AGR-115 Hot Shorts
Hot Shorts
Adam’s Gay Readers
AGR-115
Jeff Kincaid
$3.95
Excerpt
“I know what the problem is, lads,” their father explodes. “Some men do better—much better, in fact—when they retain a symbol or two of their station.” He has retrieved the plumed and visored box hat and now places it at a deliberately rakish angle on the muscular young soldier’s curly blond locks, securing the chinstrap below his lower lip. “There now, Master Marbreigh: a soldier through and through.”
An afterthought strikes immediately. “The boots! Leather often serves to put starch in a military man’s rod.” With which he offers Trevor his calf high boots back, and the fusalier accepts them, pausing in his carnal endeavors to replace them on his feet, left first and then the right.
“Thank you.”
“The sword belt would look good, too, father,” Colin observes. “An officer always looks his best with steel on his hip.”
“Agreed,” the elder highwayman has to say. “But, on the other hand, the young dragoon might attempt to use the weapon much as he cannot seem to use the one attached to him.”
“Perhaps,” Clive suggests, “we could permit it if we were to first tie his hands behind his back.”
“It would be up to the prisoner himself, Cruncher decides, asking Trevor what he thinks of the thought. “It is, after all, the only way I could ever see myself clear to allow the sword to hang again from the cinch at your waist. And I must say, the lads and I think you would look your best, in your hat and boots, sword belt on.” He makes a caption with his hand in the air. “’The Naked Dragoon.’ I can think of several well known painters who would love that as a subject, especially when the body they’d be rendering in oils would be as well built as yours is. Of course,” he goes on to say as though taking the soldier into his personal confidence, “these painters are mostly perverted types unnaturally stimulated by the sight of succulent male flesh exposed. Do put your arms behind you, sir, my lads have the ropes ready now.”
Indeed, Colin and Clive have stepped behind the dragoon, having procured several ropes of varying lengths. “Really,” Trevor starts to say to their father, “this isn’t necessary.”
“Behind your back, sir.” Cruncher’s voice is cold. Heartless. “Before you suddenly find yourself with no dick?”
The stripped young officer inhales audibly, places his hands behind him as ordered. Clive grabs them, crossing them at the wrist, Colin roughly knotting the cords in loops along the length of his hairy forearms, thumbs carefully included. The cords are then snaked up around the crooks of his bulging arms just beneath the stony biceps, our ANGLE WIDENING as Colin winds several thick lengths around the dragoon’s V-shaped torso, just above the amber nipples.
“I like that; very good,” their father says, smiling catlike as he watches the boys reduce the nude young soldier to complete powerlessness. “It has the effect of making the pectoral muscles really stand out on the chest. Deepening the cleft between them, don’t you know.”
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