The Sabra

                                                                     
                                             
THE SABRA
By Alexander Le Grand
(Honcho.Feb.1982)

Lieutenant Pat O'Shea, perspiring heavily in the Lebanese afternoon, poked lazily around in the rubble of a bombed out house. Using his ebony swagger stick as a probe, he was hoping to uncover the expensive Omega watch he had lost the day before when his unit had patrolled through the area. Dubliners all, he and his comrades were stationed in this desiccated, unhappy land as part of the United Nations peacekeeping force. This was a day that Pat could have done without, and as he vainly looked for the glint of the gold timepiece in the blinding sun, he mused that he would have been well advised several years back to have joined the IRA when he had a chance. More danger maybe, but a hell of a lot more exciting — and not nearly so hot.

The middle eastern sun had burnished Pat's fair skin to a reddish bronze and bleached his red gold hair to platinum. The biggest man in his unit, the thirtyish lieutenant sported heavily muscular arms and a broad, hirsute chest. The comfortably brief khaki shorts he wore showed off his long, sinewy, golden-furred legs. He swore under his breath as the shorts chafed his crotch, and he reached down to adjust his generously globular Irish nuts. The flaring pink head of the young officer's thick tool just peeped out the leg of his shorts.

Pat wanted in the worst way to find the watch. He'd won it not many weeks before in an impromptu wrestling match with a twenty year old Polynesian hunk from the Fijian contingent. The two big heavyweights had grunted and strained for half an hour, cheered on by their partisans, until Pat had finally pinned the smoothly olive-skinned soldier. He still wondered, a bit apprehensively, why he had gotten up from that match with his cock half hard. The boyishly handsome Polynesian had smiled strangely at him as he slipped the watch off his thick wrist and handed it to the victorious Irishman. He had seen the youngster a few times since, and every time there was that strange, secret smile. Well, no matter, the watch was nowhere to be found.

"Lose something?"

The voice that broke the desert silence made Pat whirl around and his revolver was out of its holster and pointing by the time he faced the man who spoke.

"Hey, hold on! I'm not the enemy!"

"Then who would you be, eh?" The Gaelic inflection was evident in Pat's deep voiced retort.

"Corporal Dov ben Joseph, Israeli Army!" The youthful interloper affected a mock salute to Pat.

The Irishman cooled a bit and put away his revolver. "Ya can't be too careful 'round here — it's like no man's land. One of my boys was taken by militiamen the other day. They handled him pretty rough 'fore we got him back. And your guys have been givin' the Norwegians fits a few miles down the road."

"Apologies, Lieutenant." Dov broke into a wide smile, his glittering white teeth in stark contrast to his darkly tanned face. Pat noted the Israeli corporal's extreme youth, not uncommon in their army — Dov was barely eighteen, probably a true Sabra. Raised on a kibbutz no doubt, the boy was tall, athletically spare and obviously tough as leather. And yet, there was a curious softness, a sensitivity behind the military air. Maybe it was his age, perhaps something else, but somehow it intrigued Pat, and he found himself staring into the liquid black eyes of the handsome Jewish man-boy.

"It's hot," observed Dov. "I know a cooler place not far from here. You through looking here?"

"Yeah, I guess. I'm damn near done in." Pat mopped his brow with the back of one hairy hand. Dov couldn't help noticing how big this officer's hands were. He'd heard somewhere that hand size was an indicator of other things. Maybe he could do some field testing of the theory. He pointed down the rubble-strewn road toward a stand of scrubby trees about half a mile away.

As the two soldiers walked toward the oasis, Pat found himself feeling strangely familiar with this young Israeli. It was the same emotion he often had with his younger brother Sean. It had been a long time since he'd though about those times at home when Sean would insist on crawling in bed with him. He tried to blank out what had happened. They were brothers after all, and Sean had been hardly more than a boy. But it meant nothing.

"What'd you say you'd lost?"

"Uh — my watch. It was a nice one." 

"Oh. You know, you didn't tell me your name, Lieutenant."

"Sorry. It's Pat — Pat O'Shea."

"Short for Patrick, right? Let's see — he's the one who chased the snakes out of Ireland."

"Sure enough."

"Are there any Jews in Ireland?"

"Not many, but they've long been thought of as true Irish. Why, we even had a Jewish mayor of Dublin once!"

"Well, don't hold your breath. I think it'll be awhile before we have an Irish Catholic mayor of Jerusalem!"

The young soldiers both laughed as they gratefully walked into the shade of the small cedar trees. It was perceptibly cooler and they deposited their sweat streaked bodies on the gravel strewn ground.

Each propped against a tree, they soon dozed in the midafternoon heat.

Dov opened his eyes cautiously. Staring at the Irish lieutenant, he revelled in the burnished golden glint of the tuft of hair that peeked over the open collar of Pat's damp shirt. How old was he? You didn't get to be an officer in peacetime unless you'd put a few years in. Thirty, maybe? But he looked a bit younger. No matter, there was that strong maturity that Dov turned on to, like his friend Ari back on the kibbutz. How many times had he wanted to talk to Ari alone, intimately, to tell him how much their friendship meant to him? And now Dov wanted desperately to be friends with this strong blond Irishman. He admired the relaxed curve of Pat's biceps, looked longingly at the promising bulge in the officer's brief khaki shorts. A daring strategy hatched in Dov's increasingly fevered young mind.

The Israeli youth slowly leaned toward the sleeping golden giant. Ever so carefully, he placed one hand very lightly and tentatively on the front of Pat's shorts, right over the mound of his basket. It was warm, and in a moment Dov felt the powerful organ begin to harden. Exhilarated, yet frightened, Dov squeezed gently. Pat's engorging prick responded with a healthy twitch. The startled youth snatched his hand away just in time to see the hugely bulbous cockhead beginning to emerge from the loosely fitting leg of Pat's shorts.

Fascinated, Dov stared helplessly as the big lieutenant's penis revealed more and more of itself to his eye. Finally, the thick shaft lay straight along Pat's muscular thigh, haloed by a thicket of golden fuzz. The dark young Israeli was beside himself with desire now, and his own pud was responding. Unzipping his fatigue trousers, Dov released his upcurving, circumcised prong and started to beat off with a slow, gentle stroke, all the while gazing at the beautiful Irishman.

Pat O'Shea couldn't tell whether it was an erotic dream, but it seemed that his cock had involuntarily erected, and that now a wet warmth, just like a mouth, was enveloping it by degrees. He would help by tugging down his shorts. God, it felt good. Sean, don't stop!

Dov wondered who Sean could be. The name kept escaping Pat's lips, even in sleep. No matter — some Irish friend. At least he was calling out for a man! Dov didn't lose a beat in his rhythmic sucking. He had taken the fat Irish cock slowly, slowly, until now that throbbing shaft was buried to the hilt in his throat. He inhaled the heady aroma of Pat's musky man-sweat. The dark haired youth was drenched with the sweat of lust and his curly black ringlets matted his forehead as he frigged himself more vigorously. There was a fire in his young loins, and his olive hued tool was oozing a steady stream of pre-come from his boy-man balls that churned, full of fresh, vital juice.

Returning consciousness convinced Pat he was not dreaming. It wasn't Sean. He hadn't been transported to his brother's arms in Ireland, but was being sucked off by a real life young stud fully as demanding as his brother ever had been. The groaning young officer now began thrusting his powerful hips, pumping himself deeper into Dov's mouth, and observing how his efforts caused the youngster to speed up his own beating off. Suddenly, Pat wanted more.

With big, bronzed hands Pat grasped Dov's jet black, curling hair and gently forced the corporal to release his pleasure-tortured penis from his hungry mouth.

"You're a fair boy, you know, Dov. Would ya be wantin' a good fuck from an Irish lad? I’d dearly love to fuck your arse. I would indeed!"

"Pat, you're so strong. Just love me however you want!" Dov was breathless in his need and lust, and though he wasn't sure he could handle the mighty tool that stuck straight up from Pat's golden-bushed loins, he dared not risk a refusal. He wanted the Irish stud any way he could get him. The boy stood, his long, graceful prick heavily dribbling a constant stream of his vitality onto the rocky ground. He doffed his fatigues, though he left on his short paratrooper boots. His safari shirt was next, revealing his flaring, smooth chest with its dark, erect nipples. Though Dov's legs and hard, flat belly were covered by swirling black hair, his bare chest reminded Pat of Sean's own, boyishly hairless and possessed of the hardness of sculptured marble. Only the corporal's dog tags and his boots and tan socks now adorned his lustful young body. His dark eyes pleaded for the big blond lieutenant to be gentle with him. Indeed, Pat had no other inclination, for he felt as tender toward Dov as he would have to his own kid brother.

Pat stripped completely, and he frigged himself lightly with a generous mouthful of spit as he positioned himself behind the trembling youth. Ever so slowly the fat, pulsing knob head of Pat's hugely engorged prick buried itself into the crevasse of Dov's taut, tight asshole. The boy winced just a bit as his virgin portal was breached, but Pat was holding him firmly in his massively muscled arms. Dov felt the Irishman's warm cheek against his own.

"Easy now, easy. I'll not be hurtin' ya, boy. I'm just easin' myself in . . . God, you're tight . . . uh . . . uh . . . there . . . I'm in. Sweet Jesus it feels good to fuck your arse!"

"Pat, please screw me good. I want it so bad — please — shove it to me!" Pat felt himself going over the edge into abandoned lust. The warmth and tightness of the Israeli youth's asshole were driving him to a frenzy of lust. The slower pistoning speeded up, and now Pat frantically buried his hard, thick Irish rod deeper and deeper up into Dov's virginal asshole. Sweating profusely, the two soldiers were inseparably coupled in their insane animal need for each other. Dov's handsome features contorted in a grimace of mixed pain and pleasure, and his own wildly twitching, powerful sex organ went steely hard in the blistering sun.

"Shit, I'm comin', Pat, I'm comin' . . . oh, I can't help it, I can't . . . uh . . . oh fuck. I . . . God . . . no . . . oh, here it comes, Pat, here it comes . . ."

Dov's penis stood rigidly angled with its perfect curve motionless as the offering of the youth's balls churned its way toward the inevitable exiting. Long, arching shots of his thick whiteness blasted from the tip of his searing prick. His lean hips were thrust forward and his muscular legs were utterly taut as he gave himself up to the fireball of sweet pleasure that burst from his loins. Pat felt the violent contractions of the boy's asshole, and his own sweet crisis was triggered. "I'm with ya, Dov, I'm with ya . . . sweet Mother o' God, I'm lettin' go . . . here I am . . . ohhhhhh!"

The big Irishman, every muscle of his magnificent frame standing out, thrust himself hard one last time into the youth. Leaving his red hot tool buried in the boy's ass, he allowed nature to take its course. He closed his eyes and let the ball of pressure expand and expand until it had to gush out through the pumping shaft. The tingling sweetness spread through his thighs and up into his belly as he let his liquid manhood pump into Dov. The dark youth was still spurting as Pat unloaded, and the two shared moments of burning ecstasy that seemed endless. As their spasms subsided, they fell, still coupled, in exhaustion on the hard, rocky ground, sand and gravel sticking to their soaked bodies. For long moments they lay motionless.

Pat spoke, his deep bass a purr in Dov's ear.

"Have ya got any left, boy? Sure'n I'd like to suck on your prick some!" The Irishman's urgent request immediately kindled Dov's lust, and once again his beautiful cock erected. Pat asked the corporal to stand, with legs spread, as he knelt before him. Dov looked down and smiled at the handsome Irishman's lustfully glinting blue eyes. He tousled Pat's blond locks with his sensitive, olive hands, the thick black hairs on the tops of his fingers glistening with sweat.

The first rush of encompassing warmth startled him, and Dov threw back his head in pleasure. He found himself grabbing Pat's hair to encourage his efforts. The humbly kneeling Irish lad worshipped at the shrine of the Israeli's proud, youthful manhood, and periodically he released Dov's big prick to concentrate attention on the youngster's dark, hairy balls. He licked and sucked his way up the long, curving brown shaft to reach the drooling cockhead once again. Time after time Dov thought he would go over the brink, but each time Pat changed off and thwarted his climax.

"Please, please, let me come, Pat. Let me give it to you!" The boy was beside himself with lust now, but Pat had had time to masturbate his own turgid member back to the brink of orgasm. Now the Irishman frigged his spit-glistened shaft faster and faster as he drew Dov deeper and deeper into his throat. And at last the boy was overcome. Wordlessly he shut his eyes tight and gave himself over to the new fire that raged through his genitals. Far sweeter than the first coming, it seemed to last longer, and Pat's tongue swirled around the incredibly sensitive head of his shooting, shooting cock. Now Pat's self-stimulation was paying off, and he strained his heavily muscled thighs to thrust his blasting cock forward. His hot Irish cream showered the parched ground with thick globules of his hot, powerfully pressured sperm. Dribbling gobs of it flecked Dov's taut calves, running white among the myriad black hairs.

The only come Pat had ever tasted had been Sean's youthful offerings. Dov's was not so sweet; it had the pungency of the tough masculinity of the donor. It was the wild semen of the desert, the vitality of an unconquered race. Pat's mouth filled with Dov's precious essence, and he swallowed as fast as he could as more and more of the powerful youth's incredible load spurted and spurted at the back of his throat. Finally, the boy relaxed and his exhausted prick began to soften, but still Pat suckled it, coaxing out the last droplets of the boy's vitality.

For long hours they lay, talking and dozing and loving in the cool shade of the oasis. As the desert sun set and the cool air of night wafted through the trees, they promised to meet again there when they were next off duty, perhaps to make a further contribution to world peace.