One morning a few days later, I turned up at the parade ground. Nothing going on. Hot, bored, frustrating precum of anticipation dripping down my leg, I began wandering down side lanes around the enormous military base. At one point, I passed an open gate with a barbed wire fence saying Armed Services Golf Course.
Feeling a complete fraud (I've never played golf in my life, have no idea what a hole in one is, despite a lifelong passion for other kinds of holes, and wouldn't know what to do with a golf club, except perhaps using it to smartly smack some pretty callypigian protrusion), I entered the golf club. A fat man with shrewd eyes almost immediately accosted me.
"Uh," I began nervously. "I'm a civilian, but I'm interested in looking around your golf course."
"That is not allowed surr. But are you interested in becoming member. If you urr member, you can come on course."
"What are your terms?" I asked.
The man handed me a sheet which listed outrageous terms for a lifelong membership.
"Ah," I said pretending to consider. "This looks interesting. I will need to consult my wife" (a totally fictitious entity, but you could hardly expect me to say, " I will need to consult the sweet dinge bumboy hustler I whip twice a month).
The man's eyes gleamed. My black denims, although dusty and worn, were clearly from the States, and my curious accent, Indian/British/Texan spelled money (quite inaccurately as it was, since I am a hard up school teacher in the States) to him. Recognizing my advantage, I said, "But I will need to look around."
"All right surr," said the man. And clinging the membership form like some sort of talisman, I headed off toward the rolling green.
I had hardly proceeded a short way when I came across a jawan in khaki uniform with a stop sign indicating that live firing was going on in the next field, and I could not go in that direction. I stopped short and gawped at the jawans who were doing target practice within viewing distance, not close enough unluckily that I could discern their cute babyish faces, but close enough to get a general sense of their _s_e_x_y little buns.
The first row was made to step forward. At a barked command, they fell flat on blue sheets stretched on the ground and proceeded to take aim at their targets. Two NCOs stalked up and down the supine soldiers. One soldier must have had assumed the wrong position, or maybe the NCO just needed some sadistic fun, for he raised his boot and stamped it down hard on some poor boy's khaki thigh. Ah, if only I were close enough to hear the gasp of anguish, or to see the grimace. But still I got a nice slimey drop of precum from that sight.
After they had fired their rounds, the first row of jawans and the NCOs went over to inspect the targets. One hapless jawan must have gotten a very poor score because he was made to pulti (do somersaults) from the rows of targets all the way back to where the soldiers had taken aim. To enourage him on his way, one of the NCOs gave him a vicious kick in the arse as he began his pulti progress back to the row of soldiers.
Then the next row of jawans performed, but these poor boys must have done even worse, for the whole row was made to pulti back.
Hotter stuff to come. Hotter cum to come too. So stay tuned.