Night Assault

I was standing in just my skivvies at the basin and mirror, shaving, when Colonel Yim came into the tent. Songge Yim was tall for a Korean, hard-bodied and wiry, battle worn. If there was a South Korean equivalent of a U.S. Marine colonel, it would be Yim. I made to turn and salute, but he said, "Carry on, Lieutenant Wilson," so I did and, sitting behind me on my cot in the confined space in my tent, he watched me shave. I had expected him to come brief me on the recon patrol I was going to go out on this morning to inspect the demarcation line between North and South in the Yeoncheon area, but I hadn't expected him this early.

I was both nervous and comfortable with Yim's presence. Nervous, of course, because he was a colonel, in charge of the regiment holding the line in the Yeoncheon area, the regiment for which I, twenty-three and only recently out of West Point, was the American advisor for, and comfortable in that there was little between the two of us that hadn't become familiar. I knew my body aroused him. And that, in turn, aroused me.

As I shaved, Yim briefed me on my mission to drive up and down the line at Yeoncheon for up to two days to check the South Korean positions and to view and assess, as possible, any changes to the North Korean positions across the line. As the briefing and my shave came toward and end, the colonel rose from the cot, came in close behind me, and embraced me. One of his hands went to cupping and running his fingers over my jawline and whisper, "A very nice shave. You are so handsome," in my ear. His other hand pushed my skivvies down my legs and I stepped out of them. I jutted my ass back into his crotch and spread my legs, as his hand grasped my cock and he stroked me off.

This wasn't new. I knew what to do for him from this point. This was why he'd shown up earlier than I anticipated, well before my driver was to arrive with the jeep I'd take on the inspection mission. This was why he'd secured the entrance flap of my tent when he entered. It hadn't been lost on me that he had done that.

I stood there, just in my dog tags, his taller body hovering over me, looking at him through my shaving mirror while his face was still there, buried in the side of my throat and his hand still cupped and explored my face. I had stripped down completely in anticipation of his arrival. I knew my body drove him crazy, each of us aroused by the different ethnicity of the other.

I was already hard. I had been hardening since I'd heard his barked command in Korean outside the tent for his orderly to stand watch at the tent entrance and see that we weren't disturbed. He was early. I knew what he'd want--what we'd do. His thumb slipped into my mouth, and I sucked on it, as he slow stroked my cock. He wanted me to come before I sucked him off and he fucked me.

"Won't the orderly hear us?"

"He is under my control--as you are. He only hears what I want him to hear. Everyone in this camp only hears what I want them to hear."

I had never been fucked by a Korean before Yim, especially not one as much in command as the colonel was. He was both exotic and forceful in his technique. This was all new to me. I was very much out of my element--and very much in Songge Yim's element and control. That was quite arousing. He could bark for me to lie down and open my legs to him and then he'd do things to me I'd never experienced before.

His hand pulled away from my face and I pressed my cheek to the glass of the mirror, my pelvis jutted back as he slow jacked me. He was humming. His free hand glided over my torso, feeling my chest up, playing with my nipples. I was in great shape, but I was more compact, shorter of stature and slighter of body than the Korean officer. I was also a good twenty-five years younger than he was, fresh out of my training, delighted in starting my military career, relieved that my proclivities hadn't been discovered and curtailed my advancement.

But Songge Yim had known. He had known from the beginning, when I had arrived as the new American liaison to his regiment, what I liked and what I would do for a man. He was refined, though, he seduced and took me as an artist rather than as a warrior--like he was taking me now, the long, expressive fingers of his hand laced through my balls, rolling and distending them, while also encircling the base of my cock and slowly masturbating me.

He had taken his time, that first time, when he'd invited me to his residence in the regimental compound, an old, abandoned, but ornately painted temple on the edge of the town of Yeoncheon. His seduction technique was exotic and superb. For my welcoming dinner, he said he wanted to introduce me to the Korean culture. That introduction had included Asian sex techniques. His dining pavilion had been lit with candles, the table had been low, with cushions. There were just the two of us, in silken robes and nothing else. He wore his robe such that I knew he was naked underneath it and it opened here and there as he wished to show a hard muscular chest, a dragon tattoo on a thigh, and his hard, upturned erection. The effect was much more arousing than if I'd seen him completely naked.

There had been Korean delicacies and rice wine--an abundance of rice wine--and conversation, becoming more intimate as the rice wine was being drunk. And there had been touching and foundling and kissing. And, ultimately, both of us still in our silken robes, but robes that were flared open at the strategic location so as not to interfere with copulation. The garment was open at his crotch to show an erection begging to be touched, to be brushed against lips, to be taken in the mouth, just as his hand was brushing aside a fold to reveal that I was erect as well, aching to be touched, to be taken into his throat.

I had never been prepared by such an exotic, slow, and sensual seduction like this before--I'd never had sex with an Asian man. Never before had the placement of clothing, the slow revealing of our sex been as arousing as it was with Yim. I was panting and moaning for it when he finally slid it inside me and had his way with me.

And there had been Yim sitting cross-legged on the cushion and me, in his lap, facing him, leaning back, grasping my ankles with my fists. And me, rising and falling on his cock, learning an Asian technique of exotic male copulation. Receiving him in my tender inner core, my channel walls caressing and undulating over the hard shaft. Receiving his essence.

There had been, to be sure, servants around who knew what we were doing--what the colonel was doing to me--who heard it and saw it. But that there were and they acted like nothing untoward was happening had added to my arousal of having come under his control

There, in my tent, with him stroking my cock with one hand, fondling and gliding his hand on my torso with the other, and licking and nipping at my shoulder blades, I came for him, neatly, in the basin holding my soapy shaving water.

It was time to take care of him. He was both patient and refined. He moved back a pace and sat back down on the side of my cot. As he was descending, he was unbuttoning the fly of his fatigues and taking his erection out. I turned, knelt between his spread legs, and took his cock in my mouth, giving him, slow, deep-throating suck.

He raised me and settled me in his lap on his shaft, facing him. I lowered my face to his and we kissed on the lips--just once. That wasn't his style. He was a cocksman, not a romantic. His hands were moving all over my body. I leaned back and rose and fill on the cock from the lifting strength of my knees abutting his hips on either side. He took my dog tags into his mouth, briefly to suck on then while I was fucking myself on his shaft, but he let loose of those to nip and suck on my nipples.

As I increased the vigor of my rise and fall, feeling him tense, both of us coming closer--him for the first time, me for the second--he nudged my torso back, so that I reclined toward the floor between his spread legs. He was fully dressed in his fatigues; I was fully naked except for the combat boots I had been wearing all along. I let my shoulder blades and the back of my head rest on the matting of the tent floor and raised my arms over my head in a totally surrendered stance. He was the master; I was the slave.

He grasped my hips and I moaned and sighed as he pulled me on and off his cock, smoothly but in increasing rapidity, until I gasped as he bent over took my cock in his mouth and almost perfectly timed our mutual release, me in his throat, he deep inside my inner core.

When I exited the tent, still adjusting my fatigues, my jeep was outside, my new driver, Buzz, a big boned and muscular, all-male Texan who, though only a private, was a good five years older than I was, was waiting. The colonel appeared in the tent entrance behind me. Buzz was giving a look like he knew what we had been doing in my tent but that he was just a private, we were officers, and he wouldn't reveal his knowledge.

This was Asia. I was quite sure that everyone in the regiment knew what the colonel was doing with me. I would have said what we were doing together, but this was the colonel's turf and world. He did what he wanted here.

He did me. And such was his power and authority that no one in his regiment as much as cast an eye of derision or censure on me. I was the colonel's mistress, and all Koreans recognized that as a privileged status, regardless of gender.

* * * *

The ride that day along the demarcation line, on terrain that was purposely denuded and raw hills and valleys rather than marked roads was so noisy and jolting that there wasn't an opportunity for talk, not that the private, Buzz, seemed predisposed to talk to me. He seemed to be holding a grudge and I couldn't help but think he'd seen Colonel Yim behind me in my tent doorway when I'd come out tucking my shirt into my fatigues--and that he got the right inference of that. He didn't have much of any regard for Koreans at all and didn't appear to mingle with any in the regiment, so I'd thought he didn't know about my relationship with the Korean colonel. Perhaps I was wrong about that, though.

He sat, hunched, beside me, concentrating hard on where to nose the jeep next to keep us in parallel with the demarcation line but out of a ditch impossible to recover the jeep from. For my part, I was busy inspecting the line and beyond through binoculars, checking the tracking on exactly where we were, and making notes on what I saw. Early that afternoon we reached the Baekhak-myeon reservoir, where we stopped, first to eat lunch out of ration packs while sitting in the jeep, me looking west to the demarcation line and Buzz looking to the south to the desolate land around the reservoir, there being no habitation on this side of the lake.

When I finished eating, I said, "This is our chance for a good bathe. You first and I'll stand guard." This was more or less a no-man's zone, which is why it had been denuded, along a belligerent line that often saw some action. Those across the line had had their binoculars trained on our jeep all day just as I'd been assessing them. One of us needed to stand guard. It was standard procedure for soldiers riding the line to take the opportunity to bathe in lakes like this.

"Officers before men, sir," was all Buzz would say, not even looking in my direction.

"I want you to go first," I asserted. It didn't really matter who went first but, as he pointed out, I was the officer and I had the say.

"Fine," he said, but quickly changed that to "Yes, Sir."

Usually when we were on patrol like this, we didn't pull rank. It was especially touchy in this situation, as Buzz was older than I was and, compared to him, I was sure, was a neophyte on the Korea front. He knew the Koreans well, but he was a prejudiced southern boy and didn't relate to them like they were human. I was newly minted and on my first foreign assignment. The insignia on Buzz's fatigues indicated he'd been to Iraq and Afghanistan previously. He'd been here in Korea a hell of a lot longer than I had been. But I needed to establish control.

I waited until he'd left the jeep and had time to get down to the reservoir bank and strip down before I looked--but then I did look. He was a hulking bruiser of a man, obviously heavily muscular and solid. I'd also become curious about tattoos, because when I looked over to him as we were riding in the jeep, I could see that there was tattooing down to his wrist on his right arm. I'd been fantasizing about him having a sleeve tattoo and how far it had gone up. I hadn't realized that tattoos aroused me until I'd been covered by Colonel Yim, who had an impressive green and red dragon in possession of one of his thighs.

Buzz stretched out, naked, before plunging in the reservoir. He was half hard, which gave me pause to consider what his preferences were and if he'd ever come on to me in that way. He stood mid-calf deep in the water for a few minutes, working himself up before slipping under the water.

His body was magnificent, one of a body-builder. He was barrel-chested and thick-waisted, but it was the body-as-armor sculpting of a Zeus figure. His thighs were hugely muscular, like those of a soccer player. The tattoo indeed was impressive, not just being a sleeve but also coming up to his shoulder and down to follow the curve of his bulging right pec. It reached the same level on his shoulder blade. The design was a swirl of cobalt-blue waves, with a Yin-Yang circular medallion on his right breast. The artwork was very Asian. He must have had the work done here in Korea. He was heavy but not fat--it was all muscle. He was smooth-bodied except for the auburn bush at his pubes and in his pits. His head was close-shaved in a Marine-style buzz cut.

It was the first time I thought of him in sexual terms. I did now, though, think of Buzz in sexual terms.

The man was a magnificent warrior. He dove neatly into the reservoir and swam laps from left to right, not knowing, obviously not caring, if I watched him or not.

I watched him.

This was more than he did when I took my turn in the reservoir. Whenever I looked in the direction of the jeep, Buzz was intently staring toward the demarcation line--all business.

That evening we reached the banks where the Imjingang River flowed into South Korea from the north and we set up a tent on a hillside among some big rocks overlooking the river where we couldn't be seen from the northern side of the line. We had just one small pup tent, where we both would have to sleep. Buzz was continuing to do his silent, but judgmental, "You're the wet-behind-the-ears officer and I'm the seasoned private" routine with me, not accepting any help in building a fire and warming up a dinner of rations. The evening was warm and we both had stripped off our shirts. I could hardly keep my eyes off his magnificent torso and that tattooing.

We weren't occupied with business or the noise from the Jeep picking its way down the demarcation line, though, so it was impossible not to talk at all. Reluctantly, Buzz let me know that he was a Texan who had tried his hand after leaving high school before he finished at construction work, telephone lineman work, and duty on an offshore oil platform before settling on the army, which had taken him, as I'd already surmised, to Iraq and Afghanistan before landing him here in Korea. His background couldn't have been any further off the mark than mine was, having been raised in Connecticut in a family of bankers and military officers who, like me, had graduated from West Point. And he was a big, rough dude, and I was a small blond guy. We both had great bodies, but of a different kind. I was trim and sleek; he was a Norse god.

Having seen Buzz's body, I ached for his kind of bod. He somehow picked up on that.

"You keep looking at me," he said, both of us hunched down in a crouch beside the fire, eating the last of our rations from metal pans. He wasn't look at me, though. He was looking into the fire. His tone had become harsh, belligerent.

"It's your tattooing," I said. "It's very impressive."

"Just my tattoo? That's all that impresses you?"

"No, that's not all," I admitted after a pause.

"And what else impresses you?" His tone remaining harsh. Now he was looking at me.

I didn't answer, pretending I hadn't heard him.

"You want my cock, don't you?" he growled. And when I didn't respond immediately, I heard him mutter, "Faggot" under his breath.

"What's that you said, soldier," I exclaimed, rising to my feet.

"Ah, now you pull rank on me," he said, also rising.

"Rank aside, man to man," I said. "What did you say?"

"Man to man," he said, with a sneer. "I said faggot, faggot, faggot. You let the Korean colonel fuck you, don't you?" He didn't use the word Korean, though.

"Is that what's had you going all day, is it, you poor white trash?" I responded, lashing out--but not just in words. I made the mistake of moving toward him, fists raised.

He decked me with two blows. There was no contest between the two of us. There never could have been. One fist went to my chin, startling and glazing me over more than hurting me, and the other fist thrust up into my solar plexus as I went down. I was winded, helpless, and surprised at how little defense I had.

He picked me up like I was a sack of grain, carried me into the pup tent, lay me out on the pallet I'd set up for myself, stretched out on my belly, and stripped my fatigue pants and skivvies off my legs. Chanting "Faggot, faggot, faggot" under his breath, he stripped himself down and came down on me, stretched out full length on me. I was conscious enough to realize that he was in magnificent erection. I tried to rise, but he clipped me in the chin again and growled, "Lay there and take it, Faggot." He reached for and came up with a length of cording from our tent setup and bound my wrists together over my head.

I lay there, panting, while he fingered my hole, opening me up. And then he was positioning himself, mounting me from on top and behind.

I didn't cry out for him to stop. Maybe if I'd given a command for him to stop, discipline would have set in and he would have snapped out of whatever was driving him and would have stopped. The truth was, though, that I didn't want him to stop. I wanted him to fuck me.

I was crying out pain-passion as he stuffed himself in me, raw. When he was in, he lowered his chest on my back, put me in a full Nelson, and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

When he was finished, I lay there, panting and moaning, while he went out, cleaned up from the dinner, and quenched the fire. It didn't seem that long since he had left, during which I'd remained there, doing an inventory on my body. He had brutalized me, but couldn't say I regretted it. I was embarrassed, though, that I'd let him do it--that, ultimately, I had wanted his cock just as he said I did.

Well, I had gotten his cock. I wondered where we sent from here. Was I still the officer and he the enlisted man? Would he beat me or fuck me again?

He did both.

Muttering "Fuckin' faggot" under his breath, he returned, again in full, magnificent erection. I lifted my head and started up on my knees. My wrists were still bound, with my arms raised over my head. He went down on his knees beside me, grabbed my head by the hair, bounced my head off the ground a couple of times, and shoved the head of his thick cock at my lips. "Suck me, faggot," he growled. I opened my mouth and gave him head.

Pulling out of me, he came down below me, brought me up to my knees, and pushed his face between my butt cheeks. A hand went to my cock, and he stroked me off while he ate me out.

I came for him, which was a signal for him, to flip me over onto my back. One of our duffel bags was shoved under the small of my back. I tried to rise again, but he backhanded me across the face, first in one direction and then the other. "Lay there and take it, you faggot."