A Perverse Passage to India Part Four


by Jawan

Turning away from the spectacle of the soldiers at the firing range, I began walking forward. My heart began to thump violently, my _c_o_c_k_ began to tingle with anticipation. Was it really possible? The path was leading me directly into the Pioneer Training Ground. Surely there would be some officious sentry to stop me. Surely there would be some check point. But no wonder of wonders no one stopped me.

As I warily proceeded down the path, I saw more jawans practicing live firing practice. I made it a point to hurry on, not looking at them. I didn't want to be stopped watching anything to do with weapons; someone might put the wrong construction on it, and I might be ejected or get into even worse trouble. At one point, I came upon a cute bunch of jawans in white cotton vests and ass hugging green shorts with their beautiful delicate hairless legs. One delicate black (Tamil?) boy was so gorgeous that I couldn't resist pretending to ask directions to the military school that lay in the other direction.

Cute little eyebrows furrowing with concentration, he babbled on and on in fairly fluent Hindi (my Hindi is so rusty that I soon lost track of his explanation). I must bave been drooling too obviously because I noticed him looking a trifle puzzled. I grinned ingratiatingly and cooed, "Danyavadh" (thank you), while darting an obvious and hungry glance at his crotch (not that _c_o_c_k_ is my main thing, but the cute tush was on the other side). But evidently my _s_e_x_y jawan was not familiar with the joys of faggotry or was an irremediable breeder (does the breed exist? Irremediable male breeders I mean. I suspect that most breeders given the right circumstances discover their inner fag. But I digress.), for he stared at me blankly. The other possibility is that while in my narcissistic way I imagine I am as cute as the jawans I am hitting on (and in my memory I am frozen back at sixteen or seventeen when I first began gawping at the high jinks at the Pioneer Training Ground), he must have been seeing a paunchy, middle-aged, balding little perv, old enough to be his daddy (or perhaps lecherous uncle/auntie?).

And on I proceeded. Oh dear, all my digressions have prevented me from getting to the next whipping of soldiers. But a whipping lies ahead. Be patient, my dears, stroke your tools. Good things come to those who wait; indeed, good cum comes to those who wait.


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