Jamie Masterson


When the lights went out, I felt Remington sliding under the sheets next to me. In the air-conditioned room, the warmth of his smooth hard body soaked into my skin. His firm nipple brushed against my chest as he nestled his face against my neck.

I curled my arms around his head in a gentle headlock.

"I want to feel your hardness," he said.

I flexed my bicep around his head and pulled his face close.

His muscular arms encircled my upper body in a hug. My manhood surged. My muscles swelled with power. My blood burned with passion.

I hugged him closer.

I felt his rugged endowment grinding against my hip.

He slid on top of me, straddling my crotch with his crotch, pressing against me shaft to shaft.

His hips powered down. I felt my manhood powering up...



Processing Week

Boot Camp Begins

I first met Remington on a commercial plane bound from New Orleans to San Diego, via the hub at Dallas-Fort Worth.

In San Diego, we would spend thirteen weeks in Boot Camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot. During those weeks, we would prove ourselves tough enough to join the United States' most elite society of warriors.

Boot Camp wasn't going to be any picnic, but I had grown up at a military academy. As a wrestler since junior high school, I had physical stamina from long hours of weight-training, running, stretching, and grappling. As for the mental pressures, my life experience in the military school consisted of self-discipline and military drills.

When Remington boarded the plane at Dallas, he caught my eye. Tall, dark and handsome, his presence dominated the cabin of the plane as he strode down the aisle in his blue jeans and tee shirt. Remington walks with his legs and his arms spread apart, cocked like he's approaching a cowboy for a gunfight, ready to draw his guns. His distinctive gait would later earn him the nickname of "Gunslinger" from the other recruits in Boot Camp.

What happened next was the hand of Fate.

Having wrestled since I was a little kid, I have a habit of sizing up other dudes fairly quickly.

As I admired Remington's broad shoulders and narrow hips, he reached my seat and paused.

Remington caught me sizing him up, our eyes locked briefly, and then his eyes roamed my physique as he sized me up in return.

When he paused, I noticed the hard, bulging protrusion in his faded jeans. As I would later learn, no matter what kind of britches, Remington's crotch always forms into a solid basket.

He took the aisle seat next to me. He had to sit with his shanks spread apart because of the large package between his legs. I wanted to touch the hard package and feel the muscle.

Our forearms brushed together on the armrest. I felt a rush of testosterone.

Remington is a smooth-skinned Italian with dark brown, almost black eyebrows and clear brown bedroom eyes. His dark brown hair was cut in a flat-top "high and tight." His facial features were strong and noble. His mother must have been a beautiful woman, I thought.

His neck was muscled and sloped to broad shoulders that projected prominently against his black T-shirt which revealed a brawny chest sporting firm round nipples.

His bulging biceps protruded even when his arm was extended straight. When he moved his arm, the well-developed muscles curled into hard mounds of manly flesh.

Although very much interested in the macho dude sitting next to me, I pretended disinterest. After all, I reasoned, I was on my way to Boot Camp and wouldn't have time to pursue romantic interests.

There are times when my reasoning is half-baked.

During the take-off, I resumed reading a book about Carlos Hathcock, a well-known marine sniper.

After a few minutes in flight, Remington said, "Wasn't Carlos Hathcock one of the developers of the Marine Corps' sniper program?"

He had been reading my book along with me. Hmmm.

Impressed by his knowledge of this bit of Marine Corps' Lore, I stopped reading for a moment and responded, "Yes, as a matter of fact. Are you interested in the Marines?"

Remington nodded. "I'm on my way to marine Boot Camp in San Diego."

My inner world brightened. Suddenly, I knew that God is good.

This revelation by the "Gunslinger" turned my present situation into a horse of a different color.

"Really?" I said. "I am too."

I introduced myself and offered a handshake.

He firmly squeezed my hand like a grappler who wants to feel the strength of his opponent's grip just before a match. As he squeezed my hand, I felt the power coursing through his arm and noticed the tight ropes of muscle.

"I'm David Remington," he said. He squeezed my hand tightly before releasing the handshake.

His eyes glanced briefly toward my crotch. Both of us were curious. Hmmm.

We chatted.

Remington continued. "I've seen you somewhere before."

It was more than just a pick-up line. He was genuine.

"I'm from New Orleans," I offered. "I haven't been around much, except for high school trips like wrestling, rodeo, and gun shoots."

His forehead knotted for a minute as he thought about it.

"I've seen you wrestle at regional championships," he said. His eyes suddenly burned a hole through the crotch in my jeans.

When he looked up and our eyes met again, he added, "I'd like to hump with you on the mat sometime."

He grinned and flexed his bulging bicep.

"Touch it," he said. "It's hard as a rock."

Although surprised by his straightforward approach, I was flattered by his recognition and aroused by his invitation. Boys will be boys.

I felt his muscle. He made it ripple under my fingers.

"You're pretty damn strong," I said.

"You should see my leg muscles," he bragged. "I can make you give up with my legs."

"Okay, cowboy," I agreed. "But my horsey can whip your horsey."

He felt my arm and said, "Make a muscle."

When I flexed my bicep, I saw the fascinated gleam in his eyes.

My biceps are one of my most noticeable features. They say it's hereditary. When I flex my biceps, the muscles of my upper arms form into impressively powerful peaks. Working with weights only makes them more potent-looking. In wrestling and in other situations, I have used my arms to intimidate dudes.

Remington pinched the bulging muscle.

"Tough gun," he said. "I'd like to get you on the mat."

Remington and I were well on our way to a friendship -- horseys, tough guns and all.

We were met at the San Diego airport by a sharp-looking marine who directed us to a bus with "U.S. Navy" stenciled on the side. Altogether, about 20 young bucks got on the bus bound for MCRD San Diego that evening.

During the bus ride from the airport, four bronzed muscledudes in black muscleshirts were flexing their biceps and bragging about how tough they were. Two of the dudes were obviously identical twins. I found out later that the four muscledudes' names were Mark Lowry, Howard Jennings, and the Johnson twins, Brad and Norman. Of the twins, Brad Johnson was the most mouthy. Norman was quieter.

Brad Johnson, Howard Jennings, and Mark Lowry loudly boasted that they could outfight, outwrestle, and outshoot any recruit on the bus.

Full of bluster and swagger, they loudly proclaimed how easily they had passed the fitness tests at the recruiter's office.

They flexed their muscles and posed for each other. They strutted and pranced. They issued generic fight challenges to the other recruits on the bus. They bragged about their prowess on the football field in high school.

The rest of us sat quietly.

I was thinking that the loud-mouth muscleheads were the inspiration for the old saying, "It's better to be silent and be thought a fool, than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."

I could tell by Remington's grim facial expression that he was considering challenging their claims of physical superiority.

Lowry began bragging about his political connections in the Marine Corps. He talked loud enough for everybody to hear. He said that he was a special friend of Sergeant Ainsworth, one of the Drill Instructors. He said that Ainsworth would take good care of him and his pals.

When the bus stopped at a train depot to pick up additional recruits, Lowry, Johnson and Jennings got some new material for their swagger and intimidation.

Several people were waiting on the dimly lit platform. It might have made a nice "politically correct" photo for Marine recruiting.

Four dudes got on the bus.

The first dude was a skinny Asian. It looked like his whole multigenerational Oriental family had come to the train station to wish him well. They were obviously proud of him.

Another dude was a rough-looking Latino wearing a sleeveless shirt and jeans. He had been accompanied to the station by two gorgeously drop-dead Latino girls who couldn't keep their hands off him.

When Lowry saw the Asian and the Latino approaching the bus, he sneered and hooted, "A Gook and a Spic! There goes the neighborhood!"

Jennings and Johnson laughed.

The third dude was a black guy with a wife and two small children. The wife looked anxious, but dignified.

Jennings jeered. "Add a jungle bunny to the mix!"

"Hah! Hah!" Lowry guffawed. "Jungle Bunny! Hah! Hah!"

None of the rest of us said anything.

The fourth dude to board the bus was a tall, Anglo cowboy who had been kissing a sweet young thing. They were wearing wedding bands and were affectionate like newlyweds. She was well-dressed and had the glow of a young maiden who's just returning from her honeymoon, if you know what I mean. He had the protective demeanor of a young man who has just taken a new bride. (Don't ask me how I know these things. I guess that I learned it from television.)

Jennings poked fun at the cowboy. "A redneck shit-kicker!"

As the cowboy boarded the bus, Jennings held his nose like something smelled bad.

We knew that the dude was a cowboy by the way he was dressed: black cowboy hat with silver band, bright blue Western shirt, jeans with a large silver belt buckle from a rodeo championship, and, of course, black leather cowboy boots. He was slender, not skinny, and very well-proportioned and well-developed, like a steer wrestler or a bull rider.

Having steer-wrestled in National High School Rodeo, I have a special fondness for cowboys, especially steer wrestlers and bull riders.

As the four dudes came down the aisle searching for seats, Lowry, Johnson and Jennings continued their intimidation tactics.

Johnson made fun of the Asian. "Ah-sooo, Uncle Sam takee Gook. China-man makeee good bullet magnet on firing range."

Lowry made fun of the Latino and the black. "I hear that Spics and Spooks are good for cleaning shit."

Lowry jabbed Jennings and said, "Get it? Spics and Spooks. Sounds like a detergent."

Jennings carried on. "We'll need some Spics and Spooks to clean up after the shit-kicker."

Lowry fingered the big crotch in his jeans. "Maybe we can teach the redneck cowboy how to suck our cocks."

Lowry was big enough, mouthy enough, and loud enough to qualify as the baddest bully.

I didn't like Mark Lowry, Brad Johnson, or Howard Jennings.

Lowry continued his loud-mouth bullshit, now aimed at the cowboy. "Hey, shit-kicker, is your dick big enough to stick into that ugly girl you were kissing? Or do you wear that big belt buckle to protect your puny dick?"

Lowry laughed and gloated as if he'd said something funny. Johnson and Jennings laughed with him.

Everybody, including the four newcomers, tried to ignore the loud-mouth muscledudes.

The cowboy and the Latino took seats in front of me and Remington. The Asian and the black dude took the next seat up.

Satisfied that he had them buffaloed, Lowry continued to mouth off.

"Hey, puny-dick shit-kicker!" he hollered toward the well-built cowboy. "Maybe you want me to fuck your wife and show her what a real man can do!"

Lowry was stocky. He easily outweighed the more slender cowboy dude by at least a hundred pounds.

Jennings added to Lowry's taunts with two more cents worth of bullshit. "Hey, cowboy. When she finally found it, did your wife have to teach you how to beat your meat?"

The cowboy was getting riled, and I didn't blame him. I was already more than riled. I was downright pissed.

Taking the cowboy's silence for fear, Lowry sneered. "The shit-kicker is as yellow as the gook in front of him."

In the dim light coming from the station, I saw a tide of crimson rising up the cowboy's sunburned neck. The redneck dude was clenching and unclenching his fists.

Not only do I have a special fondness for cowboys, I also tend to side with the underdog.

"Knock it off," I shouted back to Lowry, Johnson and Jennings.

Leaning forward, I whispered to the cowboy. "If it comes to a fight, I've got your back door."

The cowboy nodded his understanding, and I added, "Don't bite into their shit."

Then, Remington bit into their shit.

Remington said loudly to the muscledudes, "Hey, fuckwads, shut your fat mouths."

In a humorous note of ironic sarcasm, I whispered to the cowboy. "Like I said, don't bite into their shit. Let Remington bite into their shit."

Lowry stood up in his most intimidating pose and said to Remington. "Maybe you want to try to shut my mouth, Spic."

Remington stood up and turned to face Lowry. Technically, Remington was not a Spic. He was a Wop or a Dago.

Nonetheless, the Gunslinger was cocked and ready to kick Lowry's ass.

When Jennings and Brad Johnson stood up in their version of a tough-guy stance, I stood up and faced off.

"Come on, dick-whips," I said to the muscledudes. "Let's mix it up."

Call it what you like: Unity in Diversity. A Rainbow Coalition.

Behind me, four more recruits stood up in their version of bad-ass: the shit-kicker cowboy led the pack, followed by the Spic Latino, the Asian Gook, and the Black Jungle Bunny.

When the Rainbow Coalition stood up, other recruits on the bus began to stand up.

Remington & Company versus the Mouthy Muscledudes.

The bus driver jerked the bus forward, throwing everybody off-balance so that we had to grab for our seats.

Looking down the aisle in his mirror, the driver shouted, "Sit down and shut the fuck up. You maggots have a lot to learn about being Marines. This is not the way to start Boot Camp."

Knowing that the bus driver could get us in big trouble, everybody sat down.

Lowry muttered to Remington, "It ain't over, Gunslinger."

The bus driver shouted to Lowry, "I told you to shut it, Maggot."

His little duck feelings hurt, Lowry glared at the driver.

As the bus resumed its journey to Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Lowry started making jerk-off signs with his hand. Jennings and Johnson snickered.

I whispered to the cowboy and the Latino, "The musclejock is an egotistical loony-tune. His day is coming."

They nodded their agreement.

When the bus pulled into the base, we felt a surge of adrenaline.

The Marine at the gate, uniformed in a short-sleeve khaki shirt and green trousers, gave a crisp arm movement to signal the bus in.

An intimidating dude with an overdose of testosterone got on the bus.

"Command Presence" is what the Marines call it. The dude was a tough-dick, fire-breathing, muscle-bound sergeant with a thick bull-neck and a shaved head topped by a campaign hat.

This dude was seriously cock-hard and hostile, like he wanted to fight or kill.

At first, he spoke in low tones to the bus driver. Then, he looked toward our direction in the back of the bus.

I glanced at Remington. "Oh shit. The dude looks like a most pugnacious person."

As the fire-breathing sargeant came toward us, I read the name on his uniform. "Ainsworth." Lowry's bosom buddy.

"Dude," I said to Remington. "We are most fucked."

Sergeant Ainsworth stopped beside the cowboy and the Latino and yelled, "The bus driver tells me that some of you Maggots want to have Dick-hardening Drills on the bus."

Ainsworth leveled his eyes on the Latino in a cold stare. "What's your name, Spic-Boy?"

The Latino swallowed hard and said, "Ricky Martinez."

The broad-shouldered sargeant glared at us with his stern, dark eyes, almost hidden under the brim of his hat.


There were, of course, none.

Ainsworth snarled at Recruit Martinez, "What did I just say, Spic?"

Blood rushed into Martinez' face.

The Latino mumbled. "Sir, ...ah... you ain't supposed to talk..."

Ainsworth cut him off in mid-sentence. "YOU? YOU? Spic Boooy, do you know what a ewe is? That's a female sheep! You're Latino trash, ain't you Spic Boooy? You know what Latino Boooys do with female sheep? They fuck 'em, don't they --- boooy. You want to fuck me?"

"Sir, no, sir," Martinez quickly responded.

I heard Lowry and his pals snickering in the back of the bus.

The rest of us kept quiet and kept our eyes rigidly focused straight ahead.

Sargeant Ainsworth wasn't finished with Martinez.

The sargeant shouted. "I can't hear you, Spic Boy. Do you want to fuck me?"

Martinez responded loudly, "SIR, NO SIR."


Martinez leaped to his feet, arching his back and jutting his chin straight up. He screamed with his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his veins bulging on his neck. "SIR, YES SIR!"

Sargeant Ainsworth walked up and down the aisle. "Ladies, any time a Drill Instructor addresses you as a group, you will answer as a group. You will answer properly and loudly. If you fail as a group, you will pay for your sins as a group. Is that clear?"

Twenty-four young bucks shouted together, assholes puckering and ears popping, "SIR, YES SIR."

"Very good," Ainsworth said. "When you speak to a Drill Instructor, you will address him in the third person. That means if you have a request, such as one of you Maggots might need to tinkle, you would request it in this fashion, 'Sir, the recruit requests permission to make a head call, Sir."

Ainsworth continued. "Two words that will never be a part of your vocabulary are I or You. You will replace these words with The Recruit and The Drill Instructor, respectively. Is that clear?"

"SIR, YES SIR," twenty-four voices yelled.

The musclebound sergeant stopped in front of Martinez.

Ainsworth suddenly grabbed a handful of the Latino's crotch and squeezed.

Martinez yelped in agony. "Aw, fuck!"

Acting on instinct, the young Latino recruit reflexively whipped a knife from the rear pocket of his jeans.

As the blade flashed, the sergeant quickly blocked the knife attack, caught Martinez by the wrist, and tripped him to the floor of the bus.

Martinez landed on his butt with the sergeant's foot planted in his throat.

As Ainsworth crushed the recruit's wrist, the knife spun under the seat next to my foot.

The Sergeant pressed his combat boot hard against the recruit's Adam's apple.

Ainsworth glared down at Martinez and shouted, "Fight Back, Spic Boy. I been wanting to kill somebody all day."

Though his insides were churning from having his balls smashed, the Latino's dark eyes were glowing with fire. Martinez wasn't scared. He wanted to fight back.

I stole a furtive glance at Remington. We both knew that this wasn't fair. It's against the rules for Drill Instructors to grab recruits by the balls. (Of course, it's also against the rules for D.I.'s to use profanity.)

Remington suddenly stepped forward, toward Ainsworth and Martinez.

With ass properly puckered, heels snapped together, and hands closed at his sides, Remington shouted at the top of his voice. "SIR, THE RECRUIT REQUESTS PERMISSION TO SPEAK TO THE SERGEANT, SIR!"

The other recruits on the bus were flabbergasted that Remington dared to step forward and speak.

The Sergeant kept his boot planted on Martinez's throat and held the Latino recruit in a reverse wristlock as he turned to face Remington.

Ainsworth shouted, "WHAT IS IT, WOP?"

Remington remained at rigid attention and stared straight ahead as he spoke. "Sir, The Recruit provoked the Spic to fight. The Recruit called the Spic's girlfriend a cock-sucking whore. The Recruit regrets having a smart-ass mouth that instigated a Dick-Hardening Drill on the bus. SIR."

Although Remington's story was a complete fabrication, no one was going to contradict him. The lie was so ridiculous that it was funny.

He'd successfully broken the spell. He diverted the Sergeant's attention from Martinez, saving the Latino from a losing battle.

Ainsworth hollered to the bus driver. "Is that how it happened?"

The driver shrugged. He didn't know for sure how the skirmish had started.

Ainsworth turned to his pal Lowry.

"Sir," Lowry said, "The Recruits request a second chance."

Ainsworth stepped back and allowed Martinez to return to his seat.

On the first night at MCRD, Remington's lie to save a fellow recruit garnered him the unofficial position of Squad Leader. Needless to say, I was most impressed by Remington's gutsy move.

Ainsworth seemed to forget about the knife. He turned and walked to the front of the bus.

I picked up the knife and tucked it in my boot. It was a good knife with a locking blade. Later, I returned it to Martinez when we stowed away our civilian clothes. He was grateful.

By the way, Martinez is not a half-breed Mexican. He's of Puerto Rican descent, and a damn tough-dick Marine.

did ya like that dude?

ready for more??

then click here for episode 2 of BOOT CAMP and remember


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