Copyright 2011 by the author
dark_entries01@yahoo.com
The story contains gay sex and is for adults only.
Comments welcome.
HELLFIRE BOOTCAMP part 4
Eight men remained, but they had to do the work of twenty. The lucky ones tensioned wire fences in the field. Less lucky were the post-hole diggers. The really punishing labour, though, was moving stones. Brett filled a wooden crate with them from the field and then heaved the crate onto his back with leather straps and triple-marched with it to the crazy army-style garden where he painted the stupid stones white and arranged them around the rockery. Then back to the field. Day to night, everything was a blur of fatigue.
Dennis's visit had made things worse. Brett was beaten for being naked. He found a rag and tied it around himself for modesty, hoiking it high into his crack so it wouldn't chafe his whip-striped ass. He was beaten for "misappropriating" Army property. He painted rocks and was kicked for not painting the parade-ground. He painted the parade-ground and was pack-drilled for not polishing floors. As he bore the pack around the tarmac, his steel-shod boots chipped the fresh, white paint, so he went around again with the old, worn brush and the paint-tin.
At night, the eight men hoped desperately for sleep. Between the hours of 1:00am and 4:00am they took turns on a single, narrow pallet of wooden boards. There was a twenty-bed dormitory, but that was for polishing and inspections only.
For a while, Sergeant Dennis Judd seethed. Well, if that squish-headed punk wants to stay at Camp Hellfire, he thought, fuck it. He had his chance. But the memory of his dumb buck trussed-up in an Army-Navy compliance rig, whipped, and forced to strict obedience made him wince. There were other memories too. The big, slim-hipped kid had first caught his eye a few days after arrival at Camp Helga. Interested, Dennis had issued the soldier a kitmuster to check him out. While the rest of the division was off-base one Sunday, Recruit Buckfield had stood to attention on the line beside his bunk, with his kit laid for inspection. Sergeant Dennis Judd had looked into those big dopey eyes.
"How's Camp Helga makin' out for ya, kid?" he asked.
"Fine, Sarge."
"Had your ass pounded by the Engineer Corps yet?" There was a moment of shock, then a girly giggle.
"No Sarge!"
"Well, watch out for those guys. Fags the lot of `em. Sucked much cock yet?" There was another little chortle.
"No Sarge!"
"Hey kid, do you know how to tell when another soldier is trying to suss you for a fag?" The kid leant his head to one side, like a puzzled puppy-dog.
"No Sarge."
"Well, that's what I'm tryin' to show ya, dumb-ass."
A dopey wisp of hair floated upwards from the crown of the glossy black pelt on the kid's head.
"Hey kid. Where's your number nine rig? It's not mustered."
The eyes widened and the lower lip pouted with barely perceptible slack. "But Sarge! I'm wearing it, Sarge!"
"Well, well. Now that be so," Dennis said with a jokey smile. "Strip."
Again, a moment of surprise and wonderment.
"I said strip!"
The barracks were quiet, emptied of the usual clamour of men. The only sound now was the clatter of the sole soldier's boots on the floor – the rustle of his uniform as it came off. Dennis expected to have to repeat the order, but no. The kid's jocks flew off with a neat little wiggle of the hips and the Recruit stood buck-naked in bare feet, with a blank, expectant expression on his face.
Alright! Dennis saw the whip-slim body for the first time. The kid was toned, all muscle, but not a great big bull – rather a prize greyhound.
"That's not the biggest cock in the Army, son, but congratulations anyway. Well above average. What is it with you skinny fucks?"
The kid looked down to inspect his own organ, as if he'd never looked down there before. The stupid lollipop haircut flopped like a potted palm being carried.
"Get to attention, boy!!! Get on that fuckin' line!!!"
The kid jumped and snapped into position, the fine, torpedo-shaped schlong swinging.
"Buckfield, eh?" Dennis read the nametags on the soldier's kit. "You're a pretty young soldier, young Buck. And none of the guys in the barracks have plonked you yet? Hard to believe." He gave the kid's penis a friendly flick with two fingers, setting it swinging again.
"Back home the girls said I had the purtiest little ass in seven counties, Sarge. I bet a shitload of Army faggots would like to..."
"Stop talking shit, boy."
"Aye aye, Sarge." Dennis had the kid sussed. Any guy that mentions his own ass... Well...
"And you can call me Sir."
...
"Well?"
"Aye aye, Sir!"
"That's better."
Dennis's fingers now reached for the small metal tag ringed through the boy's left nipple.
"Demerit points," he said. "That's how you get yourself pilloried here at Camp Helga. Twenty demerit points – that's the pillory. Forty – then it's off to Punishment Division. You got twelve to go, boy. What, are you some kind of fuckup?"
He gently kneaded the nipple between thumb and forefinger, feeling it harden. The Recruit breathed in, long and slow, as his schlong stiffened, rose, and slapped into the flat, rippled tummy. Now, Dennis gently held the up-bending organ between his thumb and two fingers, testing the firmness and letting it twang like a bass-string as he let it go. Then, he pushed on the boy's chest, making him step backwards. The kid went back against his bunk, and Dennis pushed him hard, sprawling, onto his laid kitmuster.
"Now, let's check out that ass, young Buck! Show it to me! Spread!"
The only sounds in the long, empty, echoing barracks were the squeaking bedsprings, which bounced with a fast regularity – and heavy, guttural breathing. There was the occasional grunt too. Buckfield's ass was warm and tight, and just as the Sergeant was beginning to zone to the ecstasy of that enveloping hole, the kid started with his girl-squawks.
"Ah...! Ah...! Ah...! Ah...! Ah...! Ah...!"
"Shutup, kid!"
"Oh...! Ah...! Oh...! Ah...!" Now, it was higher pitched.
"Jesus! Someone will hear us!"
"Omigod...! Ah...! Ah...!..."
"Jesus...!"
The rising calls and trills, delivered from a wide, rubbery mouth and a delicate larynx became a fixture of the regular trysts between the Sergeant and the boy – an annoying one. They agitated the air in the base store-rooms, echoed in the open, hard-floored barracks, and sometimes disturbed the wildlife in the trees surrounding the training-grounds. But Dennis could never resist the supple warmth of this young soldier's responsive body. And there was something else. As they became familiar, he learned the kid's first name – Brett – and began to think of him as he languished at his Sergeant's desk in the Gunnery School.
"Meet me behind the warehouses for gunnery-practice, Recruit."
"Aye aye, Sir."
Dennis found a way to keep those bothersome bird-calls emanating from that big, sloppy mouth, and that was to fill it.
"This ought to shut you up, choirboy!"
Dennis unzipped and poured forth his tumbling meat.
"Suck it up, punk-boy! Get yer slurpy lips around that!"
There was the usual moment of wide-eyed surprise. Yes, the Sergeant was big - and then a fluttering tongue extended carefully, feeling the fleshy tip and then lifting the wholesome meat as if testing its weight. Recruit Buckfield – Brett – knelt in the grass behind the abandoned warehouse.
"Get yer hands behind yer head!"
The boy obeyed.
"Get yer elbows back! Straighten yer back!"
The mouth was big and wet, and the rolling tongue was adroit in its skilful flicks and probings. Fucking-doodle-shit! Who taught the kid?! It started with quick taps and brushes on the swollen head, and finished with long, hard sucking. Dennis was unbelievably satisfied. He arched his neck back and squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and hissing to the treetops.
This was the boy he had sent to the punishment division. Was he crazy? But the ongoing and secret affiliation with the Sergeant had made the young punk want to step out of his boots. Demerit points accumulated, and before long there was the real risk associated with the boy's indiscreet babbling and high-horse behaviour. He thought he was becoming untouchable. Young Buckfield's nip-tag was stamped by Corporal Clegg when he was five seconds late getting out of bed. Sergeant Judd himself stamped it again for "unwarranted chattering" during field-drill. And then, the dangling little piece of tin was punched a total of five times when the little shit-bag had answered back to Lieutenant Morrison. Now, the soldier was looking at a stretch in the pillory in the gatehouse yard. Sergeant Judd's influence was becoming known – mentioned, even. At least one career was at stake.
Nevertheless, the liaisons continued. Dennis couldn't help himself. More than the sex, he was – and he hated to admit this – falling head-over-tit for the doe-eyed little scrag-bag with the upturned nose and the moppy hair.
"Get a fuckin' haircut, punker-boy, before that last demerit point sees you pinned in the pillory!" he said. But the dumb-shit ignored the order and, a couple of days later, Sergeant Dennis Judd was passing the gatehouse compound when he saw the unfortunate outcome. Recruit Brett Buckfield writhed in the yokes, affixed by wrist, ankle, and neck. One heavy wooden ankle yoke kept his legs stretched well apart and his feet a yard off the ground. The top-piece kept his neck and wrists immobilised. Both were supported between posts, locked closed, the key held by the Chief Discipline Officer. The svelte, narrow form of the youth twisted and wriggled in the open compound, sweating and supporting his weight, writhing nakedly. Hugely and obscenely evident was a thick erection, curving and throbbing – a glistening pole of meat, the size and shape of a big banana.
"Cock-a-fuckin'-doodle-shit!" the Sergeant said as he approached. "What the fuck...?"
"Sarge! I demerited because my hair was too long, Sarge! Lieutenant Herber sent me to the pillory!"
"I can see that, punk! What the fuck did I tell you about your hair?! I don't know whether to laugh or cry!"
"I got twelve hours, Sarge! That's what the CDO said!"
"That means twenty-four, boy. You think the CDO's going to come out here at nine-o'clock at night to let you out? Cock-a-doodle-shit! You know how silly you look up there? Stretched out like a rabbit-skin? With that great big boner? Can't you keep that thing down at a time like this?"
"Aw Sarge! It's tough work on this thing! I'll never do it again!"
"Christ! What a fuck-up!" Exasperated, Dennis was about to turn away.
"Sar-aarge?"
"What?"
"Can you stroke me off?"
"Are you fuckin' nuts!!!?"
"I need strokin' off, Sarge! I had you off plenty of times! Please Sarge! I can't go twenty-four hours without blowing! Please Sarge?! Please!?"
"You horny little whiny-ass cry-baby!" The huffing Sergeant strode off, refusing to look back to the pitifully crying soldier-boy in the pillory.
"Sarge!!! Fuck!!!" Brett kicked against the yoke – or tried to – but only succeeded in twisting and turning. He grunted and struggled to no avail. There was always pedestrian and vehicular traffic at the gatehouse, and over a twenty-four hour period, most people at the base would pass, and everybody would want to see whoever the dumb fuck-up was who managed to get himself pilloried for infractions.
A fine, naked young stud with a tight, narrow ass, fastened securely, was tough not to pass up, and in the early hours of the morn, they came to use the prime slab of meat in the pillory. They remained voiceless, except for the close, animal grunting in Brett's ear. He would never know who they were, but they stood on a stool behind him and each forced their rude entry. They were fast and desperate, and as Brett was fucked with abandon, he piped his trademark canary-cries and shot white, looping ribbons of come high into the night air.
That was all before Brett's shipment to Hellfire Bootcamp.
dark_entries01@yahoo.com