[... or at least, they think so.]
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Intoxicated with the day's victory (and vast amounts of the bootleg booze brewed out behind the base) the BLU Heavy and Demoman tried to find their rooms. They were leaning on each other and singing. Granted, the Heavy was singing in Russian, the Demoman was singing in Scots, and they were attacking totally different tunes, but they were happy.

"Here ve go..." the Heavy shoved open a dormitory door.

"What the FUCK, man?!" The Scout jerked his blanket up around his neck. "Get the Hell outta here!"

"Vhy is baby man in my room?"

"It's MY room, butternuts, get lost!"

"Where'd ye get naked pictoors of Solly?" The Demoman cocked his head.

The Scout's only response was to scream and hurl his shoes at the pair.

"Ve go to your room, instead..."

They staggered down the hall together until they found an empty bedroom.

"Och, I need to lay doon."

"Poor little man," Heavy smiled indulgently. "Papa put you to bed." Though he was wobbling, the Russian scooped the Scot up in his shovel hands and slid him under the covers. The big man sat on the bed, hummed a few bars of a Russian lullaby, and discovered that he was disinclined to get up. He laid down on the cot, but there was little enough room on a twin bed for him alone, never mind sharing with a sprawling Scot. He solved the problem by lifting the Demoman bodily, and draping the man over him like a lumpy blanket.

Though lumpy for a blanket, the wiry man certainly was warm. Like a furnace resting on Heavy's belly. The Heavy cuddled him tightly. For no good reason, the Russian began to sing again.

Trying to shut out the sound, the Demoman burrowed down and pressed his face into the Heavy's chest. There he felt... something familiar, but almost forgotten. Not something he'd expected today. Could it be? He had to find out; drunk though he was, he had to know. Pawing aside layers of cloth, ignoring drunken Russian singing, he focused on his goal.

"Hooly Mother'a God, TITTIES!"

It was true, after a fashion. The Heavy's broad, hairless chest mounded into a pair of creamy-white, voluptuous breasts. The fact that they were attached to a giant male Russian was, for the Demoman, an irrelevant detail. Wasting no time, the Scot began to lick and suckle.

"Dohoho," the Heavy laughed. "Is tickle!"

Dazed with love (and hooch, and nipples), the Demoman took no notice. Instead, he began humping the Heavy's giant thigh. He also failed to notice when something hot and hard began to press into his hip.

For his part, the Heavy wasn't entirely sure what was going on. There was someone small and enthusiastic writhing on top of him. Maybe a woman? Possibly Doktor? But the Medic had never blown a motorboat on him like that before. As long as whoever-it-was kept moving like that, he didn't feel the need to open up his eyes and investigate.

The Demoman pressed sloppy, drunken kisses to the miraculous bosoms that had appeared like a doughy oasis in this sausage desert. When he had them good and slick, he crawled up to straddle the Heavy's huge chest. Squeezing the mounds of flesh together, he created a generous valley to fuck. Oh, aye- just like that... Until he belatedly realised that this put him in a position to see the Heavy's stuporous, slack-jawed face. That didn't work for him. He made an about-face, covered the Heavy's nether regions with a blanket, then carried on where he'd left off.

Beneath him, the Heavy came to muzzy consciousness and tried to focus on the round, brown... something moving in front of his face. It looked like chocolate, it smelled like ball sweat. In the absence of cogent input from his brain, his tongue and lips carried out the habitual motions of eating. Lick, slurp, lick, slurp, om nom nom nom.

This sudden sensation was too much for the Demoman. Pleasured fore and aft, he screamed like a virgin on her wedding night and shot his load on the Heavy's stomach. Dazed with ecstasy, he collapsed over the fat man's gut.

With this change in perspective, the Heavy realised what he was seeing. It was an ass. A high, round ass, apparently of African extraction. He decided that he must have brought a woman home from... somewhere. He congratulated himself on successfully pleasuring her while he was three sheets to the wind. His cock suggested a way to make the rest of this evening even better for the tiny woman. Surely, she had never had a lover endowed like the Heavy Weapons Guy!

Moving with the exaggerated care of the massively drunk, the Heavy lifted the insensate Demoman by his waist and positioned the smaller man over his cock. What a glorious ass, the Russian gloated to himself. She might have shaved her legs, but he had seen worse in the Ukraine.

The Heavy groped clumsily around his partner's underchassis. He was muzzy on what he was touching (and on most things in general, thanks to the booze), so he just prodded around until he found something yielding. Ohh, that was it. His cock throbbed as he fingered the tight passage. Maybe it wasn't her lady-parts, but it was tight and warm, and the Heavy was feeling feisty. As long as she wasn't complaining...

Of course, 'she' wasn't complaining because 'she' was a passed-out Scotsman. The Demoman barely registered the huge sausage fingers at his backside, which wasn't surprising since he could hardly feel his legs. Anything that happened now was fine with him. He'd just shot his load on the first set of tits anyone on base had seen in years.

Meanwhile, the Heavy was building up quite a head of steam. The Medic maintained an inflexible schedule of quarterly sexual interactions. He claimed it was the optimum balance for psychological health and venereal hygiene, but last quarter seemed a long, long time ago. The Tool of the Revolution was prepared to hammer, the Glorious Soviet Warhead primed to explode. The Heavy positioned the delicious cocoa ass above him, and prepared to siege the gates of this sexual Stalingrad. He meant to go slow- he didn't want to hurt this little person who he still believed to be a woman- but he couldn't wait any more. With one thrust, he was in, all ten throbbing centimetres deep inside the Demoman's ass.

The Demoman grunted, but didn't really appear to notice.

Beneath him, the Heavy was bucking like a rhinoceros. Such a fine ass, such muscular legs, he was convinced that he had somehow scored with a member of the Bolshoi Ballet. She had good, strong shoulders, too- she would make a fine wife, bear many strong babies. The Heavy wondered if the Medic would be his best man- surely he understood that the Heavy was only prison-gay.*

Propped up on top of the Heavy, the Demoman was starting to get seasick from the motion of the massive gut. He'd seen the room spin before, but never go up and down, up and down. His butt sort of hurt, but that was a secondary concern. He was pretty sure he'd feel better once he'd puked, which would happen soon enough.

At that point, the Medic strode in with his usual Teutonic efficiency. He stopped in his tracks when he saw what was happening on his bed. The Heavy shouted "HAVE MY BABIES, TINY LADY I MARRY YOU!" The Demoman gave a sickly burp. The Medic screamed with rage and betrayal. "I'M COMING!" howled the Heavy. The Demoman disgorged approximately a gallon of booze puke. "Zis is unacceptable!" The Medic began to sob.

The drunken Scot's retching convulsions pleasured the Heavy more than the Russian had ever believed was possible. His orgasm erupted like a geyser of jism, pumping waves of white fluid out of the Demoman's ass. "Vhy? VHY?!" the Medic screamed, setting up blubbery waves as he battered the Heavy's naked, sticky chest. "She means NOT'ING to me!" the Heavy promised, amid crumbling dreams of his ballerina's giant babies.

The Demoman toppled sideways off the bed, trailing semen and vomit at either end. "Doktor, please!" the Heavy began, but the German wasn't listening. He hauled himself to rigid attention and readied his bonesaw. "Zis vill only sting for a moment," he growled.

The Heavy was first to die, as the Medic gutted him and then slashed the Russian's throat as he was trying to hold in his intestines. The Demoman just had time to remark, "Och, there's jackboots under the bed, this isnae my room at all..." before the Medic severed his spine. Panting, sobbing again, the Medic sat down on the bed next to his (ex-)lover. He pressed a passionate kiss to the Heavy's bloody lips, then another, then spared one for the fallen Demoman.

"Zis?" He moaned to the Heavy's corpse. "I thought our sexual treatment was too infrequent, but did I drive you to... zis? And you, HURE!" He addressed the Demoman's corpse. "Stealing mein mann! Just on ze prowl for any schwanzstuker you can find?! You haf no IDEA of ze romance you haf ruined!" With frantic strength, the Medic heaved the Demoman's corpse onto the bed. "Zo! You shall haf vhat you vant! BOTH of you!"

The Medic jammed his grief-boner into the Demoman's ass, then shoved himself down onto the Heavy's sausage fingers. He fucked himself between them violently, in an orgy of agony (or at least a ménage à trois of misery), until he came to the orgasm of despair. Covered in a pall of sorrow and various bodily fluids, the German then hacked off his own head with the bone saw. It took some effort, but the Medic was nothing if not thorough.

When the Respawn system kicked on next morning, all three men found it very, very awkward.





*The Medic had actually been collecting honeymoon brochures and considering stepping the sex up to a monthly schedule.

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owl tiem 09/11/24(Tue)22:41 No. 7226 File 125913131739.jpg - (50.76KB , 645x968 , gay-sex5.jpg ) So I was doing ok. I was laughing, yeah, it was hilarious, but I was doing ok. Then Medic hacked his own head off with the bonesaw and at that point I utterly lost it and the housemates became afeared for my life and sanity. Christ, Marty. Christ.