Gay Erotic Stories

I was in my early twenties. For exercise and to vent a little aggression, I played a combat sport called airsoft. It’s a little like paintball, but more warlike. The weapons fire small plastic pellets that sting like hell when you’re hit. The guns replicate real-life weapons, one of the reasons why the sport is only played on private land.

For me the realism was all part of the appeal. I’d always been fascinated by the human male’s deep-rooted but usually repressed warrior instincts. At last I’d discovered a crowd that shared my curiosity and enjoyed exploring a side of man’s nature that society at large refuses to admit still exists.

We met after work once a month at a friend’s farm. We each wore camouflage, radio headsets and whatever other kit we felt we needed hanging off our waist belts. There were six of us that evening, split into two teams. There were a few new faces, so to help us all tell friend from foe, we agreed on team colours. My side would wear black berets. The opposition would wear red.

We each carried single-shot bolt-action rifles. As a group, we agreed that this kept the fight deliciously pure and honest. It made for intense one-on-one encounters in which the victor was the one who could patiently stalk his man almost to the point where he was in communion with his prey. Tantric combat: that’s how I thought about it.

I’d been creeping through dense woodland for a few minutes when I came to a clearing. I should have skirted my way round it, sticking to the tree-line for cover. But I was in a hurry to get to the rally point and rejoin my two comrades. So I dropped into a crouch and made a dash for it.

Almost instantly I heard the crack of rifle from the opposite tree-line. I threw myself to the ground and crawled to the nearest cover, a felled tree trunk. For a moment, I lay still, deliberately slowing my breathing and sharpening my senses. Slowly, I became aware of the musky tang of decomposing leaves and the gentle westward breeze that carried the distant song of a Thrush.

Then I put my head up and scanned the tree-line ahead. There he was. About forty yards away, lying in dense shrubbery and using the hard cover of a disused oil drum.

He fired again. The pellet passed over my head by inches. I heard a sharp thwack as it hit a tree at the edge of the clearing ten yards behind me.

I knew he’d have taken cover while he worked the bolt of his rifle. With luck, I could have a crack at him when he popped up for his next shot. I lifted my rifle and peered through the scope.

Sure enough, a split second later, I saw a scarlet beret emerge from the side of the oil drum. I put the face below it in the crosshairs and, not without some animal pleasure, I squeezed the trigger. There was a resonant metallic clang. Damn. I’d hit the drum, missing his head by about six inches.

For a moment before I ducked, I took a look at my adversary. He was one of the new guys. Quite a handsome bastard. Dark, close-cropped hair, with his beret pulled down rakishly over his right eye. Tanned face, under a smear of camouflage cream. Cruel mouth, now twisted into a shit-eating grin.

Imperceptibly at first, but then with increasing urgency, my cock hardened.

There was a crackling in my headset. Often an opponent would tune into your frequency to taunt you. But what followed wasn’t the usual banter.

‘Hey, black hat. You horny as I am?’

A shiver went through me: he’d read my mind. Could it really be that we were getting the same shameful thrill from this one-on-one combat? Had this newcomer finally voiced the unspoken lust for intimate struggle that we’d all felt but never openly admitted to?

‘Come on, you know damn well what I mean. We’ve both got a boner drilling a hole in our combats. Let’s get it on. Last to cum wins.’

With that, he loosed a round in my direction. It hit a twig about a foot away from my head. I returned the favour. By now all restraint was abandoned. I was grunting in animal satisfaction as I felt the friction of the muddy earth through the fabric of my pants.

It went on like this for at least a minute. He’d squeeze off a shot. I’d poke my rifle round the tree trunk to reply. All the while, I felt the moistness of the pre-cum soaking into my boxers, but somehow I managed to hold it in.

Then, suddenly, the whistle sounded to signal the end of the game. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I finally let go, hot spunk pumping into my crotch and soaking through my combats to mingle with the liquid mud.

I shuddered, convulsed with pleasure. It was like no release I’d ever felt before, an electric shock of ecstasy shooting from the tip of my glans to the base of my balls. I’d shot my wad, and in doing so I’d lost. But defeat never felt so sweet.

Minutes later, we were back in the safe zone. As I swapped war stories with my friends, I was painfully conscious of the generous puddle of cum that was growing cold and congealing in my pants. I hoped the drying mud camouflaged my shame.

As the crowd dispersed, I sought out my opponent. I found him crouched by a tree stump, coolly rodding out his rifle, a can of beer by his side.

I congratulated him on his skill. He looked at me, and for a moment that shit-eating grin returned. In that instant we both knew we had bonded as true warriors, as only the most intimate of adversaries can.

It wouldn’t be the last time we’d meet. In future, the contests would be close quarters battles, and we’d have no use for the phallic substitute of guns. Each combat would be more intense and close-fought than the last. But those later encounters would never give me the same fresh cruel thrill as that first duel.