The Incredible Invisible Man

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But my son’s not invisible; his clothes are

[For JonKingBros]

Funny it happened when we tried “The Invisible Man.” I’ve always wondered about that.

Everybody’s tried auto-blow, bending into a pretzel, trying to suck your own cock. Everybody’s tried it, especially when younger.

A flexible guy like my Chuck-o can lie back, roll his hips up, bring his feet back over his head, knees to his chest, and get his own dick down between his lips. Gives himself a blowjob.

I lost that much flexibility years ago. Now I say it’s not “dignified.” One day I read about a version of auto-blow using two people, though, and Chuck-o wanted to try it. While one pretzeled himself and sucked his own hose, his enterprising and horny friend (or not, depending on how rough you like it) crouched over his bared and ready asshole and sank his cock down into it.

They called it “The Invisible Man” because the cocksucker’s own body obscured his face. We tried it. Yep, anybody who took a picture would find Chuck-o’s face hidden. He grunted in triumph as he got his hard dick down into his mouth, and in a form of applause, I greased up my cock and sank it into his backside. He let out a long, low moan, Chuck-o’s way of telling me I’d talked him out of going straight.

I gave only a C- to The Invisible Man Technique, though. Nobody could bring himself to a blowjob orgasm while knotted up like a jockstrap just out of the Spin cycle. Worse, as the Top, I didn’t dare thrust down onto him with my full weight for fear of breaking his spine.

Didn’t matter, though. We were interrupted by the doorbell. Shit! I retracted, stood up, and threw on a bathrobe. At the door a delivery-guy stood tall and erect. I shook my head to clear the horny cobwebs and signed for the special delivery letter.

To: Dr. Martin Nowensky. Incredible. Two pages of official blah-blah ending in They wanted me to participate in a “Project Invisible Man.”

Invisible What?
A military miracle, they called it. “Historic breakthrough.” Army scientists–or eggheads the Army hired–had invented the perfect armor. Nothing could get through it. Made the soldier invincible. They went on and on about it, but all I understood was “Atomic-powered,” “zaps into non-existence,” and that it dissolved anything that touched it, like a bullet, shrapnel, or even a tank.

If I understood correctly, a GI wearing the new armor could stand in the path of an oncoming Army truck, and slash!–a soldier-shaped hole would appear in it as it passed over him–cutting the truck in two. Incredible.

Seemed the Department of Defense wanted me to develop a training program for the armor–to teach soldiers how to use the new super-stuff. In the interview: “Dr. Nowensky, as an authority on communications and industrial training, we want you to work with the developers of the armor, learn to use it, work with the volunteer soldiers in the experiment. One day all soldiers in the US military will have this armor, and we have to be prepared with training for that great day.”

So I told the wife that I had a “secret mission” and took a sabbatical from the university. They told me the whole thing was super-hyper-mega Top Secret, so I can’t say where I lived, etc.

Bulletproof Suit
First day on the job, I got another “incredible.” Finally past several gates of security guards and the showing of passes, badges, and paperwork, I met Colonel Chonder, who accompanied me out to the “training area.”

Big guy. Tall Black stud about 6`2″ Buffalo big–close to 300 pounds, a monster. Could’ve been an NFL linebacker. His uniform couldn’t disguise shoulders like mountains, a chest like a Quonset hut–had to be a good 58 inches. Huge pecs, like iron pillows.

As a professor of communications, I don’t have a medical doctor’s familiarity with the human body, but from extensive personal explorations, my professional opinion was that Chonder had a six-pack belly. And oh, yes, Black cock. I’d heard of them. Awesome, so the legends went. Couldn’t hold back a daydream about him in the nude.

It turned out that another major element of the super armor was invisibility. The Impregnable Personal Combat Armor, or IPCA, provided protection at the molecular level. With a very small power source, the armor could produce a high-frequency screen around the individual, a resonance that disintegrated anything that touched it. The protectional force-field was only about an inch thick over the soldier’s body, but a bullet fired at it went Psst! and disappeared.

One Minor Detail
But something else, “The Problem”: the armor also vaporized anything above the level of living skin–underwear, uniform, and hair. Any “invincible soldier” wearing the ICPA stood there stark naked, electronically stripped of clothing and boots. Also hair, eyelashes, mustache, body hair, and pubes.

God, it’s “Band of Brothers” meets The Chippendale adana escort Dancers. They carried M-16 rifles. No clothes.

But wow. They could walk through fusillades of machine gun bullets, and nothing touched them. Even the momentum of the projectiles dissipated–the bullets didn’t knock them down or affect them at all.

But I couldn’t get over the eroticism of the whole thing, and it got worse: Where did a soldier put the armor’s power source if a backpack vaporized when he put it on? The battery-pack was the single point where the force-field didn’t “form”–it spread out from there. They put the powerpack in a small, smooth, slender cylinder worn in the man’s crotch–between his legs, behind his balls.

And since he was au naturel, what held it in place when he walked? A metal ring over his cock and a small butt-plug, both inside the force-field, suspended the unit just behind his scrotum like a black cigar in his crotch. Incredible.

No wonder they wanted a high-powered training program. The wonder-armor fulfilled centuries-old dreams of warriors–but it also defied centuries of puritanical propriety. CNN shots of battlefields would have to be shown on XXX channels. Nude soldiers weren’t unknown to history, though. Spartan warriors, like the 300 who held off the Persian invaders, weren’t bothered by swinging dicks as they marched along–they went into battle wearing nothing but helmet, shield, and spear.

But still, damn, I’d never seen so many bare dongs, not even back in college shower rooms. I couldn’t ignore 190 physically fit, well endowed men–I couldn’t think of anything else.

A Major Minor Detail
The Real Problem was that in my high school days, Coach Fogarty taught me how fucking him could be a lot more efficient than the flowers-candy-movie-petting buildup to maybe getting some sex from a girl. Coach Fogarty came right up to me one day when I was the last in the showers. Knelt on the wet floor to lick and suck my cock, then pulled down his pants and dropped onto hands and knees. Told me to fuck him. Poor man had some self-control issues.

But talk about a special training session! He taught me what a whiz-bang little gizmo I had between my legs. I had no idea my li’l key fit so many locks. Yep, although candy might be dandy, the licker was quicker on his knees. And more often. Nearly every day of my senior year I met Coach Fogarty to play Bendover. My parents were proud: I got straight A’s in gym.

Years later I got married and had a kid, but I kept up my “other” skills. I had Chuck-o, the auto mechanic who serviced me three or four times a week. As a result, I had at least twice the sex as any of the husbands who’d talk about their love lives.

Blanche and I had a pleasant sex life–she wanted it once or twice a week. I did Chuck-o the other days, and between him and the occasional student who “would do anything for a passing grade,” my prostate was as well-tuned as a Ferrari–Testa Rossa, by the way, means “red head,” which Chuck-o always groaned as he licked mine.

Blanche didn’t know anything about it, and (with an occasional change of male partners) life had gone on peacefully for 22 years. As I watched the bare soldiers in various training exercises, I broke out in a sweat. This isn’t good. I could get Post-Combat Jackoff Syndrome.

I decided the secret project was just a little too far over the edge–no way could I control myself in that carnal carnival, and if I were somehow “outed,” my world would come crashing down around me. But when I started making “no-no” sounds, the Army offered a hell of a lot of money.

How does the saying go, “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘Greed'”? I decided to suck it up (for lack of a better expression) and get with the program. I gritted my teeth and steeled up my resolve. I can associate with naked men. They don’t have anything I don’t have, nothing I haven’t seen before.

One More Detail–No Longer A Minor
One tiny detail even worse: my son was a volunteer in the test company–the very reason my name came to the top of the list. Still worse: for years, ever since he’d grown into a man (and especially after he’d joined the Army Reserve), I’d been biting my lip about Todd.

I had to admit it; he was my favorite jackoff fantasy. But his mother had raised him ramrod-straight, and I didn’t tamper with that–it’s hard enough to live in the closet in modern culture. If he didn’t prefer males naturally, I wasn’t going to teach him to.

But fuck! Seeing him walking around nude all day? I’d been dreaming of sticking my cock between his handsome buns since the time he bought his first jockstrap for high school gym classes and tried it on at home. Bumping elbows (and whatever) with a naked Todd every day would be inhumane! Torture! Sexual starvation. Orgasmic solitary. Cum-boarding.

I sat in a Jeep with Colonel Chonder, eskişehir escort looking down the hill at the parade ground where the stripped company was in formation. I’d been hoping Colonel Chonder would be wearing the transparent armor, but I let out a sigh.

But the incredible stuff just kept on coming–“Dr. Nowensky, we want you to join in with the volunteers, wear the ICPA, learn how it works and what it’s like to use it–“

–“You mean, I have to be–naked–too?”

“Yes, we want you to be like the rest of them.”

“What? You mean–naked–completely nude–all day long??”

“And night. This project is Top Secret at the highest level. For as long as you’re here, you must stay with the troops. We’ll give you a private room in the barracks, but you must stay here.”

Shit. This is getting out of control. “I’m not sure–“

–“You signed a contract. You cannot back out.” He smiled, but it was a “firm smile,” if there is such a thing. “It’ll be all right. You’ll get used to it. They have.”

“But they’re not an old, 45-year-old man who’s out of shape and has a gray beard.”

“You won’t have the beard long, or any hair at all, for that matter, and after seeing bare bodies all day long, the fascination wears off.”

Hell and damnation!

At least they gave me a private room–I would have to go AWOL if I didn’t have somewhere to let off some sticky, white steam. But a platoon of naked studs in the next room! Masturbation that night would be rubbing my naked dick against the wall.

Birthday Suits, One-Size-Fits-All
That day they fitted me with an ICPA of my own. “You should remove your clothing, Dr. Nowensky. Otherwise it will be vaporized.”

Nuts. I stripped down.

The GI who “outfitted” me had a completely straight face (and a nice prick). Probably fitted newbies hundreds of times before. “Place your penis through this ring, sir, sling the power source under your balls, make it comfortable between your legs.” He took a deep breath. “And insert the suspension peg”–(anywhere else, it was a ‘butt-plug’)–“into your rectum.”

Oh my god. I didn’t have an erection at the time (hell, who on earth could in such a situation?), but the cock-ring fit down at the very base, and the power source itself weighed only a couple of ounces. The butt-plug was harder. The clerk slicked it up with Vaseline and handed it to me.

That was the hard part. I smiled. “Well, if I have to, I guess I have to.” I reached back, spread my legs, and stuck it in my backside. It was thin, and although it hurt a little, it went in easily enough. My rectum snapped shut over it, leaving only a black plastic handle sticking out. Over that went a loop from the power source.

They gave me a pair of experimental sandals woven out of living fibers that would not be zapped, then “Reach down and switch it on, sir.”

I reached under my testicles, felt the switch, clicked it, and Hmmmmmmmm. Instantly all the hair on my body disappeared. In a puff of smoke.

The colonel kept his clothes on, the bastard, and we walked out to the formation. “Men, this is Dr. Nowensky. He will be working with you in the development of the ICPA, in creating a training program for it. So as soon as we get this miracle armor fully functional, we can get it out to all members of the US armed forces!” They let out a cheer.

“Dr. Nowensky is a civilian employee of the Department of Defense; you will give him due respect. Answer his questions, help him to develop the training for this new armor. Thank you, gentlemen.” With that, he stepped down from the podium and walked away.

He left me standing there stark naked, but so was everybody else. The commanding officer dismissed the troops, and some of them came up to me to get acquainted. I forced myself to smile, wondering where in hell I should keep my eyes–I mean, did I look only at the guy’s face? “Normal” people rarely looked each other in the face as they spoke–they looked here, there, everywhere.

But did “everywhere” mean I could look down at the guy’s tool (like I was dying to)? Hey, the Great Forbidden was suddenly out there for public view? Come on!

I was so nervous and jittery, my dick sucked back into my gut until I had only the bare minimum for admission to the men’s room, but some of the guys passing by, shaking my hand, had full-on, rock-hard cocks! I must’ve been gaping. One of them finally said, “Don’t worry about it, Doc. Everybody gets a hardon sooner or later. It’s natural. Don’t take it personal; it’s just part of being a man.”

I Get A Sonburn
When the formation broke up and the group dispersed, I moved out of the sun into the shade of a tree, my brain overwhelmed. I was incredulous again when a soldier walked up, aiming a colossal Army flesh-pistol at me from between his legs. The guy had a rock-hard erection bobbing sakarya escort back and forth as he walked. And when I could finally pull my eyes up to look at his face–

–Todd!

My own boy! And, son of a bitch, my own schlong stiffened to return his salute. My face burned hot: I was blushing apple-red.

Todd smiled. “The first couple of days are the worst. You walk around with a hardon all the time. Then you get used to it.”

“Wish I had a loincloth or something.”

He laughed. “It would disappear with a hiss of sparks.”

I looked around. “I hadn’t thought of this, but how can you pee? Does it come out as steam?”

“Oh, the armor vaporizes only something that strikes the outside of it, not something that comes from inside.” He smiled again. “You’re not plugged up anywhere.”

I could manage only a feeble return smile. “Never dreamed the first job I’d have alongside my son would be in a nudist colony.” Todd was a young 2nd Lieutenant, but since the ICPA would vaporize any clothing or insignia, the men had their rank and what would have been a name tag printed on their chests in black felt-tip pen. Over his left nipple, Nowensky. Over his right, 2LT.

As the conversation continued, I let myself notice Todd. I’d always been proud of him. He stood 6`1″, and at 185 pounds, a handsome young man, if I did say so myself. And The Problem was that I wanted him so bad. I hadn’t seen him naked in a long time–and never for so long. Couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Damn, look at those broad shoulders! He’s a strong, red-blooded guy. One of the big ones around here.

I looked away, but then, you can’t look away from the person you’re talking to. I had to look back. And down.

And speaking of “naked for a long time”–he certainly had something “naked long,” a cock to make any father proud. My boy’s really hung. If I had that, I’d be eager to get my clothes off. He should’ve joined the Air Force with such an ICBM.

Todd had a sexy foreskin covering his cockhead, just the very tip of the glans showing (I was glad I didn’t let them circumcise him in the hospital) but something I’d never noticed before–Hell, the last time I saw it was when he was little!–Todd had a Coke bottle-shaped cock. Beyond the bulging tip, his shaft spread out again after an inch or two, becoming as broad as the mushroom head, then back down again to the base.

The lucky woman gets her pussy lips spread by Todd will get a double-stretch and a yipe with each In and each Out.I sighed. I was as embarrassed as hell–my dick was a billboard advertising my state of mind, but at least Todd was hard, too.

I must have been blushing. He looked at me and smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Dad. Getting an erection is normal for a man. Everybody gets ’em. All the time.” He looked down and chuckled. “I’ve got one, too–“

–To say the least! Damn, look at that thing!–

–“Looks like I’m just a chip off the old block.” Pregnant pause. Finally: “Well, I have to go check on my platoon. I guess I’ll see you around, Dad.”

“Yeah, I guess you’ll see everything there is to see around me.” We laughed.

Toys In Babeland
I stood alone under the tree for a while, just watching. In that group of 190, I saw every type of physique, ages from 18 to around 40 or so, big guys, little guys, muscular guys, slender guys, a real kaleidoscope of naked male flesh. And my hardon had not gone down when Todd walked away. At first I was terribly embarrassed, but then, hell, only a robot wouldn’t be stimulated by all that nudity. Testosterone was so thick in the air, it was foggy.

Most of the men marched off to the rifle ranges, maneuvers, war games, anything to test the ICPAs in action. I went to the company HQ office and read reference material on the ICPA system. But there I saw more stiffies and balls. Naked clerks at typewriters, naked officers giving orders to naked enlisted men. Naked loiterers around the water cooler, busy sergeants bustling around getting errands done.

The whole thing was a waking nightmare (or maybe wet dream) to me, but the soldiers seemed to have adjusted to Life in the Buff. Still, the more I learned about the ICPA marvel, the more I had an uneasy feeling–I won’t be able to keep my mind from between their legs.

Back outside again, I spotted Todd working out with his platoon. Damn, I was proud of my boy. And hot for him. Oh, I’d love to show that boy how to take it up the ass!

It hit me that I’d better ease up on the Admiring. I kept reminding myself that, living wet-dream aside, I was in a scientific experiment, and as a professor of communications, the observations I made were purely clinical.

Nature Checks In
Stuck permanently on the base, I wouldn’t be visiting Chuck-o’s apartment that night or even my own home with candy, flowers, and a CD of Barry Manilow to seduce Blanche. Beating the meat was on the menu that night. Nonetheless, I had a solemn talk with myself: This is a scientific experiment! You are at the forefront of military development! The men here are dedicated and working hard at this project; I am amiss in thinking of them with sensual intentions. This is not a gay male experiment. That all of us are naked is a coincidence.

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