Copyright 2011 by the author
rod.storme@yahoo.com
HARD TRAININ' THE KID PART 1
I hadn't laid eyes on the kid for more than a few seconds before he was stripped and mustered, answering my questions. That's how it runs in my outfit. As he trembled naked on the spot in front of a desk inside Lem's club, that was when I got my first look at him, obviously. Thinking back, there was a lot to notice. The first thing I saw was an impossibly slim waist and I said there's no way this twink is gonna last under my training. Too young. Too skinny. Too smooth and too pretty. But the fucker had the thighs of a champion cycler -- overdeveloped and with flaring muscles making precise patterns of lines and notches, springing like two bags of live snakes. There was no fat anywhere -- not anywhere -- and even though the perky, rounded tits seemed to lack quite the power needed for pack-drilling, and the pretty face and big, dumb eyes lacked the fire I required, I thought; maybe. Just maybe.
"You're on drugs if you think you're gonna last ten minutes, boy. What're you doin' here?"
"Sir! I beg to disagree, Sir!" he yipped.
Fuck me. All respectful and speaking with a correctness which comes from having English as a second language.
Well, I better back up a bit I suppose. The kid deserves a name, and it's Bang Hyu. Mine's Rod Storme, and yeah, I was Sgt. Storme in the Marines and yes, Sgt. Storme had a reputation that matched his name. No need to elaborate on that picture. Sometime after the Marines I was sitting around Lem's place thinking about what to do with myself, and I got to thinking about Mike's farm which I'd seen. It was a small, disused dairy farm two and a half hours south of the city. Mike had said use it, if I wanted to go camping or something. Anyway, it occurred to me thus: I now had my own boot-camp. The ad I placed in the free city homo rag probably best explains what I had in mind:
"Hard Training for Hard Men," it said in small, boxed print on the classifieds pages. Ex-Marine Sergeant will Discipline and Drill Call #### ### ### between 5:00 & 5:10pm Monday & Tuesday Apply only if very fit and very committed No wimps. Serious."
Okay, it was a cheap ad and I wasn't too sure about the wording, but I knew there would be a market for it. Another thing I knew, I would train only one man at a time, so no squads. And really, this would be a kind of hobby, so ideally I wanted only a few returning customers.
Every phone call -- and there were quite a few -- began with the same words.
"Um... I'm calling about the ad..."
I said "I'm Sir," and hung up. That got rid of the time-wasters who only wanted to hear the voice of a big, tough Marine Sergeant. I remember the kid's voice though, and I thought no fuckin' way. I hung up and he called again."
"Sir, I'm calling about the ad."
"What ad?"
"The one that says `hard training for hard men' Sir."
"That's right. `Hard men.' So what're you doin' botherin' me for?" I hung up and he called again.
"Sir, I need hard training."
"What the fuck for?"
"I just need it, and I can take it."
"You forgot `Sir.'"
I hung up and he called again.
"SIR! I need hard training and I'm hard enough to take it!"
"That's lovely, kid. How old are you?"
"Nineteen, Sir."
"Say `Sir, nineteen, Sir'"
"SIR! Nineteen! SIR!"
"Now say `Sir, I'm a little punk-rag and there's no way I should get near a real Marine Sergeant.'"
I hung up. He called.
Now this was getting fucking irritating. He made some ridiculous pronouncements in too-correct English and threw in a lot of `Sirs.' I sighed and gave him the lowdown, a little speech which weeded-out a good many applicants.
"Here's how it works. First, there's an interview. That should take about an hour and it will be here in the city. Second, there's an admittance test. That's overnight at the site. Third, if you pass the test you go on to drill-instruction. That's a weekend, Friday night to Sunday night. Fourth, if you haven't quit by then, there's Hell Week. Friday night, right through to Sunday night the next weekend. No one will want to attend Hell Week after the first stages, and if someone does, they won't last the first night. That's a guarantee."
And what do you fucking know? This kid comes right out and says he'll need to take leave from his stupid fucking job to go to Hell Week! I laughed. But I didn't hang up.
For the interviews, I managed to get the appointments down to twenty-four in number. Lem let me use his basement club and I set up a desk and put down a circular, green linoleum spot, about twelve inches round. Then -- I prepared for twenty-four individual interviews with twenty-four faggy he-men who thought they were tough. Hell, this was going to be tedious and I was quite wondering why I was bothering to do this.
Let me tell you, those twenty-four steroid-pumpers can be cut down to nine candidates right away. Only ten would strip for mustering on the spot, and one of those was too slow. From the very beginning I guess I should have been able to see that the kid was something a little bit special. Maybe, having judged him on the phone, I didn't want to admit that I'd been wrong.
He shucked off his clothes instantly and leapt to the green circle of linoleum placed four yards from my desk on the cement floor of Lem's place, and there he was. Name: Bang Hyu. Age: 19. Height: 5'9". Weight: Blah, and etcetera. I could see he wasn't on roids. The muscles in his back and lats flared not in a bulky way, but with refined grace, only up near the arms, narrowing the V' shape and making him long, flexible, whip-slim and lithe. Lean and coltish, and certainly fit, but my concern was; would he be big enough? Perhaps.
The interviews were important because within an hour, I knew whether one particular muscle-faggot was worth any further time or not. I got stuck in with the questions.
"What sports you do, boy?"
"Sir, cycling, gym, running, swimming..."
"Any lifting?"
"Sir, the gym, Sir, and..."
"And what?"
"... Ballet..."
"Ballet!?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Fuck me."
I looked at him, amused. My snort of derision was a little unfair I suppose. Look guys, I have nothing against Ballet, but I just thought it was funny.
"Look, dancer-boy, liftin' pretty little ballerinas ain't the same as liftin' a tire over your head for nine miles. Weights in an air-conditioned gym, with a shower and a towel and a milkshake with your little pals is one thing. But you wanna be hoofin' with an overloaded pack through nine miles of mud? With a kitmuster and cleaning-stations afterward?"
"Sir! Yes! Sir!"
The little fucker's brow furrowed and he narrowed his eyes earnestly, cute little son-of-a-bitch. His head bobbed in consternation on a long, slender neck, as if he was surprised that I had doubts.
"I'm making notes here, kid. How do you like that? That means your interview is going okay for now. I'll tell you what I'm writing. `Bang Hyu. Nineteen. Too young to have the necessary maturity. Physique. Legs and backside well muscled and toned from cycling and... Ballet (I cocked an eye at him)... will run well, but upper body possibly too slight for extended pack-drill. Good, full erection at interview.
His hand went suddenly to the swollen cock, which bent like a big curved banana right up to his neatly-rowed tummy.
"LEAVE IT ALONE, BOY!"
He flinched, snapping his hand back to his side.
"NOW GET YER FINGERS STRAIGHT DOWN BY YER SIDES! GET YER CHIN UP! GET YER HEELS TOGETHER!"
It wasn't quite Marine-at-attention posture, but I liked having the fingers straight down. It's my fucking boot-camp after all, eh guys?!
The kid snapped again, doing his damnedest little best with his chin held high and his back straight. The belly muscles all lined up like soldiers on parade, fluttering delicately, with a sweet little navel twitching in time with the throbbing cock. It was a slender but well-packed abdomen. Maybe Ballet has things going for it.
"Here's how we roll, kid," I approached him, close. "When mustered, I generally expect you to have a hard-on," and I smacked his upright crank with a thump as a mark of punctuation, making it wobble.
"Keep your butt-cheeks clenched. Relax em once and I'll lay a switch on em," My hand travelled around to one of the smooth, hard buttocks. I brushed lightly, feeling warm, soft skin on neat bands of marble-hard muscle. Briefly, my fingers went into the crack, tickling, and by fuck it was warm and tight in there! As I pressed against the puckered hole I felt him shudder, breath sharply, and clench harder.
"Shit, kid! That must be a lot of dancin' you do! You could crack a walnut in there!" I delivered a real hard, swinging underarm cupping slap to one buttock, and by fuck, that tiny little cheek didn't quiver a bit! It made a hell of a sound though, and standing beside him, I could see his eyes squeezed shut and his wide nostrils flaring. He didn't say a word.
"If you get to the entrance test at the site, there will be no free time. It's twenty-four hours of following orders, immediately and without question. When I say jump, you say `how high?' It'll hurt. You either prove you're a soldier or bail-out. No in-between. No questions. No sleep. No wankin'. No slackin' off. No joke."
"SIR! YES! SIR!" he squeaked in excitement.
"And here's another thing. No talkin' unless answerin' my questions."
I paused as my words rolled around in that big, dumb, flop-haired head.
"Understand!?"
"SIR! YES! SIR!"
"You need hard discipline, faggot-boy?"
"SIR! YES! SIR!"
"Say `Sir, I need hard discipline, Sir.'"
"SIR! I NEED HARD DISCIPLINE! SIR!"
"You fit enough for it, dancer-boy?"
"SIR! I'M FIT ENOUGH FOR IT! SIR!"
And that's how the interview went. It removes the last of the candidates who are just joking around.
"What job you do, dancer-boy? Don't say florist."
"SIR! I WAIT ON TABLES AT `TRIATORE'S' CAFÉ! SIR!"
"Yeah, well, that sounds about right for a cutesy little pretty-boy. I bet the faggots come from far and wide to see your teeny-weeny little butt wigglin' about an' fetchin' teeny-weeny little cupcakes."
Here's where the interview reached the point which, I was sure, would see this twinky little punk dancing over to put his clothes back on. It was the test which I intended would whittle numbers considerably.
"My truck is the yellow Ford F100 in the laneway. There's a faucet on the wall outside. Use your t-shirt."
He looked at me with wide eyes and his lips moved with the questions I had forbidden. Sure enough, that lolling tongue began to stammer."
"Wh... wh..."
"GET OUT THERE AN' GET MY TRUCK WASHED, PUNK!!! I WANT IT TO SPARKLE-ARKLE-ARKLE!!!"
"But... I'm... n... I'm naked..."
"I GAVE AN ORDER, PUNK-RAG!!! MOVE!!! NOW!!!"
This was the first kicker. Would a prospective recruit sulkily jam his clothes back on and go home, or would he grab his t-shirt and use it as a rag, washing my car, naked in public. The narrow little ass was wiggling its way through the door and up the tiled stairs while my words were still reverberating in Lem's concrete-walled dungeon.
I'd have to say, I was slightly impressed. The laneway outside was narrow, and somewhat hidden from prime view, but it was short, with Flinders St. at one end and the pedestrian thoroughfare near Taylor Square at the other. I'll tell you what; you want your vehicle washed in double quick time? Get a little punk-ass to do it naked -- in public!
Of course I followed to supervise. He soaked his t-shirt at the faucet and started wiping. Shivering and wet, and with his little ass wiggling and his wang flopping like a big, limp sausage, that diligent little punk worked like a motherfucker. Obviously he wanted the job finished and done real fast but I kept him there in that exposed lane, ordering him under the arches and into the tray. You know it's a big truck, and this one was dirty, and in ten minutes the kid was whimpering softly in shame. His t-shirt was a wreck and curious guys from the strip were beginning to gather at each end of the small street, but he kept working. I made him wash it properly. No soap, no bucket, but it needed to be squeaky-clean, because anyone I take to Mike's farm for discipline training will need to know how to follow orders.
"Oh fuck!" he said when I ordered him onto the roof just when he thought he'd finished.
"Oh fuck!" he whimpered again when I made him go to the front and get the raggy, filthy t-shirt between each grille. I allowed him those "oh fucks" as we weren't yet at the true boot-camp site and he was making a genuine, commendable effort under mortifying conditions. He slip-slapped the sodden rag and dirty drops of water flicked onto that brown, soft skin. And that ass! It swirled and rotated as he polished! In that dirty alleyway, his nude, wet form flexed and swivelled at the hips, flicking his butt side-to-side. Now I could see where the Ballet-dancing came in!
When I gave the signal, he dashed back inside, cock twirling in haste. The kid shivered on the muster-spot at attention.
"Clean up that water off the floor," I said, and he used his jeans to do it, kneeling and rubbing. The little tone of defiant cockiness was gone. Now, he just hurried to obey. That was a good sign, I noted. He jumped to attention on the spot again.
Yeah, the kid had been pretty impressive, promptly and strictly following orders, washing the dirty big truck of a guy he'd only just met, naked and with onlookers. That made him one of only a couple from the nine I had interviewed. This time I had to admit I had misjudged him on the phone, but he hadn't done the hard, physical slog under drill instruction yet. And, he hadn't even gotten to the entrance tests.
My own natural urge was to prove something myself -- to get rid of the punk -- make him quit. I recognised this and I knew I'd be driving real hard at all times with this kid under my discipline, and further, perhaps subconsciously, I knew that he was the one I wanted to beat. It was only a question of when.
"Your schlong's soft, boy! I'll show you how Sergeant Storme gets his men's cranks at attention!"
From behind, I grabbed his right upper arm.
"Now hold still!"
Using both hands while still gripping him by the arm, I ripped a condom packet and let him hear the smack of the rubber near his ear as I stretched it onto my index finger. I stuck it under his nose.
"Where do you think this is goin', boy? Yeah! That's right! We gonna go in yer tighty-tighty little hole and press the button. The little spunk-boys in my division always jump to attention when their little buttons are pressed!"
I felt him pucker and clench hard, and really, my hand between those amazingly tight cheeks was almost bruised by the crush. He shuddered as the oily rubber nudged the sphincter and pushed inside. The slippery finger squirmed quickly up the hole. It was a rude entry. He started breathing hard with a wide-open mouth. I saw that thick cock-meat stand up and go slap into his belly. As I found the push-button bulb, there was a long, low "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!" It wavered near the end when I started twiddling. He moved -- not twisting or struggling, but sort of writhing. My finger twiddled some more.
"Aaaahhh!!!" he went suddenly and noisily. It was a sharp, rising note.
"Oh God!!!" said the kid as he bent, shuddered again, and flinched. A long, long, thick, powerful jet arched into the air, higher than either of our heads. The trajectory and velocity of the white rope surprised even me -- and I've seen plenty of young men make emotional ejaculations in my time.
More looping jets came, flying in thick streams.
"Shit, kid! How much jizz those balls carry?"
"Ahaaa!!! Ahaaa!!! Ahaaa...!!!"
The stuff piss-streamed, one spurt blending with the next, making splashing noises on the floor, and when I thought he was about to finish, his body flinched for the next jetting spout.
Yeah, there are plenty of phenomena in the natural world to amaze one -- the adaptability of the Chameleon Lizard and shit like that, but one thing which occasionally gets me is the force of the ejaculation of a healthy young lad with an urgent burden to unload.
And you know what this kid did? Throughout his piteous distress and heartbreaking cries, he kept his feet planted on the green marker -- and his hands forced into the sides of his legs, fingers straight, together and pointed down -- all proper and correct. You know as well as I how when that hot flood starts pumping, you need to jack - and you know that when you're a kid, it's one of life's imperative necessities that when the moment of desperation hits, you need to jack hard. It's a tragic thing when a fit young buck spontaneously wastes a good charge without the supplicant physical stimulation.
Sorry for the lecture. I'm showing off. A retired Marine Sergeant can strive to improve his vocabulary, can't he?
I still held him by the arm, but by now I was supporting him, keeping him from dropping to his knees as he sobbed.
"Oh shit!" he moaned in grief.
"Stand up, kid," I really wanted to help him get his clothes and dry his anguished sniffles, but I guess the ol' Sgt. Storme kicked in, and I remembered how the boy wanted to be a hard-man and how I wanted to break him down. I twisted his arm behind him by the wrist, and with the other hand I grabbed a fistful of his black, lollipop hair.
"You just pissed your cream on the floor, boy!" I snarled. "That means you clean it up!"
I forced him down, shoving his nose to the concrete where it touched a shining, white gob of jelly.
"PUNK-ASS RECRUITS LICK UP THEIR LOADS, BOY! NOW LICK!!!"
I hauled him from one quivering glob to another, giving Lem's floor the vacuum-cleaner treatment.
"Slurp it up while it's hot, punk-rag! It's much less tasty when it's cold!"
It lay in great strings, sticking and cooling, and the kid's tongue worked just as diligently as the naked recruit who had washed my truck. Everywhere I dragged him, he left the concrete clean. And by fuck it took quite some time to get it all.
He departed unshowered, dirty, wet, and shirtless. Brown, almond eyes turned to me from the doorway as he left.
"Sir?"
"What?"
"When do I... Sir?"
"Call me tomorrow at five o'clock."
rod.storme@yahoo.com