Copyright 2013 by the author
ADULTS ONLY. Distasteful and offensive material. Not suitable at all for many people.
Author's note: Comments and ideas very welcome.
Note on the text: At one stage in the narrative, use is made of "Douglas Firs," and in another, there is a swamp. I'm pretty sure these botanical and topographical features do not go together. Please feel free to suggest corrections.
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thobymusgrave@gmail.com www.bucksinhand.blogspot.com
Welcome to Drill Sergeant Fullerton Harde's...
FULL HARDE BOOT CAMP!!!
We hope your stay will be a beneficial one!
Chapter 2.
Ten miles of bitumen road incessantly racking under the precision drill of twelve boots with hard steel studs. Followed by another ten miles on dirt track. Then across the public road and into the swamp. Five more miles of filth and mosquitoes. The mud would fill those boots and make them like lead weights. Then the thick black mire would rise to waist-height, making a slow, wrestling struggle for progress. The squad of recruits would sink to their necks under their loads of twelve bricks in ammunition-boxes each, stacked in their backpacks.
The back of Fullerton Harde's neck was impassive in the front seat of the Hummer. Lance Marshall watched from behind. Through the front windscreen, he could see the rear of those loaded packs dipping and jogging as the six recruits did hard time. It was still dark. They were still on the bitumen, and the hard clicking of the studded boots could be heard.
Dammit, they were tight! It was a meticulous cadence still at five miles! With no stumbles or wrong-noted footfalls, never mind a drop-out. Fullerton Harde was one badass motherfucker, for sure! He'd licked this crew into shape in merciless time.
But while there was respect and wonder for the big Drill Sergeant with the frighteningly massive build and the voice like incoming artillery, Lance felt a guilty pang of admiration for his own steel-hard stud out there on the road.
At the front left of the squad outside, Lance's boy would be undergoing a Hellish punishment. Twelve bricks in six ammunition-boxes on his back. A Lee-Enfield held at high-port. A big, unwieldy helmet strapped on like an erect dome. Old, heavy combat boots, and a drilling speed set for a journey straight to Purgatory. Lance knew the deep little crinkle which formed between Tyrone's eyebrows, and knew it would be there now, set hard and intense and lighting those dark eyes with determined fire.
The smooth, pitch-black polished skin Lance knew so well would be moving and sliding over straining muscle, covered in grease and sweat and cut hard with the straps of that dreadful backpack. Tyrone would be spitting silent curses through those bright teeth, and maybe... just maybe... in the blinding concentration required for the drill, he would find an instant to think of Lance travelling behind in the Humvee.
The vehicle was full of personnel and supplies. Sergeant Harde's staff in black riot-gear – observers like Lance – Captain Thorpe – the gofer-boy – and Fullerton Harde himself. The sharp-angled rear of the Drill Sergeant's head with close-cropped sandy hair sat immobile in the front seat. The fucker had the mike in his hand. He raised it.
"You're lagging! I said I want noses touching the pack in front! Rifles at high-high port and close the ranks! Now cocksuckers!"
Lance felt the twinge of guilt again. His big black stud, Tyrone, was out there in the still darkened early morning, naked and sweating like an animal. In a few hours the sun would be up and the blowers in the Hummer would be turned from heat to cool. Six miles done. Four to go on the road, then the dirt.
"Fuck these early mornings!" someone said. "Tomorrow I'm sleeping. I'll catch the show in the afternoon if I feel like it."
On arrival at Camp Harde, Tyrone had been chosen for a whipping, and Lance knew that the big, eighteen year-old buck was singled-out for the quality of his black skin. Black enough to be almost blue, Tyrone shone like a beacon in the blockhouse yard, his lean musculature rippling like water under a slick, gleaming film of sweat. It went without saying, but the conditions of the modern world largely ceased at the gate of Full Harde Boot Camp. There were no inducements or rewards – only punishment for failure. There was no such thing as offence taken – only offence given, and epithets were used freely by the staff. The word "nigger" was not shocking in the cold, cement confine of the blockhouse yard, and it was used immediately and without moderation as soon as the fine, handsome youth arrived.
Tyrone was the first to be handcuffed to the overhead rail in the yard and belted with the firehose. He danced on his toes under the hammering jet, swerving and swivelling like a strip-whore, shouting at the flogging needle-sting and gurgling while his ears, eyes, and throat filled with water. White ink had to be specially fetched for the number `1' stamp on his narrow, hard-muscled left butt-cheek, and like the others after him, he whooped with surprise when the spring-loaded rivet-gun drove the pinned dog-tag through his hardened, freezing nipple. But only Lance's Tyrone tasted the whip.
It was a demonstration for everybody's benefit – a twelve-foot buggy-slash plaited in brown rawhide and tailed with a flying, knotted cracker. Camcorders were running and laughing mouths were silenced as the flexing leather was tested against a wooden fencepost. Lance's mouth had gone dry when he heard the stunning CRACK and saw his black-blue buck with arms raised under the rail assume an expression of hard resolve.
"Lay it on accurate. Don't miss," Fullerton Harde said to the Staff Sergeant. "I want it laid even across that little backside."
The oaths which emitted from Tyrone's mouth and lungs were expelled in lusty, manly fashion, and Lance felt proud of the boy's refusal to blubber.
"Hoooooooooooaaaaaaaaahhh!" Tyrone called in horrified surprise at the first landed cut from the whip.
"Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Shit! No!"
Tyrone's meat was at full mast, as upright and as finely curved as a raised cutlass as he turned and ratcheted in the stainless-steel manacles over his head. He danced on elevated twinkle-toes, hoisted with opened pits, unbelieving that the blazing hellfire in his flicking ass could be possible. Lance caught the boy's widened eyes in those moments, and knew that more whip-cuts would be forthcoming.
A total of three evil, whistling cuts were issued, and with each delivery, the young man's lungs dealt a noisy, bellowing lesson to his five companions standing by in the concrete yard. Don't, by any means, give cause to be horsed at Full Harde Boot Camp. Fullerton Harde and his men do not give instruction in short rations, and the twelve-foot buggy whip of plaited, oiled leather will be used quickly and meaningfully. It was a valuable lesson. All of the six had subsequently striven to please, and that was why they now jack-drilled at top speed with loads of bricks on their backs through blinding pain.
The sizzling coals at Tyrone's leather-burned black rump would be sweetened and re-lit by the coating of salty sweat. Lance saw the tall and inhumanely overloaded pack of his boy at the head of the squad, jogged and hefted forward with industry and speed. Underneath, the bare, three-striped hindquarter moved and beat with strenuous activity. No doubt it remembered too well the shocking whip-crack.
There were five other naked asses out there, all running with laden packs in time with the fast, military tempo. Ten miles of bitumen road turned into ten miles of dirt track. Now, the recruits' surface textures became a whited covering of sweat-stuck dust. Tyrone's slippery, glazed black varnish was a running mess of greasepaint, oil, and dirt. It clung to them all. The shine on their boots was ruined – and Lance saw the wretched tragedy of a meticulous and hard-worked boot-gloss lost in the soiled misery of a pack-drill.
The Hummer made to overtake the drilling unit and it slowly drew alongside, edging them to the side of the road. The speakers squawked with fury. The engine merely idled at this speed – in imbalanced contrast to the struggling pack of six youths on foot who labored to keep up in their triple-marching formation. The occupants of the truck shifted to the side windows. The overwhelmingly tall backpacks of the running unit outside were hefted to and fro – left and right – and forward.
The sun was just beginning to rise. The AC blowers of the cabin were turned on, and Lance turned in his seat and held his fingertips to the cool interior of the glass. Outside, the running squad alongside was a compact vision of Hell.
Their tall packs wobbled and skewed constantly, sliding on their straps, gripping hard, slippery flesh. Those packs towered over the high-mounted GI helmets and slew from side to side as their suffering human steeds toiled to keep them upright and moving. The greased faces of the boys under the steel rims were each contorted into a respective rictus of pain – each exhibiting its own private nightmare. Not a glance was given to the big vehicle right beside. Every skerrick of effort and concentration was hard on the rear of the pack in front. Dirt could be seen coating the interiors of their open, sucking mouths, and their slack, bouncing cheeks were wet with tears as well as the grease-filth which covered the rest of them. Rifles were held high, almost overhead, and the pale dust had entered and adhered in the deep, sticky pits under their arms.
The narrow hips flicked sharply from side to side in the controlled little tango-dance necessary to keep the packs steady and the stacked loads stabilized. And it was all done in concerted time. What a team! It was impossible not to feel a surge of gratification at the job Fullerton had done with these kids! There they were, hoofing with straining muscle and swinging little silver dog-tags on nip-rings as if every step were a new leap, and not a gruelling repetition of the thousand that had gone before.
Fullerton had chosen with an expert eye – Lance could see that now. It was a matched squad, with an eye-catching similarity in builds. They all had tight, trim, perky breasts and swimmer-belt bindings of youthful, developing muscle laced with the ribs at the upper flanks under the arms. They all had the same slim, disco-dancing hips and the same boyish, overdeveloped thighs with interlaced, springing criss-crosses of braided sinew. Obviously those big, graceful legs had been selected as the right kind for this God-awful speed-drill with loaded packs.
"Right, spunk-asses!" The Drill Sergeant had the mike again. He leaned from the open window with his elbow on the sill, directing the heaving squad of muscle and hefted equipment. With the window open, Lance could hear their gasping, and striven, rasping breath. They were gulping and panting in time with each other and with their fixed pace, and in each exhalation could be discerned the unvoiced curse for which there was no breath to spare.
"Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!" they all wheezed together loudly, the poor fuckers. Lance looked at Tyrone's face at the front of the running unit. It was a mask of total pain.
"Right, I said," Fullerton continued. The speaker on the roof made a sharp, attention-getting bark, audible inside the truck with the window open. "Now we gotta get those dongs spinning in time. Pick it up and get those knees lifted together. Faster. If you monkeys get your shit in time like I'm telling you, then your big fucking wangs will be all spinning together like props. Clockwise. I don't wanna see those cocks just flipping and smacking. They gotta windmill in circles. That's how I know you're bustin' your asses properly. Now GET THOSE KNEES LIFTED AND GET THOSE ASSES WIGGLING AND GET THOSE FUCKING MEAT-SCHLONGS WINDMILLING!"
Indeed, six greased cocks were flaying wetly and wildly – the only undisciplined element of the six-headed, twelve-legged animal of sweating muscle which moved on the road beside the vehicle. Jesus! Full Harde Boot Camp was just as demanding as it advertised itself to be!
Somebody in the truck laughed. The procession of the big, green Hummer beside the triple pack-marching unit crossed the public road, and the steel studs on their boots raised a sudden metallic clipping as they met the hard bitumen. Then, on the other side, they were into the swamp. The Humvee's engine was gunned and the vehicle surged through some vegetation and into the mud. Its tyres spun, and a massive fan of dirty water was sprayed into the air behind.
The Hummer lurched ahead, leaving the loaded squad on foot in its swirling wake of filthy water and tangling reeds. Out the back, the six youths sank down and struggled, losing their time and stumbling. The wheels spun and showered them with a solid gush. Now they were brown mud-monsters, unrecognisable from one to the other, blundering hopelessly. They sank again, further.
"Hey, faggots!" a Sergeant yelled through a megaphone at the rear window. "The last two of you to arrive at the training-ground will be flogged personally by me! Hahahaha! Can't wait! Hahahaha!"
"Shut the fucking window!" someone said. "The mud will get in here!"
"Lookit this nice little paddle," The lewd-talking Sergeant said to his various companions as the cabin bumped and lurched. He flourished and fingered a thick blade of heavy black rubber nailed to a strong wooden handle "Those fucks yelp good when this little baby catches their bare asses! Hahahaha!"
thobymusgrave@gmail.com www.bucksinhand.blogspot.com