Kamikaze Journo Seeks Troop Leader

By Roger Willoughby
From the book Out of Uniform

“Have you ever attended a boy scout orgy? Well, I have, and it’s fucking
in tents.”
OK, so I’m a better journalist than a joke teller. Maybe because
I’m a happy joke teller and an angry journalist. But it’s the anger that
gets results. See, I’ve had it up to here with this bullshit about scouts
discriminating against gay kids. It’s not right. Not that it’s a personal
issue for me or anything. You don’t have to be gay to care about
injustice. As a journalist, my sexual preference is irrelevant. Just like
Anderson Cooper’s used to be. So, I won’t tell you which side of the
fence I play on, except to say that I don’t like labels of any kind. But
this is an issue that should be important to everyone. Because when
one of us suffers from discrimination, we all suffer. So, I’ve decided
that what’s needed is an exposé. I know for a fact there are plenty of
gay scout leaders. And if I can catch one of them red-handed, say, in
the act of blowing someone (or better!), I think I can blow the lid off
of this whole thing in a big way.

I’m a man on a mission. Unfortunately, due to the sensitivity of
said mission, I myself have to act as bait. I can’t very well hire a professional
to seduce someone. How the hell am I getting to get a publisher
to reimburse me for that? I remember hearing about a colleague who
wrote a piece on drug trafficking and tried to file an expense report
for fifteen grand’s worth of coke. Stupid. They weaseled out of paying
him on a technicality: He didn’t submit an original receipt. Now, I
could probably hire a rent boy to go in there and fuck a scout leader
in the ass, but last I heard, rent boys prefer cash up front to invoicing.
Which means I’m going it alone on this one. You can always tell
a good journalist by what he’s willing to do to get a story. And I’ll do
whatever it takes. Even if it’s not my cup of tea.
Getting your hands dirty is just one aspect of a good journo’s day
at the office. Another is research. Thankfully this is also an area in
which I excel. I know, for example, that there’s a scout camping trip
this weekend up at the lake’s east end. I can even tell you the focus
of this particular outing: fire building skills. I also know from my
extensive nosing around (and not from personal experience, as I
was never a scout myself) that at night, after the fires have gone out,
there’s always one scout leader whose job it is to stay up and keep
watch over the campsite. This is when I’ll make my move. That way,
if things get sticky (and from what I hear, they will), it won’t happen
in front of the kiddies because they’ll be safely tucked in their tents
dreaming about their fire badges.
It’s a perfect plan: On Saturday night I’ll make my way up to the
lake’s east end, wait until everyone has gone to sleep, and then jump
headfirst into the field, as we journalists like to say. I’ll seduce whatever
scout leader is stuck on the night watch and let him do whatever
he wants to me. (All for the sake of a good story, of course.) Then I’ll
write the piece and wait for it go global!

Saturday night. Twelve thirty a.m. I’m armed with the necessary journalist’s
supplies: video camera, still camera, notepad, condoms, and
lube. And a butt plug, just in case. (You never know what will happen.
“Be prepared,” as the scouts say.) Making my may to the lake’s east
end, I walk carefully through the brush, trying not to wake any of the
sleeping scouts.
The walk is longer than I’d expected, but a journalist doesn’t complain.
He just treks on. Even if it means a ten-minute hike from the
edge of civilization.
Up ahead I see a light: Bingo! Moving in closer and perching
myself behind a large tree, I discover the illumination’s source: a
scout-issued lantern.
It’s then that I see him. He’s sitting on a tree stump, and even from
a distance, I can see that he’s the perfect representation of the American
scout leader. And what a handsome one he is, too. He looks a lot
like Prince Harry: red hair, pale skin, and tall and lean. On top of his
head is an olive green scout hat, perfectly in place. His tan shirt is covered
in badges that I recognize from my research (campsite service,
paddle sports, hill walker, arts enthusiast, etc.) and has red-looped
epaulets on the shoulders. His green neckerchief sits neatly in a V
below his neck in the very center of his shirt, covering the buttons.
Below the waist he sports olive green shorts that match the hat.
He looks to be around twenty-five years old and boasts a clean
face and hands, just as it says to in the scout handbook. The only
thing not-by-the-book is the cock in his hand. I can see very clearly
from my post that while he’s left the top button on his shorts fastened,
he’s unzipped the zipper and pulled out his bone, which he’s
stroking. This does not seem very scout-like. If his tribemaster ever
happened upon this, his career would be over for sure. (Just as it will
be when I’m done exposing him, which I see now will be easier than
I thought!)

To get his attention, I make a rustling noise in the trees.
“Who goes there?” he asks, letting go of his prick, which I can see
now, as it swings back and forth, is quite large.
“It’s Franky,” I say. (I picked Franky as my undercover name
because it sounds nonthreatening. If I’d said my name was Angelo
or LeRoy or something ethnic, I might have aroused suspicion.) “I’m
just passing through the woods but I’ve lost my way. Can you help
me?”
I watch as he quickly stuffs his prick back into his shorts. It takes
some effort to get the thing back in there. “Um, sure …” he says,
sounding flustered.
I walk out from behind the tree, making myself visible to him.
“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” I ask.
“I’m not alone,” he says quickly as he jumps from the tree stump.
“I’m a scout master, braving the woods to keep watch over a bunch
of scouts who are sleeping in nearby tents, sir!” Oddly, he salutes me.
(Does he think I’m a marine?)
I look at his crotch, which is sporting an impressive tent of its
own. “It doesn’t look like anything’s asleep on you,” I say, stepping up
to him. I can feel his breath on my face as my hand reaches out and
grips his bulge. My touch practically makes him buckle at the knees.
A look of shock registers on his face. “What are you doing?” he
asks without pulling away.
“I’m feeling your cock,” I say. “No wait—” I add immediately, dropping
to my knees and pulling his zipper down. I pull his hard bone
out of his tighty-whities. It is big, surrounded by a neatly trimmed
spattering of ginger pubic hair, and it throbs in my hand. “—I’m sucking
your cock.”
I take the thing in my mouth, at first just the head, which I gently
wrap my lips around and then circle with my tongue. He moans as
I slowly envelop more and more of his long shaft. I try and swallow
the thing (there’s nothing I won’t do for a good story), but there’s just
too much of it.
Undeterred, I continue to feast on the thing, making slurping
noises as I go. After slowly sliding his shorts and underwear down, I
reach my hands around him so I can cup his ass. It feels surprisingly
muscular. Gripping his cheeks, I pull his whole body slightly forward,
pushing his prick deeper into my mouth, then pull him back, taking
it a few inches out. I do this a few times until he takes the lead and
begins rhythmically fucking my mouth. It’s then that I know I’ve got
him right where I want him.
I stop abruptly, letting go of his ass and letting his dick fall from
my mouth. “Mmmmm,” he moans, “don’t stop.”
Grabbing his shaft, I slowly guide the head back into my mouth. This
time I vow to take the whole thing, so inch by inch I ease it past my lips.
It seems easier this time. When my lips reach my hand I’m pretty proud
of myself. I bob back and forth a few strokes, then pull my hand away
as I continue to swallow. When I feel the swollen head of his mini-scout
caress my uvula, I know I’m getting close to earning a deep throat badge.
But then he stops me. “You’re gonna make me cum,” he says in a
whisper. He takes a step back, letting his prick fall from my mouth
and then pulls me to my feet. I immediately feel something on my
nipples. Glancing down, I see that the scout leader is pinching them.
This is my weakness, but he couldn’t possibly have known that. His
long fingers begin unbuttoning my shirt, which he then slides over
my shoulders and pushes off me. The next thing I know, he’s frantically
sucking on my left nipple, gently biting it. It feels incredible as
it hardens in his mouth. This could make me cum, but I haven’t yet
completed my mission so I gently push him away.
Undeterred, he reaches his hand down and grips the crotch of my
camouflage pants. My meat is hard. “What have we here?” he asks, as
if he didn’t know. “I might have to take a closer look …”

When he unbuttons and unzips me, my camos drop to the forest
floor. I’m not wearing underwear (as a writer, I like alliteration, so
“camouflage” and “commando” seemed like a clever combo), so he
has easy access to my manhood, which is standing up proud.
He does indeed go for a closer look. As he takes me in his mouth,
his hand reaches down and gently cups my balls. Tugging downward
on them, he begins licking my shaft, up and down like a lollipop, then
suddenly he’s gulping the whole thing. Feeling a tickling in my groin
area, I look down and see the scout leader’s face buried in my pubic
hair. My entire prick is in his mouth! Clearly he’s had a lot of practice
at this. I start to hump his mouth, using my hips to thrust as hard as
I can. But he pulls off.
“Don’t,” he says, again in a whisper. “I don’t want you to cum yet
either. Do you have a rubber?”
Of course I do. A reporter is always prepared. Just like a scout.
I reach into my bag and pull out a string of five. (I wasn’t sure how
many this mission would require.) He laughs as he tears one off.
“Do you want to be inside me?” he asks. I nod, not sure how eager
I should play this. He tears open the foil packet and rolls it on me.
“We’re gonna need lube.”
I have that in my bag as well. And again he laughs as I pull it out.
(I didn’t have time to buy a travel-size, so I’d grabbed the jumbo bottle
with the pump that lives on my bedside table.) I squirt some into his
hand and drop the bottle back into the bag. He rubs the lube onto my
hard dick while stroking it. It feels so good.
“How do you want me?” he asks.
“Bent over that,” I say, referencing the tree stump he’d earlier been
wanking himself on. He grabs his neckerchief and begins to lift it
over his head, but I hold out my hand in protest. “Leave the rest of
the uniform on,” I say.
He shrugs. “OK.”

The tree stump is the perfect height for him to bend over. Admiring
his muscular ass, I caress his cheeks with my hand, then reach
down between his legs to spread them apart. Using my other hand, I
grab my monster meat and slide it into his hole.
“Ooooh, that’s good,” he pants, cocking his head up at an odd
angle in order to look at me.
I could cum right now; the feeling of being inside this studly scout
leader (and knowing what a good story this will end up being!) is pushing
me to the edge. But I slowly ease my way in as far as I can go, then
hold it there for a few seconds before pulling out, which I do all the way.
“Put it back in me!” he shouts, oblivious to the sleeping scouts.
I look down at his twitching hole. It’s stretched open and waiting
for my prick, so I position the head at the edge of his pussy lips and
ram it back in hard.
“Yes! That’s fuckin’ great!” he screams. “Fuck my hole!”
At this point I’m a little uncomfortable. I’d hate for his volume to
summon a bear, or worse yet, a member of law enforcement. Having
my limbs ripped from my body by a wild beast or being arrested for
indecent exposure would not be a good ending to my exposé. “Dude,
take a down a notch,” I say.
“OK, sorry,” he says breathlessly. I ram his ass again, even harder
this time. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” he whispers. That’s better.
I grab hold of the back of his scout shirt and pull it like the reins
on a horse as I continue to make his hole happy. Before I realize it,
I’m cumming, shooting my wad deep into his guts. Now I’m the one
going “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!”
For a second, I forget what I’m there for, lost as I am in the heat
of the moment. Because after I cum, the next thing I see is the scout
leader, on his feet, shooting thick gobs of man juice all over my chest.
The sensation is warm and it feels good. Spent, he collapses into me,
his semen adhesing the two of us together.

When he finally pulls his adorable self away from me, he says, “I
thought you were going to take pictures. What happened?”
I grimace. “I totally forgot. Got caught up in the moment. Ditto
for the butt plug.”
“Oh, that sucks. I love butt plugs.”
“What happened to Larry?” I ask.
“Couldn’t make it. He injured his foot as a hockey player. He didn’t
realize it required ice skating.” He makes an oh-my-God-how-stupidis-
he? face as he offers his hand for a shake. “I’m Peter.”
“Evan,” I say as my hand meets his. “Nice to meet you. How long
have you been with GayUniformFantasy.com?”
“A few months. But this was my first time on this side. I was a little
nervous.”
“Really? I totally couldn’t tell.”
His face melts. “You’re so sweet! Hey, do you want to ‘friend’ me?
Maybe you could role-play for me next time …”
“Sure. What are you thinking?”
“You promise you won’t laugh?”
I shake my head. “Of course not. What could be cheesier than a
scout leader fantasy?”
“I’ve always wanted to be abducted by an alien.”
I smile and once again put my hand on his muscular ass cheek. “I
could totally get into that …”
Wait, I’ve got one more: “Why did the scout leader get arrested while
camping? Because he was loitering within tent …”

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