in the air. It was very tight and very fuckable. "You want to do the honors?" asked
our lieutenant, holding up the untied end of the German officer's death rope
and offering it to the surviving Ranger gunner, the yellow-helmeted target
the Bundeswehr had been unable to hit. "Yes sir!" said our gunner, taking the rope and pulling it
taut. "Give him a hand!" the lieutenant ordered me. I jumped to
the gunner's side, grabbing a section of the strong thick rope and preparing
to hoist. The German looked straight ahead in soldierly equanimity. His death
would be slower than that of the soldiers we had shot. "Do it," said the Ranger lieutenant. We did it. We stopped
pulling the rope when his boots were a foot off the ground, then tied it off
and watched him kick. His crotch turned dark as he spent a last wad of manseed, then after his dick was through shooting, he
emptied his bladder down one of his pantslegs and
into his boot. It was a long hard death for the fucker. He struggled hard, at
one point even lifting both his knees up even with his chest. He only stopped
fighting after about ten minutes, and by the time he was dead his neck had
stretched several inches. In the meantime we pulled our dicks out and stroked
ourselves nearly to climax. Nothing gets me harder than the fruits of victory
against a worthy enemy. The German lieutenant was a career man who had spent
half his life living and training among fighting men. Whether he was
consciously aware of it or not, dying in uniform at the end of a rope with a
hard cock in his pants was the fate he chose when he first joined the Bundeswehr as a teenager. Our lieutenant was hard too as he watched his German counterpart swing
and twist in his rope, his handsome head canted to one side. The Ranger
lieutenant had his knife unsheathed, ready to cut the man down once he was
dead, but first he would use it to rip open his uniform and cut his dick off.
We watched in quiet admiration of the dead enemy as the strongly muscular
body lurched a final time, then went limp, a string of spit from his mouth
drooling down onto his chest. Our lieutenant moved quickly, cutting the
fabric of the Bundeswehr uniform, retrieving the
dead man's thick sexmeat. He pulled the dead man's
balls out as well, then sawed through the base of the scrotum and all the way
up through the cockshaft, taking all the man's
genitals off in one piece. His sperm-rich cockspew,
clinging to his uniform and still oozing from his meat, filled our nostrils
with the odor of sheer manhood. "He won't be
fucking any more," was my buddy Mac's wry
comment. We were hard as rocks and needed badly to fuck. Thanks to our gunner's
foresight, we had a live German ass to rape, and we set about filling the
young soldier's tender fuckchute with Grade A
American cock. Each of us shot into the young stud, making him howl as we
pried his pelvis apart with our raging hard fuckrods,
each of us lubing the tube with our spunk for the
next man in line to get his rocks off. Our heavy, hairy balls slapped against
the young German's fair ass as we used him. We shoved him so hard with our
thrusts that the pile of corpses he was resting upon toppled over twice
during the orgy and had to be re-stacked. When it was time for Knots to fuck
the prisoner, he passed, commenting that he would wait until the rest of us
were finished. "I prefer 'em dead," he
explained darkly. "Plenty of fresh kill around," I remarked. There were German
corpses everywhere, many of them prime pieces of fuckmeat.
One of the dead soldiers lying close to us was bare-chested, the machine gun
fire having blasted him out of his uniform. His hairy chest and hard slabs of
pec meat were riddled with M-16 rounds. It looked
as if the slugs had forced his dogtag inside his
rib cage as he tooks his bullets. "That one
there's tough enough to have a virgin ass," I remarked, admiring the
appearance and physique of the freshly-killed German warrior. "Yeah, but I kind of want to be in the guy when you pop
him," Knots admitted. "Kinky bastard," I responded. We all grinned. Knots's admission made us all even harder. After the last fuck, the gunner grabbed the German's oval dogtag off his chest and made him take the perforated Bundeswehr disk into his mouth. Then he drew his sidearm
and pressed it against the young German's high-n-tight blond head. "Go
ahead, Knots," he said, egging the sergeant on toward the victory fuck
that was rightfully his. Knots rubbed his dick to maximum hardness, leaned over, and raped the
German's sore ass, plunging his entire member into the guy on the very first
thrust. The gunner kept his sidearm on the prisoner and watched Knots drive
into him like a piston. He pumped several times, feeling the warm ooze in the
kid's ass lube his hard shaft. Knots got himself close to coming then looked
at his gunner. "Shoot him," the sergeant ordered. We jumped
slightly as the gunner's Colt discharged, sending a slug into the handsome
young prisoner's brain. I was surprised to hear him grunt ever so slightly
before his body went limp, draped over the pile of his dead comrades. Knots
thrust in and out madly, fucking the now dead soldier with tremendous vigor. "Aw fuck!" he cried out, spending himself
inside the young ass. "Thanks man. That was one helluva
lay!" After Knots had finally extracted his greedy cock from the dead
German's ass, we turned the young soldier over to inspect him and found that
he had blown a deathwad while he was being fucked
or maybe when he was being shot. His hard young dick was still erect, and his
jism had spewed onto the camouflage of the dead
comrade over whose body he had been forced to lie. "Cut him," said the lieutenant. "Then get started on
the others." We took the fuckboy's German
sausage off him, and sliced his nuts off for good measure. The Bundeswehr would send in graves registrars in another
couple of hours to catalog the dead, bag the
corpses, and drag them off to our trench, which would be filled in as a mass
grave. We had a few of our own guys to bag, including the snipers who bought
it, the Ranger who got shot in the face by the possum, and of course my
buddies Ryan and Morris, both of whom had fought their last Wargame. Our knives were dull and our satchels full by the time we had finished
sawing through all the hard German dicks. The cock count came to 227 dead
Germans. The Rangers had lost fewer than 20 men, giving us a significant Wargames win and elevating us in the international
rankings of special forces contingencies. While I was roaming the
battlefield, helping with the "harvest," it was not uncommon to
find Germans who had spurted dickwads during their
last moments of life. Many of the cockshafts I
claimed were impressive in their girth and length, often sticky with thick,
sperm-laden soldier cum. It had been a good day in the life of a warrior.
Tomorrow would be another. Even as we finished cutting the dick off the last
dead German, the Canadian blue berets were sharpening their own knives, painting
their machine gunner's helmet bright yellow, and positioning him in the
trench they had dug in order to repel our assault, which was scheduled for
the next day. That night we would recall our victory on the battlefield by jerking
our thick cocks. Mac and I would buddyfuck or suck
each other for what could be the last time, silently acknowledging the
likelihood that in another day's time our fuckmeat
could be in some soldier's satchel, our strong bodies shot, slashed and
dumped on top of one another in a mass grave. After lights out our
lieutenant stretched out on his bunk with a stiff cock and stared sleeplessly
into the darkness. He absent-mindedly pulled his dogtags
off his chest, tugging the metal chain so that it constricted tightly around
his neck. Meanwhile, his Canadian counterpart had a length of rope in
reserve, and plenty of expertise on how to tie a noose. |
