Sexual Harrassment in the Military: 2 Performance Pieces for 4 Actors in 3 Lovely Costumes

Jack Fritscher

ACT 1. USMC SLAP CAPTAIN

QUANTICO, INTERROGATION ROOM. 3 AM. USMC Slap captain: Fleet champion kickboxer, clad in fatigue pants, military-issue T-shirt, heavy combat boots. Rubbing his hands, callused from extreme-fighting martial arts: num-chuks, pugil sticks, boduka. High on his left biceps, a tattoo: red cobra, fanged, coiled, ready to strike, in colorful relief against his dark hairy skin. His head shaved short in a white-sidewall military burr. His neck: thick, powerful, cruelly muscled. Long athletic arms: strong, hairy, muscular, threaded with veins. His shoulders: solid as a baseball slugger. His hard-palmed hands: meaty, thick, brutal as a boxer’s.

“Shoulders back!” he barks at the young Lance Corporal. “Stomach in. Eyes straight ahead. Don’t look at me, boy, unless you’re gonna ask me for a date. Get your back straight. Head back.” He slams his right fist into his open left palm. “Take your eyes off me, mister. Maybe you’re thinkin’ you want to get in my pants?”

“No, sir!”

A .22 pistol jammed in the waistband of the Slap Captain’s fatigues. Convincing. His breath, moving close in: thick spit-spray, sweet from his nightly Tampa Nugget cigar. “You want the back of my hand, boy!”

“No, sir!”

“Then sit your ass down, punk!”

The Lance Corporal sits on the heavy wooden chair bolted to the concrete floor. Padded asylum restraints snap around his ankles. Handcuffs lock his wrists together behind his back. Behind the chair. His head swerves to resist the black cloth blindfold.

The Slap Captain’s hard palm open-hands the Lance Corporal up against the side of his head. He feels the hot burning imprint of the slap across his face. Then the blindfold is knotted, secured. He can see out from underneath: thick fingers make metal-toothed electrical clamps chow down on his nipples. He moans at the sharp pain. The Slap Captain open-hands him again. Slaps his face. Hard. Right. Then left. Then right again. Harder. His ears ring.

The Slap Captain chains the clamps together. His finger crooks and catches the dangling chain at its center, raising the clamps horizontally, pulling them outward.

“You wanna kiss me, boy? Hey, boy, kiss me. Kiss me, boy.” It’s an order, but the Slap Captain’s voice is reassuring. The Lance Corporal tilts his cropped blond head up in the direction of the Slap Captain’s dark voice. He is not certain how he is supposed to kiss a man, even for the Corps; not certain how he can kiss a man he cannot see.

He leans his whole torso forward, pulled by his tits, raising his blindfolded face up to this man, offering his lips.

But it’s not a kiss the Slap Captain wants.

A fast slapshot.

The Lance Corporal’s face rebounds ninety degrees to the right. Then is back-handed to the left. His cheeks burn. Redden. The intense ringing in his head clouds out the Slap Captain’s voice. His head turns tentatively, as ordered, back to the front.

Under his blindfold he sees the Slap Captain’s thick gorilla fingers unbutton the green fatigue fly. His calloused palm lifts out an extra-large USMC jockstrap pouching his big hairy balls, overlaid with thick long uncut cock. The Slap Captain gropes his sweat-stained jock-cup with his left hand. His thick-muscled right arm swings out from his massive shoulder. The Lance Corporal, nose and mouth upraised, sniffs the wet drip of the Slap Captain’s hairy pits.

A pause. Shorter than his breath. Then starts the cadenced tattoo of open-handed slaps: left, right, left, right. Ten. His head slap-lashed, hard. Twenty. Back and forth. Thirty. His face: a boxer’s fastbag. Forty. Saliva in his mouth turning to blood. Fifty. Through the ringing in his ears, words, alternating with the stinging slaps, come through. Sixty. What is the Captain saying? Seventy.

Again. Another volley of open-handed slugs. The big uncut dick swinging free and mean and hard. The hot spit from the Slap Captain’s mustached mouth wetting his cheeks, escalating the stinging of the hard slaps.

He wants the Captain’s dick. He wants the Captain’s mustache, lips and mouth and tongue. He wants to swallow his heavy spit. He leans forward. Again, the unseen hand slaps his face. Hard. Left to right. Again, the ringing over rides the voice he can hear but cannot distinguish.

His blindfolded head flushes warm up from his neck, to his cheeks to his temples. He sucks and swallows the warm salt-blood taste in his mouth. The slaps bruise his inner cheeks against his gritted teeth.

He cocks his head. Hardened for the Corps. Angles his face toward the heat and the dripping sweat off the Slap Captain’s wet fatigues. Anticipating. Unquestioning. Waiting. Wanting. He sees the thick dick and balls drop out of the piss-wet jock. The balls hang low. The dick, uncut, blind, hard, rampant shows its rosy pisshole.

He leans forward.

The Slap Captain’s piss sprays in a direct shot into his mouth. He gulps, swallows, thirsty for the hot bubbling thick Marine piss that streams faster than he can drink.

Piss: spilling down on his chest, running down his belly, soaking his dick and balls, dripping down the inside of his naked thighs, pooling up under the wet pucker of his asshole bound into the worn seat of the wooden chair.

Again, he leans forward.

The Slap Captain’s tough hands box his face back and forth. His teeth clench. His eyes squeeze closed under his blindfold. His mouth tastes metallic. He smells the crusty cheese of the Marine dick swinging free near his bleeding nose. Both nostrils trickle blood down his upper lip. The hard slaps whip the trickles to blood-spray. He holds his head steady against the rhythms of the Slap Captain’s hand. The slaps slow. The palms grow sticky with the Corporal’s blood. Somehow the slaps increase his hunger for the Slap Captain’s dirty cock.

The Slap Captain plants his hand on the back of the Corporal’s neck. “I want me a bloodfuck USMC pussy-mouth!” He holds the burr-cut head in his hard-knuckled grip. “Now come on, boy!” The Slap Captain pressures the back of the Lance Corporal’s neck, pivoting the shaved head, with the bloody blindfolded face in his hand, positioning the mouth like a bulls-eye for his crusty cock.

“I figure I got me one of two things. I either got me an ambitious young Lance Corporal. Or I got me a .22 pistol to give a tight-lipped gyrene a new asshole.”

Still cupping and guiding the Lance Corporal’s head, pressing it down with all the power in his warrior-hand, the Slap Captain nuzzles the bloody nose and swollen lips against his big-veined cock. “Clean it up, boy!“

The Lance Corporal sticks his tongue through his bruised lips, and works his tongue tip in, under, and around the inner lip of the thick foreskin, sucking out the clots of cheese, old cum, sweat, piss, and gun-grease. Not needing an order, he pulls back from the hard cock, with the cheesy smegma melting on his tongue, and swallows.

“That’s my boy. That’s my good boy.” But the level, low voice is cut off by another slap that starts the ear echo-ringing. Behind the blindfold, the lights in his head are dazzling. He is being beaten, slapped silly. He is obedient. The Corps is all. In a moment, less than an instant really, he turns his head round again, straightforward, offering his face.

He is ready. Even for the heavy-handed wallop of this palm-and-backhand slap, stinging his cheeks, purpling his temples, blackening his eyes. The Slap Captain’s hands reshaping his boy’s face into the tough, hardened, experienced face of a Marine.

The Slap Captain giving him a Marine’s face.

He feels his nose ready to give way, to break, but the Slap Captain pulls back; pulls his slap-punches; takes instead his big hand, gripping his hard dick like a brutal nightstick. He beats the bruised, tenderized face with his huge dick, wet with blood and cheese and piss.

The handcuffs cut into his wrists. Sweat and blood pour from his face, down his chest, over his clamped and torn tits. The Lance Corporal’s mind goes blank behind his battered face: Halls of... Slap!... zuma... Shores... Slap!... Punch... Shores of Trip...Slap...Punch...Punch! The rhythms of the Slap Captain’s fist and dick beating his face. The ringing in his ears. His chin held tight by the Slap Captain’s hand.

“Kiss it. Kiss it real soft, baby.”

He opens his mouth. He’s learned what kiss means.

“Kiss it.” The commanding voice becomes almost soft. “Kiss it...sweetly.”

As his bruised lips touch the swollen cockhead, its shaft, backed by the Slap Captain’s fullback butt and thighs, rams the rod through his lips, past his bloody teeth, across his tongue, and fucks long and hard deep down his gagging throat, until choking on the spit and blood and pumping cum, he feels the huge cock pulled like a deep root from his throat, still shooting white clots of cum on his face, feeling the large boxer’s hands rough-massage the slick seed into his bruises, slapping him lightly, always slapping him, across the cheeks with his angry red cock, pulling on the chains tearing at his tits, feeling the thick bristle of the Captain’s mustache and the Captain’s hard lips and the Captain’s mouth pressing hard in lust and discipline against his own lips, feeling the pressure of the Captain’s tongue sucking the bloody saliva from his beaten mouth, feeling the Captain’s fingers squeezing his cheeks, feeling the mix of the Captain’s spit, and his own blood, cum-honkered forcibly back down his throat, swallowing, writhing, tit-ripped, restrained, bound.

His man’s face, his Marine face, blindfold ripped away, seeing the spit-wet uniform of the sweaty, dark, handsome Slap Captain pulling his tits, making his sweat run, his moans deep.

He looks up at the smiling cruel face, the disciplined face taking him deep now into the Corps, initiated now into the inner rank of the Corps. His hard-muscled body, understanding, thrashes up, bound to the ungiving wooden chair, into a painful arch of ecstatic handless coming. The Slap Captain pins, with one solid punch, a pair of squadron wings into the Lance Corporal’s chest, metal into flesh. Fist into blood.

“That’s my boy.” The hands hold him very tight. The handsome mouth, mustache, and lips, press sweet, hard agony against his own. “That’s my man.”

ACT 2. CIGAR SARGE

SARGE IS HOT. REALLY GOOD-LOOKING. You offer him a cigar. He takes the box slowly. He pulls the cigar out slowly. Long. Fat. Brown. Wrapper crinkles. Cigar is soft inside cellophane. Sarge tears wrapper deliberately with his strong teeth. Feels cigar. Smells good. Aroma. Wets lips. Inserts first one end of cigar. Then other. Licks it smooth and wet. Taste feels sharp on his tongue.

You kneel between his spread thighs. Look up to watch him reach into his fatigue pocket for a match. Cigar locks in his teeth. Poised. Wet. You wait for the moment. Incredible moment. When a man strikes fire. Lifts it to his face. Match in one hand. Cigar in other. You watch his face. You know the taste of a cigar lingering in a thick mustache.

Sarge rubs his hand across his crotch. Your mouth burrows down into his fatigues. Your eyes look up into his face. Instead of lighting the cigar, he holds the match. He stares straight into your eyes. The butt-end of stogie juts square from his mouth. Surrounded by moist lips. Locked tight in his teeth. The match burns. Sarge gives the cigar another slow, long lick. He clenches it hard. Your hand moves faster in anticipation of the moment the match will touch the tip. When deep blue smoke will rise from the hot, red coal.

Sarge touches the match to the cigar. Burn point. Smoke curls. Fills his mouth. Rises in a rich blue halo around his face and close-cropped hair. He pulls on it. Easy. Smooth. The tip glows hot. Red. A burning coal. A weapon.

You kneel adoringly between his legs. Worshipping cock. Worshipping his face. The cigar smoke is his incense. Is your incense. The cigar is a thick cock. Wet. Hot. Burning. Commanding in his face. He exhales the smoke down on you. Spews smoke down on you. The smoke has volume. The smoke is thicker than poppers. The taste in your mouth is better than you imagined. The smoke lifts you higher. He puffs. He puffs, and between his thighs, you sniff the smoke he exhales. You snort the aroma.

You go down on him. Your eyes never leave his mouth. His cock is in your mouth. You pull your lips out. To the head of the dick. It’s your trick. You know it. He knows it. It’s your signal. You want him to hit his cigar and hold its heat. Hot against the back of your punk-ass neck. To keep his dick buried root-deep in your mouth. The back of your neck carries faint erotic marks of past cigar-sucks. You want his heat. You want his fire. You want his cum. You want the wet splash and the hot burn. You want the smell of cigar in his hair and mustache. You want the smell of his sweat. You worship his mouth. His prick.

You strip off your shirt. You drop your jeans. You hold your mouth open wide, coming up off his cock. Your wide wet oval of mouth goes down on his cigar butt smoking in his mouth. He puffs it heavy and hard. You wrap your mouth wide around the burning cigar. You inhale the smoke billowing from his mouth, curling up and out of his hard-bitten teeth. Again in perfect balance. Sarge on the cigar’s wet end. You on the hot. Cigar-locked together like two men fucking. One up the ass of the other: the fucker orders the fucked not to move, not to dare even flex his ass, or the cock buried hilt deep will shoot despite the fucker’s warning. Two men on one cigar. Smoke shared. His eyes roll back in his head. Close to your face. Down the length of hot cigar. You see all.

You feel him piss. Warm. Wet. All over your belly. You worship his face. His mouth. His cigar. His cock. His body. His energy sears you more than a match to a rich dark Havana.

Your eyes beg him. Your empty mouth pulling back from his cigar-mouth begs him. Your hands frame a small area on your belly, above your cock.

He looks at the space like a firebomber over target.

You need him. For once, finally, you need him to do it. Your eyes say he must. Please. Your face shows your need. Please. Your hard cock shows your commitment. Please. His own meat hardens. More. With three last stoking puffs on the butt in his mouth. You need it. He wants it. Again a balance. Control between you both. Consent. Mutual understanding. You need what he can give. He likes what you can offer.

Sarge pulls his cigar stub from his mouth. Your hands milk his cock. Pull his meat. His hand lowers the glowing tip to your groin. Your eyes lock together. Your eyes beg him. Your dick moves fast in your one hand. His cock moves fast in your other. His thick arm, cigar butt curled into the palm of his hand, moves down between your moving arms. The glowing tip is inches away from your belly. Three inches. Two. You can feel the heat from the tip moving warm toward your skin.

The energy locks totally between the two of you. Perfect partners. His eyes search your eyes one last time. Never has any man so totally offered what you so totally need.

A shadow falls heavy across his eyes. It says NOW.

His fist with the burning cigar butt moves in for that last body-inch and holds. The pleasure. The pain. His heat pours into your belly. Contact: the briefest second. A tick of pain. Seared. You come. Now. You come. His face moves in to yours. An inch away. You rock, jerk your cock. Worship him. Think of him. Together, you separate: his hand moves away from your belly. Your belly moves away from his hand. He keeps his eyes locked into yours. Balance.

Sarge tucks his dick toward your groin. He licks his hand. He shoves his cigar back between his teeth. Locks it down. He pumps his hard greasy cock over your red-spotted belly. He pumps his dick hard. Until the smoke filling his mouth, his nose, his chest fills your mouth, your nose, your chest. Until in the blue haze around the pair of your faces, his cock comes wet and hotter than any cigar, shooting healing seed, salving juice over the loving brand that will all too soon fade to a lover’s scar. Made by him. Made by this man. Made by this toker. This taker. To carry hidden and secret for the rest of your life.

Somewhere out there, Sarge waits for you.

Because you know what Sarge has and Sarge knows what you need.