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Nifty - Gay - Athletics - Semper Fi Son - Semper Fi Son 1 4

 
Date: Sat, 20 Jan 2001 19:20:13 -0400
From: usmcbb@hotmail.com
Subject: Semper Fi Son Chapter #1-4

Semper Fi, Son
Chapter I

Don Garsten was not easily distracted but today he was. There was
something gnawing at the back of his head, making him a little less sharp
than usual. No that anyone would notice if they looked, but he felt it.
And he felt his gloved hand run down his thigh, caressing the stripe of his
CHP breeches absentmindedly. He stretched back on his BMW bike, just a
little to relax and felt the sun hit his cheeks, framed by the strap of his
motorcycle helmet strap and his eyes resting coolly behind his mirrored
sunglasses. "I'll just close my eyes for a second," he thought as the full
Southern Californian noonday sun beat down upon him. And at 6'4, 240 lbs
of packed muscle, the sun had a lot to beat upon. His uniform was about
one size too small, the breeches custom tailored. Don was a muscle cop and
he knew it, even appreciated it himself. He could feel the sweat building
up on his forehead, dripping down his cheek and running into his blond
mustache. The top of his shirt, regulation buttoned was sopping up the
sweat as it hit his white tee underneath. Visibly wet areas under his arms
only made his shirt feel tighter, stretching the tan material over his 21"
double-peaked biceps which looked flexed even when at rest.

Don absentmindedly drifted off, definitely unlike him. Rubbing his leather
gloves over his uniformed pecs and feeling his 9" inch cock make his
breeches tighter. He got a smile on his face as he half-dreamed about this
morning. Letting himself drift off deeper, he remembered every detail of
this morning. Parked where he was behind an onramp at Covina, no one would
see him and he let himself explore the sensation.

He woke up as usual at 5AM, and stared at the ceiling, remembering the
night before. Steve, Rich and Mike were over to watch the Bruins game
until, about midnight. Lots of bullshit talk about the station and the
game. Poured himself into bed around midnight, stripping down to his white
boxers and tank top which he wore every day. But not before checking
himself out in the mirror. "Damn." He muttered to himself, "those cable
pulls are really working," as he pumped his pecs and biceps in his tank.
From when he was a young Marine pup, he always bought his clothes just one
size too small to show of his frame. And he stood and stared a few
minutes. The Eagle & Anchor tattoo he was proud of now curved over the
delts and biceps. His 51 chest strained against the white cotton, showing
a deep cleft and square pecs which stretched the tank top tight over his
chest. He took inventory, running his hands over the tank and down to the
waistband of his white boxers. His 9" cock began to stiffen as he took in
how his quads pushed the hems of his boxers tight, flexed them to make it
taughter. "Yeah, I got a few." He thought and reached into his boxers to
grab his cock. Staring at himself in the mirror, he slowly began stroking
his cock like his buds did for him in the Marines. Strong grasp, nice and
slow with a twist at the top. Repeat. His left arm extended, Don cranks
up his biceps so they fill with blood, the 21" mound extended in two
perfect orbs, on eon top of the other and twists his ropy-veined forearm
away from his head -- a perfect classical bodybuilding pose. His tongue
extended to lick it, he feels his knees wobble as he comes close to
shooting his load in his boxer shorts. And stops. He looks at his stance
-- feet at shoulder width, his cock tenting his boxers. The slight blond
hair on his chest looking transparent in the bedroom light. His stare in
the mirror focuses directly on his own blue eyes and drift upward to his
blond high n tight flattop. Only about an 1/8 of an inch and razor sharp
with whitewalls. He always liked that look from years ago and kept it --
will keep it regulation to the day he dies. He's proud of being a Marine
and wants everyone to know it, so he makes sure that every morning he keeps
his hair regulation. Straightedge to the whitewalls, trimming any errant
hair on his flattop. "Needs some cleaning up." He thinks and reaches down
to his boxers, wipes some of his precum and uses it to form his flattop to
a perfectly flat plane. "That's regulation," he says to himself as he once
again places his hand over his cock head, disappearing into his boxers as
he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at himself in the mirror -- taking
in his glory -- a fucking incredibly hot, 49 year old bodybuilder slowly
using his own body to bring himself off. His cum arcs onto his chest, his
forearm and abs as he collapses back and drifts off to sleep.

When the alarm slams into his head at 5AM, Don's ready to get going. He
smiles as he feels the dried cum stretch his skin as he crunches up out of
bed and runs his hand over his six pack. "Nope, no time," he says to
himself as he feels the urge to explore his masculinity once again but
instead jumps out of bed and gets his gear ready for the day ahead. He
throws his gear into his bag and picks his uniform out of the closet and
tosses it all into the back of his car. There are plenty of gyms closer by
but he heads out to Venice Gold's.

Don enters the gym with his gear bag in his hand and his uniform in a
clothes bag draped over his impressive shoulders. 20" neck a little tense
from the drive. He goes up to the stairs to the dressing room and opens an
empty locker, places his gear in it and does a final self-assessment in the
mirror. "Yeah, that's good," he thinks to himself as he looks into his own
narcissistic eyes and smiles back at himself. "Fucking stud." He thinks,
gazing over his image. Totally regulation and right and tight ex-Marine.
His 51" chest packed into a tight white tank, red sweats on with the USMC
running down his leg stretching tightly over his 29" quads. He tugs
slightly at the legs of his sweats to bring them up and over his 19"
calves, the diamond showing nicely as he shaved his legs only two nights
ago after getting a little carried away with the clippers while tightening
up his flattop. The calves arc down into a pair of Otomix Maxi's he just
bought, thin soled, like wrestling boots he wore in matches in the Corps.
He liked these a lot, They came up to the top of his calves but he left the
top third untied and open, like he's seen most of the big boys do and it
definitely showed off his best asset -- his legs. One last detail as he
twists off his USMC ring -- thick gold and a huge red garnet stone and puts
it into his locker. "Wouldn't want to lose that ," he thinks. "Time to
hit the weights," he thought and flexed once more and felt that familiar
sensation of his cock getting harder in his jock as he hit the weight
floor.

The early morning is usually when all the serious builders hit the gym.
The early morning is less crowded and the stations aren't as occupied,
especially by the West Hollywood boys that don't know how to train
effectively and slow everyone else down. Don pays no attention to the
other guys -- well, almost none. He works in with a few of the other guys
who have a knowing look as he pumps. Don's been coming here for years and
has pretty much had sex with every pro or wanna-be over the years. "It's
inevitable," Mattarazzo once told him, "it's what happens when bodybuilders
collide, buddy." He said, as Don stood over him and let his load coat his
buddy's face and pecs. Don gets a smile on his face thinking about that
and knows that under the right circumstances, that if he went up to anyone
of these big boys this morning and started posing with them that sooner or
later they'd be cumming all over each other -- he nods, "just the way it
is."

Finishing up with his signature "OOOORAH" cry as he let the 210# bar slam
into the preacher curl. He's energized and wasted at the same time. The
upper body workout has him dripping in sweat and shaking from the pump.
His white tank is sticking to every available inch of his expansive chest
and the sweats are clinging to his legs, making his quads look even larger
than they are as the USMC on the leg curves around their breadth. As he
enters the locker room, he notices a few guys in the wings and one guy
right behind him. A quick stop at the sinks reveals the guy behind him.
Don immediately recognizes the flattop on a hot younger guy -- maybe 20,
21? The first thing he notices is this kid's definitely built -- easily
48" chest and nice, defined guns and from what he can tell a hard ab'd
midsection. He's wearing a red singlet with the straps basically arching
over a thick neck and rhomboids. "Clean cut jock, just what I like," Don
thinks and hums to himself as he pretends to wash his face. But Don's not
got anytime, he's already running late from that extra set on his shoulder
cable pull and has to get moving to meet a 8AM roll call. He quickly
strips his tank off as he's walking to his locker and unties his sweats,
not noticing anything around him. Dropping his sweats and tossing his
sweaty tank into the bag, he grabs a towel and hits the showers. All the
time, he can't get this image of this young muscle jock out of his mind,
but he also can't get the image of his Sergeant ripping his head off if
he's late, so he quickly soaps up, lathers his muscle and rubs a few quick
strokes of soap through his flattop. Military 2 minute shower and he
doesn't even bother with a towel around his waist as he heads back to his
locker, a determined look on his face.

Don upends everything in his locker as he pulls out his garment bag and the
bottom of it spills the contents on the floor. He unzips the bag and takes
out his daily uniforms: CHP breeches, white tee, short sleeved shirt,
boxers. The gloves and badge are on the floor from his hastiness as are a
few other items.

This is what Don remembers about that morning -- when he's in full snooze
on duty, stretched out on his bike in Covina: the other guys in the locker
room, mostly guys his age, big boys, and just about ready to suit up and
hit their day after a good pump except that one young muscle jock he saw
are all going about their business until... until Don starts to suit up.
Naked, he sits on the bench on pull on his white boxers and white tee over
his pecs. His cock immediately starts the day with a half-hard stance that
will last the rest of the day. Next are the calf high tube socks over his
19" calves which he flexes as he puts them on. Standing up like a half
dressed quarterback, he drapes his CHP shirt on and zips it up underneath
the buttons then buttons the top button. As he takes the breeches off the
hanger, he notices a few of the guys averting their eyes.

A few quick tugs and the skin tight breeches are on and he pushes his
boxers down so they're flat in his gear. He usually wears a jock, but
today, it's boxers. He tugs hard at his shirt and tee to make sure they're
tight and slowly zips up the fly and buttons the tab. Even without a
mirror, he fucking knows he's looking good, even half dressed. He next
bends down and picks his badge up off the floor and pins it right on his
left pec and it hangs like a Christmas ornament off his 51" pecs.

Don pulls his Dehners out of the bag and notices a few marks on them where
they have brushed against some other gear and spoiling the spit shine, so
he sits down on the bench and with his boot between his legs, splatters
some spit on the boot and takes his jock, still wet from his sweat of
working out, and does a high shine, high speed buff on the calf section.
By now, a lot of the other guys are gone but a few are looking around the
corner, averting their eyes each time Don's meet theirs. They simply can't
believe they are seeing this bodybuilder suit up in CHP gear right before
them. His arms are fully pumped from the workout and are already tight in
his uniform shirt sleeves but the bootblacking he's doing brings out the
sinew and vascularity of the overworked arms. The sleeve is so tight that
he can feel it restrict his movements each time, but Don is so fully into
his gear prep that he doesn't notice anyone around him and delves deeper
into his own appreciation of his gear.

Almost finished, Don takes his garrison belt and threads it through the 34"
waist. Now standing in front of the mirror, he smiles a cocky smile as the
belt accentuates his V shape wrought from muscle. The clatter of his gun
belt is next as he straps it on over his waist -- low hanging and heavy
with his gear. The gun's in the car's lock box, but the holster itself is
still hanging low, banging up against his thigh. Don can feel his cock get
used to straining against the tight breeches material and find a good place
to rest, half hard as he stands and straightens himself out. "FUCK," he
thinks, "I fucking love this uniform!" He hits a double bicep in front of
the mirror just to reassure himself. "STUD. Fucking MUSCLE stud." He
grabs his cock through the breeches and gives it a tug or two before he
realizes that a few of the remaining guys are watching him with their jaw
dropped. "Yeah, that should give them something to jack off to."

Don returns to his locker from the mirror and bends down to collect the
items tossed on the floor. He shoves the deodorant and the soap back into
his gear bag and the loose items of clothing; his jock that now has boot
black all over it. Then he sees his USMC ring under the bench. "SHEEET.
Can't lose that," he mumbles as he reaches to grab the gold ring with the
large red stone with the inscribed "Semper Fidelis" on it's outer rim. Don
reaches for the ring and notices on the other side of the bench, from his
low angle, a pair of white Otomix pointed right at him.

He's so startled that he bangs his head on the underside of the bench.

"Whoa, heh, sorry there!" A fine young muscle jock right before him, Don
is staring even though the back of his head is hurting. He rubs the part
where he hit his head -- right where the shaved scalp meets the beginning
of his flattop and involuntarily flexes his right bicep as he does so
staring intently into the eyes of the kid he caught a glance of in the
mirror a few minutes ago.

"Mark, I'm um, Mark..." the kid said and extended his hand. Don just
stared and couldn't put his finger on it but something was oddly familiar
with this jock. Don reached his down and unfolded his bicep as he strongly
grabbed the kid's paw and watched as his force was met, the powerful bicep
flexing as he reciprocated. There was something about this
kid... definitely beautiful, about a hair shorter than Don at about 5'9,
easily over 200 lbs and built. He was wearing a red singlet with gold
stripes on the sides, his pecs straining against the straps. Tight abs and
his legs were a bit hairy but incredibly massive and strong, with his
calves disappearing into his Otomix. Don liked this kid already, but what
was stunning was his face. Clear blue eyes, classic square jaw, white
teeth and a near-perfect blond flattop, shaved almost to the skin on the
skin gave this kid the look of a professional bodybuilder that cleaned up
real nice.

"Is this, um, yours?" Mark said, extended his palm and in it was Don's
USMC signet ring, the one he was looking for. And it was then that Don
understood why he was so interested. Seeing this muscle jock holding his
most prized possession in his hand triggered it -- this musclejock was him
only a few dozen years ago. Staring at him was like staring into a mirror,
his image that of his youth. The match was unbelievable. Same face, same
build, it was uncanny.

Without realizing the irony, Don simply stated "Thanks, son," again a
layover from his Corps days, and grabbed the ring and slowly began to twist
it onto his ring finger as he now fell into his familiar stance, a bit more
relaxed, his spit shined Dehners at shoulder length, just staring at Mark.
Evidently, this made Mark a little uncomfortable and he began to speak.
"So, um, you're a cop?" Don could feel the heat coming off this kid, raw
beauty before him. He could feel his cock getting hard as it ran down his
right leg and he was sure Mark could see it and he liked the feeling of
being in his gear, his white tee just showing above his collar and a think
line around the bicep underneath his shirt. Holding his finger and ring in
his right hand, he slowly turned it on his finger so the garnet ring was
facing inward to his palm, the thick gold ring facing outward. "Yes, son,
joined right after the Corps."

"Wow, I'm thinking about joining after I graduate. I'm really interested."
Mark stammered.

"How old are you son?"

"17, be 18 next month."

"Well, you definitely got the guns for it son and it's a great experience."
Wit this Mark, relaxed and flexed his biceps, looking at them and smiled a
little. His biceps were unbelievable, almost a double peak and thick as
legs with great definition right at the head where they were incredibly
pointed... "just like his dad's," Don thought without even thinking it
through. Don immediately reacted like any bodybuilder and stretched out
his right arm and flexed it.

Mark was in awe. He was looking at someone who oddly reminded himself of
himself but couldn't figure it out. This guy he just met was a fucking
god. His uniform was a second skin, the broad shoulders and biceps before
him were flexing at only a half power and he could see the tan uniform
sleeve dig into the bicep head, double peak being pinched by the material.
His waist was narrow, even though the gun belt was hanging off his hips.
The stripe on his breeches curved around massive thighs that led down to
his calves which had to be fucking huge since they were blowing out the
back of his Dehners.

For a few seconds they posed, pumping their arms and both Mark and Don
could feel the instant reaction of their cocks stiffening as they went
through a truncated posing routine. The similarity between their bodies
was unmistakable. Both had double peaked bi's, both had incredible calves
and leg musculature, even their faces and haircuts were almost identical.

"You, um, ever compete?" as Mark.

"Looking at 3 time winner, 1st place Armed Forces, son." Don replied with
the extra embellishment of a popping his pecs in his tight uniform shirt.

"You wrestle?" asked Don, pointing to Mark's singlet.

Don self-consciously looked down, noticing his cock in his jock had become
more prominent. "Yeah, sure do -- all-state champ this year. Wear my
singlet to work out in, real comfortable."

"Sure are, have a few from the Corps and high school myself. Was all-state
myself back a few years." Don replied.

"Really?" Mark said and as he did so, looked up at Don, excited and right
then Don saw in his blue eyes the truth that made his cock and his heart
race to full gait and knew he had to know this kid. His enthusiasm was
infectious. Don started to say a bit more about his ole wrestling and
bodybuilding days then realized he should take this slow and retracted a
bit, slowing down.

"You know son, if you're enter the Corps, you've gotta start training
differently. Looks like you're loading on carbs and training real heavy
which normally is great for mass, which you definitely got." Don looked
over the kid as he was talking. "But for the Corps and Boot Camp, you've
gotta be a bit more flexible and you're definitely gonna have to up the
cardio immediately." Don continued.

"Oh, yeah, I stopped cardio a long time ago, focusing on muscle mass and
definition." Mark replied.

"Well, that's about to change, son. You doing any juice?"

"No way!" Mark protested.

"Good, that's the first thing they look for in the Corps and you'll get
your ass booted out immediately if you touch that shit." Don explained.
He continued his lookover of this stud -- absolutely amazing. He grabbed
Mark at a good distance and squeezed the stud's neck -- thick and powerful
in his striated forearm and he could feel the signet ring embedding itself
in his skin and smiled. Don knew that this was his and was marking it
before any other jarhead could. Mark just gazed into Don's eyes, clear
blue eyes against each other and felt at home, perfectly relaxed as he
could smell the odor of this cop's uniform, the soap from the post-workout
shower and they both smiled.

"Listen son, I gotta get to work. Here's my card -- call me if you have
any questions or if you're really serious about enlisting. Looks like
you're gonna need some help." Don punctuated the last part by squeezing
harder on the back of his neck, driving the ring into his flesh and leaving
a slight outline on the young musclejock's neck.

Mark took the card, not sure what he was feeling and watched as the muscle
cop started to walk away, the Dehners audible on the concrete floor. The
tight seat of the breeches outlining a round ass and the thighs visibly
flexing under the stripe of the tight cop breeches. Just before the
lockerroom door, Don turned and said over his shoulder, barely audible,
"And we better make sure that flattop is regulation, son. Call me
tonight." With an emphasis on "tonight."


Semper Fi, Son
Chapter II

Mark did call -- several times. Judging by the hangups on his answering
machine, Don smiled a wry smile listening to his final message, a very
shaky, unsure voice first addressing him as Mr. Garsten, then quickly
correcting himself to "Officer Garsten," then simply "Don, um, heh! I
really enjoyed meeting you and wanted to see if you would, um, maybe wanna
get together and hit the gym or talk or something..." Don scribbled out
the kid's number as he spoke it.

Don rode back to the station at the end of his shift just thinking about
how much that kid in the gym lockerroom resembled him at his age. It was
uncanny. He brushed it off. Besides he knew he was going to call... he
could see it in his eyes.

Don stood at the counter looking at the number. Still in his day's gear,
he could hear his gun belt creak as he undid the buckle. Tugging at his
shirt tails, he walked towards the bedroom, belt on his shoulder and slowly
undid the buttons of his shirt and dropped it and the belt on his bed, the
badge making a dull thud as it hit the sheets. He absentmindedly ran his
hands over his tee, feeling the dampness of the day's sweat. He stood in
front of the mirror for a few minutes, slowly taking the bottom of his
white tee and yanking it from the waistband of his boxers and stared at
himself in the mirror, bare chested, breeched and booted. Half erect, his
cock played with the light from the bathroom and was a thick rod hanging
down his leg in his uniform as he slowly stroked it through the tight
material. He started picturing the young stud he met today on his knees in
front of him, licking his boots, mouthing his cock through his gear.
Staring intently at his upper body in the mirror, he flexed his pecs as he
tweaked his nipples, imagining the sounds of the imaginary musclejock
moaning and slurping on his cock. Just as he was getting into the rhythm
and his cock was preparing to go the mile, the phone rang.

"Damnit," Don said as he half came to and started walking towards the phone
a little stiff, his Dehners hitting the ground hard.

It was Mark, of course, eager pup, Don liked that. Mark was nervous on the
phone, but Don put him at ease with his deep, reassuring voice and a few
jokes and he told him that "yeah," he just got it in and asked him "why
don't you come on over in about an hour?" The kid was full of questions,
mostly about wanting to talk to him about the Marine Corps and the like and
Don thought it was just a pretense. But he seemed very sincere and when
Don hung up the phone, he found himself oddly proud of helping develop this
Marine dawg as if possessive of his find. To clear his head, he dropped
and did 100 perfect military push ups just for the pump and hit the
showers.

At 7 on the nose the doorbell rang. Mark was already making points for
being punctual, but he scored real big when Don opened the door. He was
wearing a white tank that was tight, but a little baggy for Don's taste
although it definitely showed the young musclejocks pecs and guns off. The
tank was tucked into a pair of red gym shorts that hung low on his hips and
were a tight where they hit the kid's massive quads. And of course, those
high topped Otomix, open laced with white socks gently ringing his
impressive calves. And of course the smile and genuine glee to see Don.
Don stood there for a minute, smiling broadly just looking at the kid.
"What is it about this kid?" he asked himself.

"Heh glad you made it, c'mon in," Don said as he slapped him on the
shoulder.

Nervously, Mark entered the apartment -- a regular bachelor pad with a few
things on the wall, a Marine recruiting poster and a USMC red flag tacked
up on the wall and a lot of photos. Don had just finished his shower and
wore a pair of USMC PT red shorts and was bare chested, white socks on his
feet.

"Make yourself at home son, I just got out of the shower. I'll be right
with ya." Don told him facing him and flexing a pec for good measure and
headed to the bedroom to put on a tank top. He selected an extra tight
white tank with the letters "USMC" broadly across the front just for good
effect. He made sure the "S" and the "M" fell perfectly onto the cleft in
his pecs in the mirror and walked out to the main room. Mark had his back
to Don as he was looking at a series of photos on the far wall. When Don
walked up behind him, he clasped the kids naked shoulder strongly and held
it there -- half to test him and half to simply make contact with the
massive bulge of muscle offered up in front of him.

"Those were the first comp's I was in, not bad for a 20 year old, huh?" Don
asked.

"You were only 20 when you started?" Mark responded

"Yup, took a few more to place 1st, but finally did it three times running.
That was in the Corps, what, almost 30 years ago now."

Mark was duly impressed, looking at a Marine bodybuilder that looked a lot
like him, almost uncannily so. The black and white image of the
bodybuilder, his left arm up in the air and the number "4" pinned to a thin
pair of posing trunks.

"Heh, you want a beer, son?" Don asked

"Oh, well, yeah sure, that'd be great."

Don handed him an open bottle and sat down on the couch, Mark next to him.
Mark began to relax, and as they talked more and more, began to feel more
comfortable. Don asked him about his training and offered him some good
advice on how to alter his training to prepare for the rigors of boot camp.
Mark asked him about what to expect during the first few weeks -- how long
was boot camp and what should he worried about. Truth be told, Don
exaggerated a bit about how tough it was, enjoying scaring the kid and
generally reliving memories of more than 30 years ago when he entered the
Corps.

Don dragged out a few photos and books to help illustrate some of the
traditions and history of the Corps, and began to enjoy this talk more and
more, relaxing into it and offering up more information than he thought he
would. Don began to really get into this discussion, even joking with Mark
about what fun it can be as well as hard work. It was then that Mark
pointed to Don's left arm, at his Eagle & Anchor tattoo and asked, "Did you
get that before or after boot camp?"

Don didn't get the question at first, not realizing he was pointing to the
large EG&A tat on his bicep, the anchor pointing inward and curving around
the head of the double peak, the ink fading over the years. "Huh? Oh,
this, oh no, it's a tradition to get your eagle tat only after you
graduate, son."

Don heard that word, "son" stay in the air, thinking immediately how proud
he would be to be there with this stud when he got his."

Don looked down at it and bunched his bicep up in a tightly held curled
flex and squeezed, showcasing the tat to the kid.

"Of course," Don said through slightly grinding teeth, this is a custom
one, extra large, don't think it would fit on your guns, son."

Mark hesitantly reached out, and said "Oh, no I want the exact same one Da
- um, Don"

What did Mark just say? Don could have sworn he heard him say "dad," but
just sat there smiling broadly, flexing harder as Mark traced the outline
of the tat.

"Yeah well, you're gonna have to get guns as big as mine, then, son." The
two sat there for what seemed like an hour in this pose, Don, feeling the
strongest affection towards Mark that he's felt in a long time for anyone,
just smiling from ear to ear, gazing at his face feeling enormously proud.
Mark, with the look of a small boy exploring a tidal pool with great
interest traced the outline of the tattoo, staring and half smiling.

"You like the tat, son?"

"Huh?" Mark, startled, looked up and stared into Don's blue eyes. "Yes,
Sir, I do, that's exactly the one I want."

"You want to be as big as me, huh?" Don hit a double bicep in front of Mark
as he said this.

"Yes, Sir, yes I do."

Don rested his arms, exhaled briefly and relaxed his pose, feeling
incredibly proud of this Marine-to-be. He was going to make an outstanding
jarhead.

"Well, son, it's a big commitment to be a US Marine, you know that right?
I don't want you taking this lightly."

"No, sir, I mean, yes, Sir, I know that and I take it very seriously."

"What do your parents have to say about this?" Don asked.

"Oh, well, my mom's OK with it. Honestly, I think she wants me to join
early. She divorced my dad about 10 years ago and now she's mostly working
or with her new boyfriend."

"Oh," Don said, "do you spend much time with your dad or your mom?"

"Not really, I'm pretty independent. Summer's I'm at wrestling camp and I
spend most of my time I spend at the gym anyway both before school and
after. Plus the wrestling meets after school most of the season, so I
guess I'm only home to sleep and don't see my mom anyway."

"I see," said Don. "Well, listen here son, it's time you started looking
and acting like a Marine, you hear me son?"

"Um, yeah." Mark responded, confusedly.

Don stood up and punched out his chest, arms behind his back and
mock-shouted at him: "What? I can't hear you, son."

Mark got the cue, stood ramrod straight and shouted out a crisp "SIR, YES
SIR!" dead seriously.

Don smiled and laughed a bit, "Alright, that's a good start, son." He said
and clasped his shoulder lightly. "Let's clean up that flattop and get it
into spec, son. Head to the bathroom and take off your gear."

Don went into the kitchen, got two more beers and headed to the bathroom.


Semper Fi, Son
Chapter III

"Now pay attention, son, cause you're gonna have to do this everyday if
you're gonna stay right n tight, you hear?" Don explained the concept of
the regulation high and tight haircut, that no hair should be seen below
the white lid of USMC Dress Blues.

Mark had taken off his tank top and shorts and stood there in his white
boxers and socks, his Otomix sneakers sitting over by the wall, just a few
feet from Don's own, identical pair.

Don stood behind him, talking at him through his reflection in the mirror.
Mark was listening intently, looking through Don's reflection into his
eyes, silent and paying very close attention to what Don was saying.

Don had laid out the clippers, a straight edge razor and a shaving brush
and mug. Slowly he mowed Mark's already short, blond flattop down to an
eight of an inch in the front and then pressed the clippers hard into his
scalp, removing almost all his hair.

Mark's hair was remarkably similar to his own. Almost pure-blond with no
kink, the perfect HnT texture. Don stared at what he was doing, carefully
guiding the clippers, as careful as he would be with his own.

Standing behind this musclejock was the perfect vantage point, not only to
get a good angle on his head, but to look at him next to his own body. The
similarities were amazing in every detail. His pecs had started to define
themselves at the bottom with a nascent square edge. His abs, previously
covered with the wrestling singlet were perfectly etched into eight
segments, razor sharp -- or at least definitely much more defined than
Don's 6 pack.

"OK, now don't move your head, I'm gonna start using the straight edge."
Don said as he started to apply the lather to Mark's neck and up the back
of the his head to just about the crest of his occipital bone. He lathered
up the sides above his ears, "This is going to be one tight, regulation
cut, grunt." Don said, explaining that he would get his first "official"
HnT after boot camp, but he should get used to it now, "cause it's a lot of
work, every morning, making sure you're whitewalls are crisp."

Don slowly dragged the straight edge across Mark's head, making sure to get
every inch of lather shorn perfectly smooth. The lines were crisp and Don
was excellent at this craft, having practiced it every morning for over 30
years. Don put his hand under Mark's chin and moved it from side to side
to make sure it was even, adjusting it here and there and looked
approvingly. "That's one damn fine high and tight, Marine." Don said,
smiling.

Mark was smiling too, partly at the fact that he was called "Marine" and
partly because he really liked the new look to his head. The sharp lines
set of his square face and strong chin. It also focused more attention on
his body, offsetting the pecs' slightly squared off edges and the roundness
of his shoulders and biceps. But most of all, if truth be told, he was
smiling mostly because he kept looking in the mirror at Don behind him and
he was looking more and more like this man. And he liked that. He felt
more comfortable than he ever had before.

"You ever have a professional shave?" Don asked.

"Um, you mean, like a body shave for competition?" Mark responded uneasily.

"Well, that too, but no, a face shave." Don replied as he turned Mark
around and stood directly behind him, close, his pecs touching his back.
He took the lather brush and started applying it to his chin and cheek and
lip, not even waiting for an answer from Mark.

"Yeah I thought so, it's about time you learned how, here son." Don told
him to relax and took the straight edge and began to raze his face. Mark
had very little stubble, but the straight edge cleaned up the few stray
stubble hairs that evolved over the day. And he liked that Don was
pressing up against his back, his arm stretched over his shoulder, as if
trying to shave his own face. Don was breathing almost directly into Marks
ear and he could smell the beer and Don's scent of talc and a slight sweat.

"Well you should think about shaving your legs at least, even if you're not
competing, it definitely brings out the definition. I shave mine every
once in awhile myself." Don was talking but Mark remained silent, watching
the straight edge suspiciously and remaining very still, trusting Don.
"Plus it feels great," Don offered, knowing that Mark couldn't respond.

Don took a white towel and rubbed Mark's face and head clean and stood back
and stared at him, head on. "Now, that, son, is one fine looking stud
Marine!" Don said as he stood back, hands folded across his chest and
nodded to the side, instructing Mark to take himself in and look in the
mirror. Mark smiled, again at his being called a "Marine" and turned
towards the mirror.

Don wasn't sure exactly what went through his head exactly, but he does
know that this was the moment he was waiting for, indeed, what he was born
to do. Standing beside Mark, side by side in the bathroom mirror, Don met
himself. Mark stood there, lost in his image for a second, bare chested
and ran his hand across the perfectly flat high and tight and smooth face.
His left hand absentmindedly brushed his left cheek as his right felt the
cool, perfectly skinned back of his head, his biceps flexing as he did
this. He glanced to his left, where he saw Don, standing there, no longer
smiling but staring -- staring hard at him, right into his eyes. It was a
strange expression that Mark had never really seen, one of recognition
maybe, an expression of interest? He couldn't be sure. Don double checked
his image. Yup, it was true. He had to get out of the bathroom.

Don seemed confused, as he stepped back and broke the stare. "OK, son,
let's clean you up -- here's a towel, take a shower and wash that hair off
ya." Don instructed as he stooped down to begin sweeping the hair into the
trash and putting away the clipper and other gear. Mark stepped out of his
boxers and turned on the water and oddly, Don didn't even glance at his
naked body because he knew that he's get plenty to see very, very shortly.

The type of men that Don usually had sex with -- and the type of men that
he attracted -- were usually your generic muscle pigs. Don didn't have a
lot of sex, or so he thought, just an average horny fucker. He usually hit
on and successfully bedded guys his own age, usually less built than him.
Sex was all about muscle worship to Don. And he usually preferred to be
worshipped. There was something very animal and basic about it, whether
dominating or just getting down and dirty... muscle was the only expression
of sex that Don knew. Well, almost. A lot of the guys, he assumed,
thought that his gear fetish was that, just a fetish. They didn't realize
that the uniform he wore while having sex was his actual working gear.
Ever since he was commissioned in the Corps, he still got hard when putting
on his dress blues. "My first love," he thought to himself then and now.
There was something about that uniform, the cut of the pants, the tunic,
they were all working in unison to present the perfect image of a man. Don
had his original dress blues and most of his other USMC gear altered by a
custom work tailor on base. He had too. Even at the age of 18, he had
built his body into a larger-than-your-average-Marine version of what the
outfitters had in mind. The standard gear was not only inconvenient but
limited his movements and was uncomfortable. Even though he liked his
uniform form fitting, he had to have several inches added to the pants
across the thigh inseam and had to also let out the tunic and shirt. He
laughs to himself when people ask him why he joined the Corps or became a
cop. He half-jokingly responds "for the gear." They don't know how true
that statement is. His original dress blues hang in his closet with his
other gear: several sets of his BDU's, several of his CHP uniforms and rows
of boots: Dehners, his original jump boots, a few pair of Otomix. Don
reaches out and runs the original dress blues' sleeve through his fingers
while the sound of Mark showering in the bathroom sounds softly in the
background. He fondly remembers the tailor's son at the base shop refusing
his payment for the work when he picked it up. He insisted that he try it
on right there in the shop to make sure the custom work was
acceptable. That was Don's first taste of his uniform fetish. He let the
kid suck him off in the gear and saw the look in his eyes when he suited
up... he was hooked from that day forward.

Deep in his remembrance, Don was startled by Mark's voice from the
bathroom... "Um, Don, heh, Don." Mark wasn't yelling but was calling him
loudly. Don padded towards the bathroom, sticking his head in,

"Yeah, son?" Don replied.

Don caught sight of Mark standing, rubbing his freshly shorn head with a
towel and crooking his neck.

"Um, I got my clothes... um, well the shower got em all wet, you have a
pair of shorts or something?" Mark had a pleading look in his face, like
he was scared that he was asking too large a favor.

Normally, the sight of a close-to-competition-size, blond, square jawed
bodybuilder, standing nude in his bathroom would make Don a little
interested. Usually his cock would get hard. Something would stir. But
this was different. Don wasn't exactly sure what it was, but he knew what
he needed to do and what an important moment this was. He was, at once,
very calm and began to feel a certainty about him, a solid feeling of
comfort. It was if he were prepared for this moment before he knew it
occurred.

Don walked up to the musclejock, slowly put his hand behind his head,
holding it right where the newly shaved head met the top of his high and
tight and looked directly into his blue eyes and said, "C'mhere son, I've
something to show you."

Don led Mark to his bedroom with his hand, lowered a bit, to the nape of
his neck. He didn't walk him to the bed, but to the closet containing all
his uniforms and gear. Mark, although a bit confused, trusted Don and felt
comfortable enough around him not to be self conscious being naked.

Don led Mark to the closet's door and squeezed his hand on the nape of his
neck and bent a little forward to speak directly into his ear. "Son, I
think it's time to take a little look into the future and see yourself as
the Marine you are." Don introduced him to his first set of dress blues
and explained how they were received after your commissioning as a Marine,
the importance of the stripes, the colors, the insignia. Don, still
dressed in his gym shorts and USMC tank took the dress blues, still on
their wooden hangar, and held it up for Mark to inspect, allowing him to
explore each part as he explained the importance of each aspect of the
uniform.

"I want you to put this on, son." Don said, handing the hanger's crooked
neck to his naked and waiting hand. Mark simply gazed at Don, clearly and
calmly into his deep blue eyes with a sense of awe and reverence and
whispered a sincere, thankful and deep "Sir, yes sir." With the air of an
important event, Don walked to his dresser and removed a perfectly
tri-folded tank top, a pair of boxers and black dress socks. "You'll need
these, son." Don explained. "Tuck the tank underneath the waistband of
the boxers, like this..." he struggled as he helped Mark pull the tank top
tight. "First the shirt, here like this," Don explained, working with
seriousness and deliberate intent. His name tag still attached by a brass
pin, "Col. D. Garsten" written in black against the brass. Mark had enough
sense to pull on the pants himself so Don turned, talking while he rummaged
through the drawers of his chest. He explained how he had the uniform
outfitted with special care by a tailor to accommodate his muscular frame.
He omitted the part about the tailor's son which was now, oddly
inappropriate. He quickly found what he needed and slid the gold USMC
signet ring onto his finger, turning back to Mark who was struggling with
finding the right side of a standard issue web khaki belt with a USMC eagle
and anchor logo on the buckle.

"Here, just loop the belt around and," as he pulled it tight against Mark's
tight, muscular waist slapped the square, brass buckle not worn in almost
three decades shut with a pinch of his fingers, one outside the pants' seam
and one just reaching inside the top of the pant's hem. "OK," Don said,
sounding very calm and purposeful, now the tunic, this one's a little
tricky and pulled Mark around to face him as he took to face him square.
Don was excited, but like in no other way he's experienced before. His
dick wasn't exactly soft, but it wasn't erect either, just "full" and
feeling very alive. His hands were smooth and quick, knowing exactly how
to assemble the uniform and using his language to quickly guide Mark into
the gear -- and to their destiny.

"OK, head and chin up, Marine!" Don said this with a slight admonishment
in his voice and Mark responded with a smile and an internal "thank you" as
he was once again referred to as a Marine already. He hoisted his square
jaw as high as he could. Hell, if Don told him to jump he's ask how high
as he was being given an opportunity he only dreamed about. Don helped
Mark into the heavy tunic, talking to him about how he had to wear this on
several hot Washington D. C. Summer days, "a lot of my sweat in this
fabric, son." And quickly fastened the clasp at the neck, feeling his
newly-adorned USMC ring rub against Mark's freshly shaven neck. Mark, with
this head still up, straining to look at the ceiling of Don's bedroom, felt
his hands quickly moving down the tunic to secure the remaining buttons.
"OK, almost done, Marine, hold on one second." Don disappeared into the
closet and started rummaging through a box. Mark could here him banging
around and a whispered, "yeah, that should fit him," from the closet. Don
reemerged with a very solemn look on his face, all business. In his hand
was an upturned white USMC lid, stretched and clean with a perfectly shined
leather brim and EG&A logo on it's front. Inside were a few items tangled
together. He tossed the lid on the bed and took the shoes he was holding
in his left hand and tossed them at Mark's feet. "Put these on, we're
gonna get a glimpse of you as a real Marine, son." While Mark was bending
over, trying not to cut off circulation to his head with the tunic's collar
while he put on the patent leather dress Corfam shoes and tying them, Don
went through the contents of the lid, disentangling them.

"You'll need these, son." Don handed him a pair of dress white gloves while
he turned around and grabbed the thick, white webbed belt with the USMC
EG&A logo on it as well. He reached around, putting his head closer to
Mark's midsection, now covered in a form fitting a tight ab section and
smelled not only the 30 year old uniform's sweat and work but a new scent,
that of his son's presence in his prized uniform. He stood tall and leaned
back a bit, straightening the belt and making final corrections to the
decorations. All the while, Mark was turned away from the mirror, staring
down at his newly clad body, not believing that he was actually
experiencing this. Staring at Don's USMC high and tight while he bent down
to lick his finger and eliminate a scratch on his shoes, he felt powerful
and full, solid and like he could achieve anything. Don raised his head
slowly and while he was looking down, Mark saw and more importantly, felt
Don's tight regulation cut (exactly like his now) brush against the red
blood stripe on the uniform that he was wearing.

"Here's the final part, and where you regulation cut pays off, son." Don
explained as he placed his own hard-earned white USMC lid on top of Mark's
head, squaring it off and leveling it with a two finger-rule above his
nose. This Marine was going to be a perfect, fucking poster boy before he
was even recruited.


Semper Fi, Son
Chapter IV

Don finally just took a wet finger and brushed it against a small smudge on
Mark's patent leather dress shoes. And then he stood back.

Mark was now ramrod erect, his fists balled in his white parade gloves,
perfectly straight, his chin at the correct angle. He was, quite frankly,
born to wear this uniform. He was an awesome sight to behold.

Don was the "poster Marine" only three years into his service. It was
widely known in the Corps that the recruits you see on TV are there for a
reason. Almost universally blond, muscular and young. And very, very
popular with their commanders for reasons that they are not going to
disclose. Don blew his commander a few times, and was the personal driver
and singularly most requested dress guard escort of a few generals and a
chief of staff. Don knew the game. Put out, show some muscle, keep quiet
and you'd go far. And he did.

Standing back and looking at Mark, he knew that he was going to go far as
well. "One last tradition, son." Don said as he excused himself and
walked to the kitchen, grabbing two snifters and filling them with scotch.
He grabbed two Maduro cigars from the chest near the fireplace and walked
back into the bedroom. "Here you go, Marine." Don said to Mark and laid
the cigars onto the bedroom bureau in front of the mirror. He handed Mark
his scotch and nodded for him to take a sip which he did, grimacing as the
stringent taste hit his mouth. Don unwrapped the cigar, spliced the end
and grabbed his Zippo with the USMC logo on it and clicked it open, puffed
on the cigar till it caught and dragged deeply on it.

Mark stood in front of Don, holding the Scotch and watching as he lit the
cigar, then handed it to him for him to hit on. Don was proud, and Mark
could see it in his eyes and the wry smile on his, hiding under that cop
stache. And that's when Don, simply stated, no longer able to contain his
joy or ignore the obvious: "You know you're my son, don't you Mark?"

Mark returned Don's gaze and placed the scotch on the armoire, the cigar
clenched in his white gloved hand. "I know, dad." Mark whispered. Don
took Mark's shoulder and turned him to face the mirror, his head placed
just to the left of his son's as they both gazed at him in the mirror, the
room filling with the scent of cigar smoke, scotch and the beating of one
heart.

"No, words son, just listen to me," Don said as he pulled tightly behind
Mark, standing behind him so that they could both stare at each other
through the mirror, the image of a freshly shaven, full dress blue muscle
Marine filling the floor to ceiling mirror.

"I guess I realized it the second I met you, but until just now it didn't
make any sense. That uniform you're wearing was custom tailored as I told
you, it should fit nobody but me, or me almost 30 years ago. But son, you
look magnificent in it. The tightness of the pants, the drape of the
tunic, it's a perfect match." Don came even closer behind Mark, the smell
of the talc and the lather now palpable in his mouth as he breathed in his
son and his image together in the mirror.

"I don't even have to ask you how it feels, do I?" Don asked, half
smiling. "Cause I know. It feels powerful doesn't it?" Mark nodded
slightly. "You can feel 30 years of my sweat, muscle and testosterone
getting sucked into your body, can't you? You can feel the straps on your
tank top underneath getting tighter, can't you? The waistband of your
boxers getting slacker, the brush of the blood stripe rounding over your
quads as they become bigger, can't you, son?" Don hit the "S" in son
stronger, now with new meaning.

"I can, dad." Mark replied, softly.

Don moved next to Mark in the mirror and took a strong stance, his feet
shoulder width and took the cigar from his son's hand and took a long draw,
then put it down, taking a slug of the scotch and replaced the glass. He
grabbed the bottom tail of his tank top and took it off, tossing it to the
floor and then hooked his fingers under the waistband of his shorts and
removed them as well, stepping out of them and regaining his solid footing.
Naked, he stood with the same stance as if he were in his CHP uniform,
strong, confident and breathed deeply and continued, "Your pecs are feeling
tighter and squarer, aren't they son?" Don asked. Mark replied by staring
at himself in the mirror and visibly arching his back slightly, flexing
them in his tunic. "Your calves are getting tighter, do you feel that son?
And right here," Don, also staring at his own image in the mirror, raised
his left bicep" is where you feel the tat taking shape on your guns, isn't'
it? Just like your dad." Don was breathing deep now, as if he were
preparing to lift a barbell. "You're going to be as big as your dad,
aren't you son? Don's cock was raising, hardening. The half erect posture
it usually maintained now was becoming more engorged and yet he did not
have the urge to stroke it, he simply let it jut out, filling with blood.

Naked before his own image, he raised his right arm and placed it around
Mark's neck, drawing him nearer, the gold USMC signet ring now resting on
Mark's rounded, tunic-covered shoulder, his rhomboids flexed underneath.

Don and Mark stood there for several minutes, Don breathing deeply as he
began a series of flexes and muscle pumps to get his blood into his
muscles. He was flexing in the mirror more for his son, than for himself,
his cock fully erect as he stood naked before the mirror, staring into his
own eyes. Don turns a quarter turn and turns Mark to face him directly.
Mark stares directly into Don's massive, sweating chest, the ropes of his
muscles taught and pulsing with energy. Don reaches out his right hand,
turns the face of the USMC signet ring to face his palm and reechoes behind
Mark's high and tight shaved Marine head and clasps his neck, the signet
ring contacting his skin and slowly begins to stroke Mark's neck.

Mark looks into his dad's eyes with a sense of wonderment and awe. He
remains stock still, ramrod erect in his uniform. "When you are
commissioned, son, I want you to wear this uniform, understood?" Don asked
earnestly. "I would be honored, Sir." Mark replies, still in awe of the
naked muscle before him, exploring every inch with his eyes. "And if you
need anything, you tell me, son, I'm here for you." Don continued, slowly
caressing but almost jacking his son's neck. Don's left hand slowly
reaches out and his knuckles brush against his son's chest, rubbing it
slowly. "I've got a lot of gear that you'll need, and I want to see you be
the proud man you're becoming, son. Make sure you're right and tight all
the time. You know," Don half smiles, "you're going to make one hell of a
Marine. The kind of Marine other jarheads want to be. You're gonna get a
lot of attention in the Corps, probably end up a recruiting poster boy like
your dad, here!" Don was starting to get overwhelmed by the image of his
son, of himself in uniform and lowered his knuckles. Placing his hand
between the lower folds of the tunic, he started to run his knuckles over
his son's cock in the tight blue USMC dress pants. "Feels great doesn't
it, son, another Marine's hand on your cock?" Mark replied only with a
slight nod, his mouth open and a bit of drool, a stunned look in his face
as he felt the electric charge run through his body, a circuit being
completed between his dad's hand on his neck and his other on his pants.
"I know, son, it's powerful, give into it -- let me take over son."

Don continued staring into Mark's deep blue eyes. And got lost. They
looked identical, and his work in the bathroom cleaning him up was the
first step of remaking this already beautiful musclejock into his own
image. Slowly, Don expanded his hand over his son's cock in the dress blue
pants, stroking it to full erection as his son, supported by his other hand
on his neck began to rock with his slow, almost painfully slow, rhythm.
Don focused entirely on Mark, feeling like he was staring into the mirror.
The two men stood there locked in a powerful connection. Slowly, Don could
feel his son's cock get tight against the fabric, damp with precum. "It's
time to make this uniform your own, son. Time to mix your sweat and cum
and testosterone and power with mine. Give in son, feel the power of my
hand on your cock." Don's own cock was now drooling precum, small wisps of
it laying across blood stripe of his son's uniform when it made contact.
"Go ahead son, put your hands on my muscle, feel my pecs, complete the
circuit, son."

Mark raised his hands and placed his white gloved hands on his dad's
shoulder, one on his pecs. Don reacted with a jolt, as if electricity were
running through his body. Never had he explored such a powerful body as
this, never in all his years of musclesex had he ever realized there was
this level of sensation. His hands were no fully groping his son's cock in
his Marine uniform, whole hand full grabs of the young bodybuilders cock
and stroking it until he broke down. With a speedy determination, flexed
the arm stroking Mark's neck and sent his son's face crashing towards him.
His blond cop stache rubbing against newly shaven flesh, he explored his
son's mouth, kissing him deeply.

"Oh, dad," Mark exhaled. "Please, dad, I..." Mark was flying from the
scent of this muscle dad, the scent of his testosterone pouring out of his
body.

Don slowly knelt on one knee and took both hands, grabbing his son's tunic
white web belt and un buckled it, careful to rub his hands over the hard,
young cock contained in the pants a few times. "Fuck, you are a beautiful
son," Don said as he ran his hands up and down the blood stripe of the
dress blues, feeling the muscle contained underneath. He reached up and
undid the second belt, and unzipped the fly, slowly. Reaching in, Don
pulled down the waistband of his son's white boxers and released the cock.
Slowly, just nearing it to smell the young musclejock's scent, he brushed
his stache over the cock. A low moan from Mark as he tilted his head back,
the white USMC lid still on it as he began to shake. "Oh dad, oh dad," he
moaned.

For the first time, Don understood what it felt like to worship another's
muscle. For all these years, he selfishly took men's attentions to feed
his own pleasure and the rush of the opposite amount of energy went into
taking his own son's cock into his mouth. Slowly and methodically, as if
connected to Mark through a tether, he understood at each moment when to
relax and when to suck harder on this beautiful piece of manhood.
Breathing through his nose, he stayed on his cock for minutes, slowly
rocking his son through the pressure he exerted. Mark placed his white
gloved hands on his dad's head, feeling the flattop through the fabric.
Moaning, rocking and supercharged, finally, Mark let out a bellow, a loud
moan as he came into his dad's mouth for the first time of many,
"OOOOORAH," he exclaimed as Don tasted his own testosterone in his mouth.


Semper Fi, Son
Page 28

 
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