Hamed Bezani
This memory is about a particular day during my compulsory two-year military service.
We were serving at an out-of-town police station. Every Monday, they inspected our heads, and if our hair had grown longer than one centimetre, they shaved it down to a number zero with clippers. Apart from that, if we were undisciplined or got into a fight, they would shave our heads with a zero as punishment, or throw us into solitary confinement, or make us clean the toilets. I had received those punishments several times too.
Once, I had let the hair from the front of my forehead to the crown grow to about 1.5 centimetres, while the hair around my ears and at the back of my head was shaved. I hid it under my cap. I was supposed to go on seven days’ leave on Sunday, but because of a change of arrangements, my leave was moved to Monday. Monday was the day they inspected our hair, and I thought I had managed to get away with it. I had avoided having my head shaved for two weeks.
On top of that, I had a date with a cute boyfriend on Monday night, and I hadn’t jerked off for two days because I had been saving myself for him.
Monday morning came, and, using going to the toilet as an excuse, just as I had done for the previous two weeks, I hid from sight so that the guards wouldn’t see me and the inspection would be over. But in the toilet, because of a small incident, I got into a fight, and they caught us. My cap had fallen off, and they noticed that little bit of hair. On the last day, they shaved my head with a sharp pair of clippers, down to a number zero. It didn’t even take two minutes.
As luck would have it, I was completely bald again, with that simple oval-shaped head of mine, now rough and sandpaper-like, making a khkhkhkh sound whenever I ran my hand over it. Two hours later, I set off on leave.
I picked up my rucksack and, wearing comfortable civilian clothes, walked towards the road to catch a bus. It was an hour and a half to get home.
I’m skinny and wiry, and fairly tall. I was wearing a black-and-grey round-neck sports T-shirt and a fairly tight black Nike tracksuit bottom with a white stripe running down the sides to the knees, which hugged my thin, long legs and flat arse. The weather was cloudy and fairly warm, so I wasn’t wearing a hat.
A bus came along and picked me up. It was relatively empty, with about half the seats occupied. A short, fat, bearded middle-aged man kept looking at me. Near the back of the bus, there was also a good-looking, cute boy about my age, sitting alone. He had straight, 9–10-centimetre-long hair, with the sides and lower back cut short and styled. The wind was playing with his hair.
The seats were in pairs. I sat in the very last seat, by the window. I was thinking that maybe I could somehow become friends with that boy and, if possible, try my luck with him too. I was lounging back with my legs apart, watching the scenery outside while thinking about the good-looking boy sitting two seats ahead of me. He looked a bit like my own cute boyfriend.
I was lost in my thoughts, watching the view outside, when suddenly someone sat down beside me, and his fat legs pressed against my skinny ones.
At first I thought it was that cute boy.
But no.
It was the short, fat, bearded man!
He was looking at me greedily. My wicked eyes met his leering eyes, which looked like those of a criminal or murderer. I knew that kind of look.
His gaze dropped towards the front of my sports trousers.
He put one hand around my neck and also rubbed the back of my head slightly with his fingertips, making a khrrr-khrrr sound.
Without any introduction, he asked:
“Where are you a soldier?”
He had worked out that I was a soldier from my appearance, bald head, rucksack and boots, so I answered him.
Without any introduction, he then asked:
“You lot stay at the station for such a long time. How do you satisfy yourselves?”
I told him:
“We jerk off in the toilets.”
He placed his other rough, calloused hand on my skinny thigh and rubbed it. Slowly, his hand moved towards my crotch. He rubbed it and massaged my balls, and my cock became slightly straighter from its bent position. At first it felt almost cartilaginous, then gradually became hard as a stick.
My cock is long and thin, like a hot-dog sausage.
His rough fingers skilfully moved around my cock, and my long, pencil-like cock wriggled inside my sports trousers.
I hadn’t jerked off for two or three days, but I wanted to keep it that way until the evening, with the same intensity, for my boyfriend.
I told him that I had a date with my friend and begged him not to rub me, but he continued rubbing me even harder than before.
I saw myself as a fly caught in a spider’s web, with the spider coming towards it.
On the other hand, besides the two rough hands—one rubbing my cock and the other rubbing my head—I kept glancing at the good-looking boy too. But I thought I could probably tolerate those three sources of stimulation.
However, he was cleverer than that.
“You can’t resist, can you?” he said.
I was determined not to let myself come.
But then he made a simple yet incredibly clever move that didn’t even look like much.
He took an old cloth handkerchief from his pocket, crumpled it up and compressed it, then shoved it underneath my crotch, beneath my balls, right at the spot people call the G-spot.
Then he rubbed it twice against my hard, twitching cock through my trousers.
Now there were four sources of stimulation: his rough, coarse hand rubbing the back of my rough head with that khkhkhkh sound; his other hand sliding over my cock through my trousers; the hair of that good-looking boy, which I kept watching out of the corner of my eye; and that damned handkerchief underneath my balls, which, with the movement of the bus along the road, was applying irregular pressure to that spot.
No man could withstand it.
As I got close to ejaculating, he grabbed the back of my head and looked directly into my eyes even more intensely!
The semen I had been saving up spilled into my trousers and soaked through the cloth, making his rough hands sticky.
He kept rubbing me, my whole body tingling, and said to me, whose wicked expression had now become dazed from ejaculation:
“See? You finally gave me every last drop of it!”
Then he stood up and left.
I was left with the occasional sight of the good-looking boy’s well-styled hair moving, and the crumpled handkerchief that the man had left in exactly that spot. I didn’t pick it up.
I thought to myself:
“What use is a cock after jerking off?”
But I knew that by the evening I could still manage it two or three more times with my boyfriend.
While my cock still hadn’t gone soft and the handkerchief was still there, I put the experience I had just had to use. I came up with a plan, designed a position, and put it into practice with my boyfriend that night.
That night, after massaging him and licking beneath his throat, he drew two eyes on the head of my cock with a marker and applied stimulating cream to it (he dipped my cock into a bottle containing the stimulating cream and then took it out).
With his cute face, he talked to it face-to-face and … sucked it a little.
Then I put my simple but extremely clever and effective plan into practice like this:
I lounged back on the sofa, took my long, thin cock out over the top of my trousers, and had my boyfriend sit facing me, eye to eye, on my legs. He put his hand on the back of my rough head. I pushed my cock all the way inside his arse, and while taking that same damned handkerchief from my trouser pocket, I pressed it beneath my balls. I placed my hand behind his soft, silky head, and the up-and-down, left-and-right and twisting movements began.
Because of that handkerchief, it worked better than ever, and I managed to do it three times.
Now it’s getting hard again!!!
