The Smoking Payload

By Tom Gungy -
published May 17, 2018
2283 words

A military squad was instructed to intercept a package, though none of theme bothered to ask why. It’s not until it arrived at the base that it occurred to them they should’ve.

I’d call it a hot Summer’s day if we were in the U.S. and surrounded by a bunch of tan, Californian beach bitches headed out to the coast for the weekend. Hell, if I was chugging a cold one, looking out at the ocean and the scantly clad babes by proxy, I’d be able to make it into a country song like half of those hacks on the radio. I’d even be ballsy enough to write some lyrics about that special buzz that comes from cheap beer and a half-chub even if it did end up getting censored. The sad fact was that we weren’t in the good ol’ U.S. of A. though. We were somewhere in the Middle-fucking-East, so I’d call it Hell. I’m military though, so I soldiered through Hell.

We were sent here to intercept a package, a shipment. That would normally be all we’d know or care about something like this. Normally our commander, PFC Redburn, would tell us to shut our God-damned mouths when we asked any of the whys of a job, but before we even got a chance this time he made it very clear that even asking would would wind us up court marshaled faster than any of us could say “fuck me”. What he didn’t know was that I was pretty tight with one of the squares in the research laboratory back at home base. Me and Gren had hung out a lot in middle school before he turned into a total nerd, and he told me that they’d been told to expect a biochemical weapon for study weeks ago. I just put two and two together and took Redburn’s advice: shut my God-damned mouth.

Despite the usual fucking heat and sand in my boots, the day had been pretty easy though. We got to the sight of what looked like a plane crash. The left turbine looked like it was forcibly removed from the main body of the aircraft by a ground-to-air missile, and the plane was commercial by the looks of it, nothing any rag-head terrorist could easily get their hands on. The inflatable slide, the one the sexy stewardess always talks about after they thank you for flying with their airline, was jutting out of the plane’s side. I couldn’t help but notice these things, and though I wasn’t being payed for my opinions, I became rather sure of my deduction that there must have been survivors who inflated and slid down that slide. As I loaded dozens of wooden boxes onto cargo truck, I wondered what was done with them before bitterly realizing that the rag-heads must have made off with them as hostages. They were probably some negotiator or diplomat’s problem now.

We came back to the base bull-shitting about the girls back home, our best fucks, and who’d we bang on leave. We didn’t even have to unload the truck on account of the lab nerds being so anxious to get their hands on the shipment, so we took our leave to hit the showers and then the bunks. I was just falling asleep when I smelled something. I sniffed again unsure of whether I was just imagining it, but I wasn’t. I undoubtedly smelled smoke, cigar smoke. I got up, clothed only in my undershirt and boxers, and followed the smell to outside the barracks.

I saw nothing in the dark at first, the sun having set during our ride back to the base. There was a strict lights out curfew after eight for anyone that wasn’t working in the lab, so the night was pitch black which didn’t assist my search for the out of place smell. It’s only when I peered into the darkness for an extended amount of time that I saw the glowing tip of a cigar light up a familiar face. It looked like Gren, but he looked different. His youthful, clean-shaven face now looked worn and bore a heavy five o’ clock shadow. He was also much burlier than he was before. His passable lithe musculature that he maintained for military standards was now dominated by swollen muscles and an unacceptable distribution of fat. Not only that, but the fucker was completely bald!

I asked the man what the hell had happened to him. In response he gave me a once over with a predatory gaze and a cocky smirk. He said that they’d been checking out the shipment, and “shit got pretty wild”. I shifted my legs, unsettled that Gren seemed to be addressing the crotch of my boxers instead of me. The man seemed different now, much dominant, and he never swore before, something I never realized until now. When I asked him about his newly found foul-mouth and where he had gotten such an expensive looking cigar he told my junk to “shut the fuck up” and “mind my own business”. I was a bit taken aback by his abrasive responses but persisted.

I asked him how he was doing.

“Fucking great.”

How’s the family back home.


Chelsea and the kids?

“Fucking who?”

I was getting pretty tired of this bizarre conversation. I guessed that Gren must have put something other than tobacco in that cigar and was turning to leave with a special finger to showcase over my shoulder upon exit when Gren’s hand shot out of the dark and straight toward my boxers. Though surprised, I slapped his hand away, and jumped back. I asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing, more out of shock than in search for an answer, and that’s when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around, ready to punch out someone’s fucking lights, to see Redburn. Redburn didn’t look quite like himself either though, and he too had a cigar in his mouth. I was just realizing that Redburn didn’t usually have a thick black mustache or a bald head when he unleashed a huge puff of cigar smoke to envelope my face.

Instantaneously I lost track of what we were doing. I just kind of stood there while Redburn and Gren talked about shit. I didn’t really bother to listen. God, did those cigars smell good. I took long, deep whiffs of whatever smell I could get from a couple feet away. Every once and while one of the two men would turn to me and laugh. I really liked that. I’d take a really big sniff and be able to smell the cigar smoke on their breath, and that’d make them laugh again. They’d say stuff like “poor fuck” and “dumb shit”. I wasn’t quite sure why, but it turned me on to think they were referring to me when they said that stuff. They might have been referring to me. I wasn’t really paying attention. Everything else kind of took a backseat to the delicious smell of smoke.

Eventually they told me to come with them. That time I knew they called me a “dumb fuck”, and that really made me very anxious to follow them. I stumbled a lot though. I felt kind of buzzed. I drunkenly thought that this might maybe make a good country song as Redburn hooked one of my arms around his and Gren took the other. It was in this way that they dragged me, like a plastered Dorothy on the yellow brick road, into the research lab while I mumbled the lyrics to “Amarillo by Morning”.

As my feet dangled below me I surveyed my surroundings. I had never been in the research lab before. It was all very white and sterile. I didn’t like it on account of it looking too much like a hospital waiting room, but it’s inhabitants didn’t look sick or doctor-like as one might expect. They looked like Redburn and Gren did now: any variation of bald, hairy, muscle, fat, and old and at least a majority of these. Above all else though they were undoubtedly masculine, and I found that really sexy for some reason. That’s when I noticed a chill on my nether regions. I looked down to see that my cock was rock hard and jutting out from my fly like that inflatable slide, available for everyone who wished to gaze upon it. Much to my pleasure, quite a few of the sexy men did.

Then I was led into yet another room. The lights were dim here, and the walls were lined with metal which caused the the distinct moaning I was hearing from the darkness to echo about the room. Though I couldn’t see the source of the guttural vocalizations, I could read “Containment 1” from the faded red lettering on the wall in that was covered in a smattering of an opaque whiteness. As my eyes adjusted I saw that the white smatterings were everywhere, and as my eyes adjusted even further I saw why. Everywhere those sexy men where decked out in leather gear that I had never seen before, puffing away at cigars, and stroking their shockingly large and meaty cocks, and unlike in the hallways, I recognized these men: privates, corporals, and sergeants, all the way up to master, were beating there meat and moaning in lust.

Redburn and Gren ushered me to the center of the room where there was hung a single light. As the path was cleared of horny butch men, one or two smattering us as we passed, I saw that on the floor was an overturned crate, just like the ones from earlier today. It was open, and poured out onto the floor was a plethora of cigars. I was shoved over, by Gren I think, and Redburn told me to pick one up. I feel onto my kneesfrom the push and found myself looking at someone’s hairy feet. I looked up to see it was Sargent Fieldson. It was hard, but I vaguely remembered him through the mental fog that clouded my mind: how hard he’d drill all of us, how often he’d berate us over gun maintenance, and how he’d been known as “Sargent Hard Ass” by anyone who was smart enough to say it under their breath and not aloud. I looked up at him he groaned louder and louder until his huge, meaty cock erupted jizz all over my pondering face. When he eventually came down from the high, only to keep playing with himself starting with his erect nipples stranded amongst a sea of black hair, he looked down at me with a glazed look in his eyes and a devilish smile on his lips.

“Enjoy my cock-snot, boy?”

He didn’t seem too keen on getting an answer as he became instantly immersed in the pleasure he produced from stimulating his nipples, so I instead followed through with my orders and picked up a cigar. When I rose to my feet again and turned around Gren and Redburn where nowhere to be seen though, and as I looked around I realized that I couldn’t even make out where the exit was. I was lost among the tide of masturbating models of masculinity and was becoming further and further caked in their splooge. I looked down at the cigar I spun about absentmindedly in my hand, actually looking for answers or some order as to what to do next, when it became obvious. I put the cigar to my mouth, and I wasn’t even shocked when it lit itself.

Euphoria swept over me. I felt throbs of heat and pleasure flow through me, and I looked down to see that my cock throbbed in beat with the hedonistic song flowing through my veins. Some part of me in the back of my head thought that the wordless song needed some country lyrics. Consequently I hummed “Afternoon Delight” as the entirety of my body bulked out to the point of which my underclothes couldn’t keep up, tearing to shreds that fluttered to the ground around me. A cloud of dark brown hair enveloped my body, overtaking it from the chest down and taking the cum dried on my skin as a white crust upon its shiny, curly waves. Meanwhile a shower of hair fell from my head, leaving my dome as naked as a jaybird, and my face itched as a heavy shadow grew onto it.

The growing fat and muscle of my body only helped to arouse me further, and I began to jack off with the best of the sergeants and other hard-asses. I felt hands caress, prod, and arouse me. I looked to them with lust on the mind and watched as they distributed the leather straps that had made their debut to my existence tonight. God, they only made me feel hotter. I fell forward, weak in the knees from the excess of pleasure, and caught myself on the crate that I assumed had started it all. I knew I was going to cum. There was no avoiding it now. I was going to be another sex-obsessed, hairy leather-man of monstrous proportions, and I loved the thought as much as I loved the concept. With that in mind, I groaned louder and louder until I poured my hot seed onto the previously unblemished crate, coating it in its first smattering of cum.

Mind control
Wanking material