Copyright 2011 by the author.
rod.storme@yahoo.com
HARD TRAININ' THE KID PART 3 Chapter 1
Adults only. Gay sexual themes and authoritarianism.
Thanks again for the messages of support. Your crusty old Sgt. Storme has even learned how to use that goddam Chat thingy, an' chattin' with a couple o' you cats has proved to be mildly amusing. But I guess most of you are waiting to see how the Sergeant continues his hard training of the kid. So on with the show.
Well, the `show' was becoming more complicated. The kid had shown no sign of breaking down during the first expedition to the bootcamp, so now, it was upon me to give him a real Hellish time. It was to be two days of non-stop punishment drill and I had to plan some varied entertainment, and for that I reckoned I was going to need some help. Ol' Sgt. Storme might be a tough old biscuit, but he didn't relish the idea of stayin' on duty for two full days treatin' the kid to his drillin'.
"So whadda ya say, Mike?" I said to my friend over a beer in Clem's bar. "You wanna take a trip down to see the farm and help me out with the kid?"
"Well Rod, it's time I got down there to check over things but I don't see that I'll be any help. I'm not really the tough-ass you need."
"Come anyway," I said. "You don't need to do anything. Just watch."
"Yeah," Mike said. "I really need to see this kid you keep raving about. A ballet-dancer you say. And you've got him all trained like a soldier. Interesting. But if you really want to take things to a new level, why don't you get in touch with Doc' Davidson?"
"I thought about Doc' Davidson. But something about him gives me the heebie-jeebies. Ex prison doctor. Owns a cattle-prod."
"You're protective of your kid," said Mike raising his glass. "If you want him broken, get Doc' Davidson."
"Yeah. Maybe you're right."
Mike was right about one thing. It was time to go to a new level, and as much as I had my doubts, Doc' Davidson was the man to take with me. Funny thing about the Doc' – everybody in the leather circuit said he was a tough son-of-a-bitch, but visually he didn't really fit the image. Clipped beard. Educated. Well-spoken. But he was nasty.
Sure enough, Doc' Davidson said "yes" right away. I could almost hear his wide grin through the phone. So things were sorted out. The Doc', Mike, and Mike's nephew Tarquin going ahead in Mike's car – and me and the kid following in the F100. Same as before, I loaded-up with supplies and equipment.
"Ya'll ready for yer hard-trainin', kid?" I asked cheerfully as the bouncy little jumping-bean bounded into the seat beside me.
"Yes, SIR!" he yapped.
"Settle down, spunk-boy. You're not going to enjoy this at all."
"I'll bet I will!"
He was as full of life as a twelve-year-old on his way to Luna Park. I snorted.
"You done a pretty good job on those boots, soldier-boy. Must say, I never expected to see `em come up that good." And sure as shit, they sparkle-arkle-arkled on his silly big feet in the well.
"How much sleep have you had these last few days?"
"Heaps!"
"What have you eaten today?"
He told me.
"Jesus!"
It was raining hard. The Friday-night traffic leaving the city for the weekend was all clagged up, but once we hit the freeway, things started to move.
"Yer balls better be fulla jizz, boy. When did yer blow yer last load?"
"Um, this morning."
"Was that with yer little boyfriend? What's his name?"
"Mark. Yeah. I fucked him and then he did a..."
"Spare me the details, kid. Where does he think yer goin' this time?"
"On a camping trip with the dance company."
"Fuck. That boyfriend of yours must be one dumb-ass punk. Fancy believin' that."
The rural roads were dark, and the rain was driving harder than hell. Turning off onto Mike's dirt track, the headlights hardly picked-out the entrance in the blizzard outside. It was time to start the fun, and as he was out there messin' around with the gate, another set of headlights lit-up, facing us from the other side, so the kid was illuminated between two sets of beams.
Now, this was the first surprise I'd planned for the kid. It was Mike's old Chrysler, and inside, no doubt, were three pairs of eyes: Doc' Davidson's, Mike's, and Mike's nephew Tarquin's – although I didn't know why the fuck Mike brought his nephew. Something about getting him away from book-readin' and study, he said.
The kid stood momentarily startled in the lights, then I got on the loudspeaker.
"STRIP!!!"
My voice in the horn was a shocking detonation of offensive noise, even in the hammering rain. Out there in the blur, the distorted figure slapped off his soaked clothes. Sheets and torrents whistled in the wind, the down-pouring barrage visible in the lights.
"Shit!" I said as I climbed from the cabin into the back. I was fully rugged-up in foul-weather gear, but freezing water was trickling into my collar within moments. I started throwing gear from the tray into the mud:
An Army backpack: 60kg – loaded with water-bottles, sealed ration-packs, a fold-up shovel, and bricks. It landed with a great splash in the potholed road.
A Canvas webbing belt.
An old, steel, US Army helmet with webbing straps.
A great pile of camouflage.
A sandbag.
Not so chirpy now, huh, kid?
He struggled manfully. He had his boots back on, full of water and sloshing in the mire. The helmet stood high on his head. It would keep a man's neck erect and his chin up if he wanted to balance it and keep it from falling off. Back inside the cabin, I helped him along with sharp gee-ups from the mike and speaker.
"STRAP UP THAT HELMET ON YER BONCE, FUCKBAG! CINCH IT UP TIGHT!"
The wide canvas straps wrapped each side of his ears, fore and aft, and went under his chin.
"TIGHTEN THE WEBBING AROUND YER WAIST, SHIT-FER-BRAINS! TIGHTER!"
He had to re-do the adjustments on the brass buckles to make it fit tight on his slippery, narrow little waist. And by the fuck, he looked stupid in nothin' but big boots, big helmet, an' that wide webbing strap around his small midriff.
"CAMOUFLAGE THE PACK AND THE HELMET!"
The sodden netting was draped on his head like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. When he stood with the pack, he staggered, his feet splashing in the mud as he found his balance.
"GET THAT SANDBAG ABOVE YER HEAD, PUNK, AND RUN"
Nine miles. Mike's rear wheels spun after his car had been turned around, spraying the soldier-boy with a stinging scatter of filth.
"MOVE IT, FUCKBAG! GET THOSE ARMS STRAIGHT UP AN' GET THAT SCHLONG SWINGIN'!"
Nine miles. The pack on the loaded boy rode high – above the helmet, and above that, the sandbag on raised arms. And underneath in the wet glimmer of my headlights I could see that struggling, smooth little bare backside, splashed with kicked-up mud. Mike's brake-lights were just melting pink spots in the darkness ahead.
"Shit!" I said at the weather as my wipers squeaked across the glass. "Hardly see a fuckin' thing! Keep rollin', kid!"
The splashing, struggling figure in my lights was a miserably soaked column of sandbag-held-aloft – backpack in ragged camouflage – pumpin' strainin' ass – and courageously striving bare legs. Lightning flashed and for an instant and I could see a blurry vision in Mike's rear window – two faces peering out.
Brrrr! I cranked up my heater and reached for my flask of brandy. Shi-it! This weather was somethin' else!
The kid stumbled and fell flat.
"GET YER FUCKIN' ASS UP AN' GET MOVIN YER USELESS SHITBAG!!!"
Even through the whipping, driving rain and darkness, I could easily sense that kid's determination. He didn't look back at me as he fought onto his feet again with the 60kg pack. With an agonising effort, he heaved the sandbag back over his head and made exhausted steps.
"TRIPLE-MARCH, PUNK-BOY! HUP! HUP! HUP!"
My honking voice in the speaker was the only thing he had to boost him, and he used it. I urged him when he slowed and hooted with a bull's roar when his elbows bent under the weight of the sandbag. For nine miles.
It was slow and painful. Whenever the sandbag was dropped, Mike spun his wheels in impatience, sending showers of flinging mud. When the kid slipped and fell, I barked curses into the microphone. I think it took about ninety minutes to reach the paddock on the right – the one which had been mowed in the previous chapter.
The kid outside was a big, shaggy Frankenstein, top-heavy with pack and camo-nets, and covered – completely covered from tip-top to toe in thick mud. But even so, his splattered face with white eyes and gasping, open mouth was a vision of obvious agony and horror.
I was dead sick of sittin' in this truck and I wanted to get inside Mike's farmhouse, get a fire goin' and get stuck into a few brandies – and no doubt the others did too. My orders came sharp and zealous from the speaker. I made him unshoulder the pack and open up some ration biscuits. He ate `em soggy from his cupped hands – swigged some water – and then I had him clamberin' over the fence with his full load – including sandbag.
"GET DUG INTO A FOXHOLE, FUCKBAG! BY MIDNIGHT!"
Not knowing or really carin' if he knew what I was talking about, I gunned up to the house in the truck. Shit and corruption! Let's get inside out of this fucking rain!
Mike whistled. "Woo-wee! You bagged a tough little nugget with this one, Rod! Christ! What a night! Rod, you know Doc', of course."
"Hi Doc'."
"And this is my nephew, Tarquin."
"Hi Tarquin."
I really didn't know what to make of young Tarquin. He looked like a sweet kid, not out of high-school. Once again I wondered why he was here. Quite understandably, he looked shocked at what he'd seen so far. Ha! Welcome to the farm, kidlet!
"Hey Mike," I said. "You got any firewood in this shithole?"
We rubbed our hands and got warm. Doc' had some whisky. Mike had some fuel, and soon we had a nice little cosy pot-belly stove goin'. Great! Except who the fuck was going to go out there an' check on the kid at midnight?
We swigged a few whiskies and Mike got some sausages goin' on the stove. Kidlet Tarquin had a beer and didn't say much.
"Hey, Doc'," I said. "I need that kid run ragged this weekend. But I'm gonna hafta get you to take over sometimes. He can't get any rest."
"I'm sure we can keep him occupied," the Doc' said.
Kind of joking, I said "You bring your cattle-prod?"
"The prod's very useful for keeping a man on his toes," said the Doc'. "I have it in the car, all charged-up."
"You're not going to hurt him with a cattle-prod?" said Young Tarquin in surprise. We looked at him. The rain hammered on the tin roof.
"Don't worry, kidlet," I said. "A few zaps with the prod won't hurt a sturdy young buck like that. Just keep him alert, won't it, Doc'?"
"He'll feel it once, and strive not to feel it again," the Doc' said.
The cold and rain had made me shitty and annoyed, and my cavalier talk belied a slight twinge of concern I felt for that kid out there, naked and diggin' a foxhole in that weather. Mike talked of some of the crap around the place he wanted to check up on, and the Doc' spoke of the local floodplains, but I had the brave Bang Hyu in the back of my mind. And so did Tarquin, I'm sure. He stayed silent with a crease of disquiet between his eyebrows and sipped his can o' beer.
At midnight I slapped my thigh. "Well, I better get the truck and go down there and see how the kid's makin' out with the shovel."
"I'll go," the Doc' said. "I'll see that he's suitably busy for the rest of the night. You get to bed now and you can run the show tomorrow."
"No. He's my kid," I said. "You can have him sometime tomorrow."
"This rain just won't let up," said Mike.
"You go and check on him, Rod" Tarquin said. "And I'll come too."
"I'll come too," said Mike.
"Oh fuck it! We'll all go!"
We took Mike's Chrysler. The wind nearly snapped my ears off as we made our way out to the car, and the rain was a driving deluge of sharp needles.
"We picked a great weekend to do this shit!" Mike yelled over the whistling torrents as we ran and dived into the vehicle – Mike and me in the front, the Doc' and the kidlet in the back. Down on the road near the fence-line, we couldn't see anything, even with the headlights, and our combined breath had fogged up the windows.
"Well, it looks like we'll have to get out."
We had jackets, boots, raincoats, umbrellas, and flashlights. The foxhole was dug neck-deep by now and full of water. Mud and shit was flying from the crappy little fold-up shovel and slip-sloppin' into a nearby pile of sludge. Two wide, white eyes raked up at us from our feet where the kid stood buried in that little pit full o' muck.
"Fuck it, kid! Yer haven't dug in yet an' yer haven't got yer fuckin' helmet on!" I yelled.
"Pack-drill him again," the Doc' said to me, his voice quiet but edged, and somehow clear in the blasting rain.
"Get outa that fuckin' hole, soldier!" I yelled.
Looking like a monster from the grave, the kid struggled in the mud.
"Get yer fuckin' kit!"
He sobbed as he wound the canvas straps of the pack around his shoulders.
"Hey, boy! You said you were gonna enjoy this! You enjoyin' it boy?"
"SIR! YES! SIR!"
"Nine miles to the gate! Nine miles back again! Hup yer ass an' swing yer cock! Hippity-hop, boy! Jus' pretend yer wagglin' yer ass in one o' yer doof-doof nightclubs!"
"Do you want me to drop you back at the house?" I said to the others when we were back in the car. I was driving.
"Might be a good idea," Mike said.
"Hey, boy!" I yelled from the window. "We gotta get young Tarquin here into some nice warm sheets where he can go beddy-byes. When I catch-up with you in the car, you gotta be halfway down the track! Move fast, boy! We won't be long!"
His mouth formed a silent `O' of awful dismay as tears and rain streamed on his face. Water ran in his open armpits as he held aloft the sandbag. He heaved it up, locked his elbows, and took slogging steps in the mud.
"You ever seen muscles like that in a guy's ass?" Mike said. "I ain't never seen a guy's ass with muscles going like that!"
"I told you about ballet-dancers!" I said.
"He's going to have to polish those boots again," said Doc'.
"What's his name?" Tarquin said, a barely discernable tremor of distress in his voice. "I don't want to go to bed until he's back from his run!"
"Sorry, kidlet," I said. "That buck's under hard trainin'. Whaddaya think of his cock?"
"I think it horribly cruel you keeping him naked," the kidlet said.
"Recruits under punishment don't have clothes in my division. Hey Mike, where did this kidlet grow up? He sounds like a little ponce. What is he?"
"Tarquin was brought up on the North Shore," Mike said.
"That explains it. The little ponce!"
"I don't appreciate you speaking that way about me!" said the little kidlet ponce, his voice sharpening.
"Jesus!"
Then Doc' Davidson cut in. "I have an idea. Young Tarquin here obviously hasn't learnt to respect his elders, despite his North Shore upbringing..."
"Hang on," Mike said. "Tarq isn't here for your games. No one's touching him..."
"I'm not suggesting anything like that at all," Doc' continued. "Every time young Tarquin speaks out of turn, the recruit-soldier can be punished instead."
"I gave him a floggin' last time," I said. "The kid's ass was cut to pieces. I ain't doin' it again."
"There are other punishments," said the Doc'.
"I don't like this at all!" Tarquin said.
"Shit!" I said as I pulled up to the farmhouse. "You guys are fuckin' weird! I'm just tryin' to train my kid up, hard soldier style. He's pack-drillin' right now and I gotta drive out there and check on him! Get out here if yer getting' out."
"I'm coming with you in the car!" the kidlet said.
"No yer not! Get the fuck inside!"
"Come on Tarq," Mike said. "Come inside and go to bed."
Mike took the sulky kidlet inside, and then it was just me and Doc' Davidson in the Chrysler with the rain hammering down. I drove carefully and slowly along the drenched dirt road in the pitch black, cautiously following the wheel-ruts and finding my way with the headlights. We found the kid stumble/walking/falling with the sandbag cradled in his arms.
"I thought you told him to `hippity-hop'," Doc' said. Oh shit, I thought, and Doc' an' me got out with an umbrella and a flashlight, and let me tell you, guys – remember me sayin' that Doc' Davidson gave me the heebie-jeebies? Well now you're gonna read about it.
"I know how to get him hippity-hopping," the Doc' said. It didn't take much to fell the kid over – just the sole of a boot planted on his tight, pulsing little backside. He went down like a sack o' shit, top-heavy as he was with that mountainous pack. He lay in the mud propped up against it on his back, and there was a glint of chrome-silver in the night as the Doc' pulled out a long, small-link chain. A single thumb-cuff was snapped around the kid's scrotum, above his balls. Tight.
"No!" he gasped in pain as the other end was looped and locked on the tow-ball of the car. The chain was about twenty feet long.
"Better get on yer feet, kid," I said.
"No!!!" he wheezed, exhausted, struggling to get the pack out of the mud with both hands gripping the chain running to his balls.
"Pick up that sandbag."
The tires slipped and spun. Doc' drove, pressing the accelerator and surging the motor gently. I took a belt of brandy in the front seat and turned, shining a powerful, handheld spotlight through the back window.
C'mon kid!
The twenty foot chain snapped and flicked in the mud, turning and swinging. The car lurched, fast then slow, as the Doc' sadistically drew the ball-chained man onwards. I could see the light blinding him, so I aimed it away slightly.
C'mon kid!
Guys, it was a hell of a thing, seein' that kid straining and suffering on the end of that ball-chain with a 60kg pack. Fuck knows what he thought of his surprise meeting with Doc' Davidson, but that cold stainless-steel which clicked around his scrotum must surely have distilled his thinking clearly. His face through the mud and rain was a huffing, blowing visage of hard concentration. He strained – really strained - his eyes white with alarm as the clinking fetter dragged and jerked him on. And on.
At the gate, after nine miles, he stood with his boot-shod feet planted wide apart, his arms high with the sandbag, and the helmet and pack weighing him into shin-deep sludge. His face in the headlights burned with passion, anger, and determination.
"That's a vital erection," the Doc' said as he took a belt from my brandy-flask in the front seat of the car. The kid's prominent meat was upright and pole-hard, shining solidly in the lights above the shackled nuts pulled low by the weight of the chain. I rolled the window down and winced at the stinging rain.
"Hey kid! How yer doin'?"
His voice rasped with effort and exhaustion.
"SIR! Thank you for allowing me to comment, SIR! And for giving me instruction SIR! If Sir has any more requests of this soldier, Sir, I am sure he will make them known and will be pleased, perhaps, to know that the soldier is willing to comply! I hope this soldier complies with your preferences and demands, SIR!"
Well fuck me!
Doc' Davidson's foot was impatient on the accelerator, all the way back to the farmhouse.
End of Part 3 Chapter 1
rod.storme@yahoo.com