Bucet Drop Duning Shift

"And, so, how is it with Kurt, and has Kurt heard the news?"

The hunky black Mobile-Alabama born Marine lieutenant, Tyrone Williams, dropped into the seat on my right in the National Photographic Interpretation Center--NPIC--at M and 1st Streets Southeast in Washington, D.C., said this as he applied a strong hand on my back that would look like being comradely to others but that I knew signaled mastery. He had long had my number--and my ass, as well.

Simultaneously, the equally hunky Iowa wheat-fed blond Army lieutenant, Buck Olsen, dropped into the chair on my left and gave me a big grin. He'd long had my ass as well. The two of them were equally comfortable with each other in relationship to me, as they had been happy with sharing me simultaneously. Most of this had occurred before all three of us drew NPIC assignments, though.

"It's fine with Kurt," I answered, and it

was

fine that the two of them were paying attention to me but maybe not so fine that they were doing so in the center of one of the intelligence community's holies of holies where, in 1970, it wasn't the least bit safe for one top-secret-cleared male employee to show as too chummy with others. My history with these two went way beyond chummy and back to before we all landed in jobs at NPIC. We'd agreed to keep it cool here--for all of our sakes.

We had trained together--Buck and me at twenty-three and Tyrone at twenty-five the previous summer in satellite photography interpretation at Offutt Air Force base in Omaha, Nebraska, as part of the elite force service and civilian intelligence agencies selected for this burgeoning type of intelligence collection. I was there from the CIA, which was administering the programs. We trained at Offutt in huge airplane hangars shared with a small fleet of the sleek SR71 photoreconnaissance planes. We learned to interpret photos they took but more so those taken from the ever-developing Talent-Keyhole satellite-collection systems. The current generation of those was the KH-8, which had an extraordinary definition capability covering a vast swatch of contiguous territory.

We were all young, although most came with master's degrees. The technology required highly specialized skills. A few, like me, were starting families already. I had a wife, Jenny, and a son under one, Kenny, and we were housed in apartments. Most, like Tyrone and Buck, though, were elite servicemen, unencumbered and living in bachelor officers' quarters on the base.

All young, virile, and active, set on a keen edge of tension and hedonism, we played as hard with each other--on the baseball field and tennis courts--as we studied in a three-month course to master our new careers. As with most men and team sports, we sorted each other out in the showers, the better the sculpting of the body and the size of the equipment, the higher in the pecking order. The big black bull, Tyrone Williams, was at the top of the "finely honed" pecking order in our class. Of course, all having passed security clearances, there should have needed to be any sorting in that way, but there was, even with the straight guys included. Size mattered. This was the hedonist seventies, and sexual exploration managed to get past lie detectors. The polygraphers hadn't caught up with what the right questions were to weed out the bisexuals.

The straights quickly came and went in the showers. Those with expanded interests, the gays and bisexuals, stayed longer and established an order. Although I was happily married and a father, I was highly sexed, good-looking enough to turn heads of both females and males, and of bisexual interests. For me sex was sex was sex. Society hadn't caught up with the concept of bisexual yet. Jenny was to continue to enjoy pregnancies down through the years and I would have interests left over. In those Offutt Base shower rooms, sorting out put me on my knees, and I became proficient at soft mouth work and at occasionally taking a cock in the ass. I preferred the latter. I was regularly used by both Tyrone and Buck in that period, both in the showers and wherever else we could manage. They both made clear I was their preferred punch.

And here we all were, the three of us assigned back to the central photographic interpretation hub, Building 213, on the corner of Washington's historic Navy Yard.

"I'm fine," I repeated, "but, no, I haven't heard anything. Is it about the change in our shifts tomorrow to evening because a satellite has dropped its load of KH-8 coverage and they want an immediate readout?" This technology hadn't been developed in synch very well yet. The satellites did a great job of film and putting the film in buckets. Communications and delivery hadn't caught up to that in sophistication yet, though. The payloads were dropped into the atmosphere over the Pacific Ocean, and the film buckets had to be snatched out of the air as they came down by Air Force plane nets--actual nets on the end of poles, thrust out from moving jets and trying to bring the bucket in just as an outfielder in baseball would. About a third of the time the grab wasn't made and the film went into the drink.

If successfully snatched, the buckets went to the West Coast, where multiple copies of the film were produced to be sent back to NPIC on the East Coast by jet. Here the various intelligence organization components did separate readouts in different ways. Buck, Army, but working for the central NPIC component with civilians as well, had a square plot of land in Korea that he had to do a total readout on each time film over that was available. He was looking for change in all areas, industrial as well as military and defense works on that area of land. I was in the Agency's shop. We worked strategically. I followed all of China's land borders with other nations on ground forces issues. I looked at both sides of these borders to discern what, if anything, new was happening in border army dispositions. I had no idea what Tyrone's Marine detachment looked for, nor did I ask.

"Don't tell me," I said, as the two grinned at me. "They didn't catch the bucket, did they? There will be no film to interpret tomorrow night."

"Bingo," Tyrone said. "They've called off the evening shift."

"Well, shit," I said. We made extra pay for the evening shifts. With Jenny popping a baby every year, I always needed money. "There goes a new TV set."

"Not necessarily," Tyrone said and I could see Buck nodding his head in agreement. "You have time you can take off, don't you? You don't have to tell your wife there's no evening shift to work tomorrow. We haven't had an opportunity to really party together--the three of us--not at Offutt and not here yet either. And we think you'd be really good to party with. Take off tomorrow night and come out with us. I think we could stand you a TV set for showing the two of us a good time."

"You'd pay me to fuck me?"

"Just this one time," Tyrone said. "To get you started. Once we showed you the ropes on O Street, you could make money at it yourself. You would make a great rent-boy."

"A rent-boy?" I asked.

"Yes," Buck answered. "You have no trouble giving it away. The street for it is near the office. You could supplement your income."

That was something to think about. I was always thinking of sex--either way. It was a thought to make it profitable.

Tyrone and Buck still were unencumbered, as far as I knew. I understood they shared an apartment across the river in Anacostia, and hunted together. I'd had thoughts of letting them hunt me but beyond one encounter with Tyrone in a Fourteenth Street gay bar I'd done nothing with them since Offutt and nothing with them together there. I hadn't let anyone else do it with me since moving back to D.C. either. And that was giving me blue balls. I was balling Jenny constantly--she wanted it--but there was something missing by not going under guys too.

"My wife is taking advantage of me being on duty tomorrow evening to have a girlfriend party at the apartment," I said. "I don't really have anywhere to go. I certainly don't want to be there, with a bunch of giggly women."

"So, you'll go out with us?" Tyrone said. "Near here--the O Street gay theaters and clubs? We'll show you how close paradise is for a great bottom like you to this windowless hell hole of a Building 213."

"Yes, sure," I said. "Why not?"

* * * *

It had been a surprised to me that my assignment to NPIC headquarters after the Offutt training had put me right back into the mix with most of those I had trained with at Offutt. It shouldn't have surprised me though. NPIC headquarters was the center for the work. Some military students in the course I took would go off to military installations to do specific installation work on selected frames of the film after the initial readouts at NPIC, but most of the rest of us were assigned to Washington, D.C. I don't know if I would have so freely gone on my knees and on all fours in the showers at Offutt if I'd known I would encounter some of these men later, but what was was.

Tyrone and Buck were two I found myself working close to after Offutt. I had knelt to and laid down for both of them. I had enjoyed doing so. It stands to reason I would do so in Washington, D.C., too. But until the evening of the bucket drop dunking shift, there had been only one encounter with one of them--with Tyrone at Chuck's bar, a rough gay joint, in what was then the tenderloin district of Washington.

Jenny was pregnant with our second, Kenny being nearly a year and a half old now, and she wasn't as much after sex now as usual, at least for now. She was in her first week of a two-week visit to her mother's in Boston, taking Kenny with her. And I had blue balls. I was horny as hell. For me seeking a woman for sex would be more of an act of disloyalty to Jenny than going with a man. She'd know I was bisexual and gone with men before we married. I'd done MFM sex with her. I not only went looking for a gay bar but I wanted a rough one. I'd heard about Chuck's on 14th Street, so I plastered on a mesh athletic shirt and tight jeans and boots and went catting.

The bar was dark, with strobe lighting, and it was crowded, the smoke swirling, the boisterous laughter and calling of obscenities thankfully almost drowning out the band's miserable attempt at music. The guy was big and hairy, with tattoos about everywhere. He was also not that old--probably late twenties--and quite good-looking if you allowed for the curly hair and tattoos, whether or not they were arousing. On this night, for me, they were. He was something different. Dangerous, a bit thuggish. Commanding, I was sure. I was in the mood to be commanded to go on my knees. Blow jobs were a specialty of mine. Like some others at the bar, he was in leathers, leather trousers held up by leather suspenders, leather boots, and a leather harness on top. No shirt. He was muscular.

He zeroed in on me and offered me a beer. I accepted. Here, that was some sort of a contract. He leaned into me, and we kissed. He pushed off from that bar, gave me a meaningful look, and turned and headed toward the back of the room. I followed.

When I reached the men's room, he already was there, bellied up to a urinal. That wall of the men's room was set up for action. There were two sets of two urinals and four toilet compartments, spread out so that there was a compartment beside each urinal. The opposite wall was for the real business. It contained a line of urinals and washbasins. Two of the toilet stalls on the party wall, the two on the ends, had doors. The other two didn't. Each stall had glory holes toward the urinal sides. When I entered Hirsute Hunk was belly up to the left urinal in the left set of them. A pudgy, but muscled up black guy was sitting at the adjacent toilet, stroking himself.

I saddled up to the urinal to Hirsute Hunk's right. A guy was eying me through the glory hole to my right. HH was unzipped and flared and showing that he had much to be proud of. He didn't have to pee. He was there for show and declaration. I was prepared to just go on my knees to him, but he wanted more.

"Show me yours," he growled.

I unzipped and flared my pants. He reached over and touched mine and I returned the favor. He was in full erection, though, and I wasn't anywhere near there yet. There was a thumping on the stall wall to his left and a hand extended through the glory hole. With a laugh, HH, turned in that direction and let the hand pull his dick into the hole and into a seeking mouth. HH bellied up to the wall away from me, raising his arms and palming the wall, as his hips went into a thrusting motion.

At nearly the same time, a chunky cock was pushed through the glory hole to my right. Not willing to wait for Hirsute Hunk, I turned right, went down on my knees, took the cock in my mouth, and made love to it. The gasp and sighs I heard from the other side of the stall wall and the rhythmic thrusts of the shaft told me that I was doing a good job. HH was back immediately, though, straddling me from behind as I was sucking the sock through the glory hole.

"I wanna fuck your hole," he growled. I didn't say no.

My trousers and bikini briefs were pulled off my hips and down my legs and a thick finger was penetrating me and opening me up. HH palmed my belly, rolling my hips up and jutting them back toward him. And then he was hovering over me, poking at my thighs with the bulb of his hard cock. He positioned the mushroom cap at my entrance, and I gasped and wriggled as he started forcing himself inside me. I didn't lose the rhythm on my cock sucking of the guy on the other side of the stall wall, though.

Neither of them lasted long. HH stretched me, but he could have stretched me further and reached deeper into me if he'd taken his time. The cock through the hole tensed, jerked, creamed my cheeks, and was gone. Hirsute Hank finished soon after, inside me, in a strong flow. It was 1970, none of us thought beyond raw sex in those days. Condoms were to prevent pregnancy, and here, between Jenny and me, pregnancy was the goal. When I did another woman, like a couple of good-looking women military officers in the Offutt course, then I used condoms and they were using other means as well. You weren't a woman in the military then without a full knowledge of what to do to avoid pregnancy and venereal disease.

I was there, in front of the urinal, on my knees, panting, when I realized there still was someone there--watching. I was shocked to see that it was Tyrone. It was a tall, hulking, body-building muscular Tyrone in all his glory. He was in black leather: leather pants and boots and only a harness on top. He looked magnificent. I'd seen him in passing several times at NPIC headquarters since we'd returned from Offutt. He'd caught and aroused my attention. He was no more sexy than he was here, in his leathers, though. In the showers at Offutt there had been others milling around, me sucking off more than one at a time, and it had been quick and steamy. I hadn't gotten the look of him that I did now.

He didn't say anything. He just walked over, helped me up to my feet and, when I'd zipped and buckled up, helped me out of the men's room. He didn't take me to the bar, though. There were peepshow cubicles lining the corridor we were in. He found an empty one and pulled me inside. Pushing me down onto the seat, turned away from the movie screen, Tyrone unzipped, flared, and extracted possibly the biggest, blackest, thickest shaft I'd ever taken. It was cut, with a purple mushroom cap. I didn't have to be urged to lean forward, take it into my mouth, and give him long, loving head.

As I was doing so, he pulled my mesh T over my head and reached down and unbuckled and unzipped me. Pulling out of me, he reached down and pulled my boots and trousers and briefs off. I was naked under him. He put my ankles on his shoulders, went down on his knees between my thighs. I panted and moaned as his tongue slid into my crack. He stroked my off with one hand while reaching up with his other arm, grabbing my throat, and pressing the back of my head into the peep screen. His arms were unusually long, and he was able to keep his face buried in my crack, eating me out and opening me up, at the same time.

When I'd shot my load from his stroking of my cock, he rose up over me. I cried out and gasped as the effort he needed to mount and penetrate me, stretching me to the limit. And then we were fucking. Him thrusting with his hips, my ankles still on his shoulders, and me bucking against him, taking him thick and deep. He maintained a grip on my throat. I grasped his biceps and dug in as we fucked hard and vigorously to his multiple explosions and drowning of my ass in his cum.

That had been my only sexual encounter with either Tyrone or Buck since we arrived in Washington from Offutt, but, although it was as wanton as I'd ever gotten with anyone at that point, it had informed Tyrone how far I would go in a party.

And now the time had come for a party with Tyrone and Buck. I had constantly gone back to Tyrone doing me in that peepshow cubicle at Chuck's, so when he and Buck suggested we do the O Street gay clubs together, I was all in.

"For tomorrow evening we'll show you what being someone's bitch is really like," Buck said.

They sure did. I've never submitted to an orgy like that since, but doing so that once gave me vivid memories.

* * * *

It all happened just as Tyrone and Buck had outlined. At that time, the gay male clubs were concentrated on a one-block area of a rough part of the capital, O Street, in the southeast along where the Anacostia River dumped into the Potomac. The clubs had moved here over time from the 14th and 17th street section southwest of the federal triangle, where they were mixed in with the regular red light district. The main gay-clientele theater that moved was the Gaiety. This was here on O Street the night Tyrone and Buck brought me there. Ziegfield's was an even more popular club on the street at the time and one of the last to close. We went to one call the O Club, though. I never went back to O Street after this one orgy evening there, though, and the whole street eventually was demolished to become the infield of the Washington National's baseball stadium. The center of gay clubbing returned to the 17th Street Dupont Circle neighborhood in the southwest.

The plan for the evening was simple. The three of us met up in the NPIC off-site parking lot, a heavily fenced, brightly lit cleared block across M Street from Building 213, just as if we were coming in to do a film readout, as had originally been scheduled. This was a really rough part of town, with car snatches and stripping being the norm. For that reason alone, I was driving a basic Chevy Vega, which was sporty enough for me, but of little interest to car thieves. O Street was just a three-block walk from there, but if I hadn't had the hunky black Tyrone and Buck with me, I probably never would have made it there without being mugged, or worse. Those parking directly on O Street and the club lots could do so safely, but then their cars identified them as clients of the gay clubs. I never got to the point of making that choice.

The evening was quite an experience for me, but well over the top.

Tyrone and Buck said they picked the O Club because it was a voyeur venue, catering to amateur performance, group orgies, and a lot of ogling and watching.

"You're a hunk and a half--a beautiful submissive," Buck said to me. "We'll use that to the best advantage here."

This evening was when I learned that both of my companions were well into the voyeur fetish in addition to everything they had done with and to me before.

They paid the single-visit fee for all of us when we entered. First stop was the locker room, where, amidst some three-way, standing kissing, fondling, and groping, we all stripped down to G-strings and locked our clothes away. The next stop was the theater, a movie venue, which was dimly lit and showing continuous gay porn on a big screen. Men of all varieties were milling around ogling each other or snuggled down into the seats beating themselves or their neighbor off while watching the porn on the screen.