Ambush

His name was unpronounceable to the enemy.

The Americans from the MASH unit called him “Triage” because he hung around the medical tent whenever the wounded were flown in. Most of the soldiers thought him a petty thief, a vulture preying on the dead and dying. They laughed when he showed up, and teased him when there were no locals among the wounded. “None for you today,” they said, nudging each other. They thought he didn’t understand their language.

He saw no reason to inform them otherwise.

Beyond the pitched tents ringed with barbed wire and camouflage netting, the jungle grew like crazed hair sticking up from the earth at all angles. Triage hid among the foliage, keeping out of the war. His forays into the American camp had started as a search for food—he visited when the choppers came because in the noisy rush of activity, he was mostly ignored. But his curiosity got the best of him, and he wandered into the operating theater, a blank look on his face, absorbing everything he could see and hear and smell until he was chased away.

One man took a liking to him, a young MP who lowered his gun whenever Triage appeared. He had a quick smile that was nothing like the jeering grins of the others, and it was he who gave Triage his name. The MP was a tow-headed country boy with full lips and eyes as blue as the night sky, so exotic, so different from anyone Triage had ever seen before. The name on his jacket read MacMurphey. Triage spent hours alone in his hut, sounding out that word until it rolled flawlessly from his tongue. The first half he got right; after that, it sort of fell apart. So the man was simply Macin his mind.

Mac thought he visited the camp to look for someone, a wounded relative or a dead friend, and there was something in his eyes that made Triage look over the incoming with a cursory glance, as if to prove him right. “One day, Tri,” Mac told him, clapping a hand on Triage’s shoulder, “You’ll find who you’re looking for, I promise.”

The hand on his back was hot and heavy, and Mac seemed to have forgotten he placed it there. Triage didn’t dare move; he didn’t want to lose that touch, the first he’d had in months. Inside his chest, his heart swelled, and in the confines of his loose dungarees, his neglected cock did the same.

* * * *

By midday, heat baked off the jungle in waves that warped the still air and stunned the human mind into a dull stupor. Triage hid in the hot bush, silent, his breath thin and shallow as he peered through the leaves at Mac. The day was eerily quiet—no artillery firing in the distance, no choppers cutting through the air, nothing that gave any indication they were in the midst of battle. The only movement came from the soldier picking his way through the low brush, kicking rocks as he wandered away from his camp.

From the shadows, Triage watched. And waited.

When he was sure no one followed Mac, Triage slipped closer, moving through the undergrowth with a stealth common to his people, but that the Americans were unable to counter. Closer, closer, Triage crept around branches without rustling their leaves, his bare feet silent over stunted grass. Mac was turned from him, unaware he was being hunted. Another step, and another, and Triage coiled into himself at the edge of the foliage, ready to strike.

With a rush of sound, he leapt from the jungle and threw himself at the American. His arms caught Mac around the waist in a spectacular tackle that knocked them both to the dusty ground. As Mac rolled over beneath him, Triage clambered onto the man, straddling him, pinning him down. Fear flashed through those blue eyes like lightning before a storm

Then Mac recognized his crooked grin, and laughed. “You! Jesus, scare the shit out of me, will you?”

“Got you,” Triage said.

The scent of the soldier beneath him inflamed his senses, and what had been a slight erection at his crotch stiffened into a full-blown hard-on. Staring into those blue eyes, Triage moved his hips slightly, grinding his cock against Mac’s groin. His dick hardened, caught between the press of their bodies, and after a moment or two, he knew Mac could feel his thick length. There could be no question about his intentions.

Fear again flashed across Mac’s features. “Come on, man,” he said, giving Triage a half-hearted push. “Not here. I can’t.”

It wasn’t exactly no, and that was all the encouragement Triage needed. He laid down on Mac, hips thrusting against him, and touched a finger to those pink, full lips. Mac pressed his lips together, turned his head away, but Triage traced the curve of the soldier’s jaw with his fingertips, eliciting a shaky sigh. “I really shouldn’t,” Mac murmured.

Again, not no

Triage placed his mouth on Mac’s smooth cheek. “I want to,” he whispered. The words came out haltingly—he’d practiced the speech time and again, hoping for this opportunity. “Mac. Please.”

Any further protest and Triage would have stood, turned back to the jungle, and jerked off in its depths, alone. But tentative hands glanced off his narrow hips, rubbed over his loose pants, then gripped his taut ass through the worsted fabric. “I shouldn’t,” Mac said again as he kneaded Triage’s buttocks. Then his mouth covered Triage’s in a hot, demanding kiss.

With his next thrust, Triage felt his pants slide down his backside, exposing his ass to the hot air. Greedy fingers found the cleft of his buttocks, and Mac spread him wide to rim his quivering hole. Their kiss grew urgent, heated—the American’s insistent tongue took Triage’s breath away as it lay claim to him. Fumbling down over Mac’s shirt to his waist, Triage unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fatigues, opened his fly and rubbed at the sheathed dick that strained the front of olive-colored briefs. He sat back and peeled the fabric away.

There was an old, Army-issued condom in Mac’s wallet; they paused long enough to find it, and Mac rolled it on while Triage watched with wide, fascinated eyes. Then he climbed back onto the soldier, hands on Mac’s shoulders to pin him to the ground. Mac’s hands cupped Triage’s ass, spreading him wide, guiding him onto the thickly veined shaft that stood up from a crop of pale blond hair. Triage gasped as the soldier’s length pierced him, and a series of tiny uh uh UHsounds escaped his throat as he lowered him, inch by inch, onto Mac’s dick.

As the burn of entry dissipated, Triage sat back, rocking in place above the American, driving him deeper and deeper inside. Each motion sent a shiver of delight rolling through Triage, energizing his blood. His fingers drifted to Mac’s chest, where he plucked at nipples that stood up beneath the soldier’s T-shirt, as hard as diamonds in Triage’s hands. Mac moved under him, thrusting up into Triage’s soft, tight warmth, mouth wide and eyes shut, grunting as they fucked. Reaching out, he grasped Triage’s erection in both hands, and rubbed and squeezed and pulled until it spurted into his palms, then began to stiffen again.

Their coupling grew frenzied—Triage ground his hips, wriggling on Mac’s cock, savoring each bump of the bulbous cockhead against his sensitive prostate. His lustful cries rose into the air, shattering the silence, startling birds from the trees around them. He called out in his own language, d? d? D?, an affirmative litany that Mac echoed with yes, YES

With one final upward thrust, Mac came in a hot rush that Triage felt shoot through him as the condom broke. Exhausted, Triage collapsed onto the soldier’s broad chest, trembling. His plan to be taken by this man had gone better than he’d hoped. He had to get moving, though—he didn’t want words to ruin the moment, or someone to find them together.

But strong arms encircled his thin body, hugging him close, and soft lips planted a rough kiss on his temple. “Whew,” Mac sighed into Triage’s fine, black hair. “I needed that.”

Pushing against the soldier, Triage tried to sit up and couldn’t. “Must go,” he said. “Mac—”

“Stay.”

Triage ignored the command in Mac’s voice and wiggled out of his embrace. When he stood, Mac slipped free from him with a slick sound. Hiking up his pants, Triage stepped around the soldier and bent by his head. The front of Mac’s fatigues gaped obscenely; his cock limp in its bed of kinked hair, the camouflage fabric stained a darker shade from his own cum.

Running a hand over Mac’s stubbly hair, Triage kissed the full lips that pouted at him. Mac caught his thin arm, eyes searching Triage’s face. “We’ll have to do this again,” he promised.

With an eager nod, Triage agreed.