Copyright 2013 by the author. Not for distribution without permission.
The story is for ADULTS ONLY. Gay erotica, bondage, and discipline.
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thobymusgrave@yahoo.com
PUNK DRILLED INTO SHAPE BY MILITARY HELL SERGEANT!!!
A Romance of Hard-Ass Discipline!!!
Thoby Musgrave
Chapter 1
The boy stood at military inspection-posture. The big buck lad kept perfectly still, feet at regulation distance – twenty-inches apart – fingers laced at the back of his buzz-cut skull, armpits opened and elbows forced well back. He didn't need any poking and flicking with the riding-swizzle anymore to maintain that disciplined stance. The gut was sucked in and the buttocks were clenched and lifted, and there would be no movement until a command was barked. Then he would jump – instantly.
The big, steel studs on the soles of his boots rested on the concrete stand. The slightest movement would produce the scaping sound which signalled his disobedience. The black, mirror-gloss toes were exactly on a painted yellow line – not in front, not behind. Those boots had been spit-shined lovingly at the expense of many hours of sleep, for only a deep and blemish-free lustre was acceptable. They were laced tightly without socks, and as well as the long devotion to their appearance, they had been worn-in to fitness by miles and miles of drill-practice.
Also drilled to spring-loaded, lean efficiency were the long, graceful bare legs which rose with handsome polish to small lace-up shorts of blue and white canvas. The poised muscles in the thighs were lifted, tensed, and flared – trained not to twitch by the snapping riding-crop. The delicate networks of plaited notches and lines in those hard-exercised thighs were etched like bags of snakes.
The tiny, ultra-short shorts were bound tightly about an impossibly narrow loin. They were brightly colored – blue at the hips and criss-cross laced tightly over the white canvas front-packet with blue cord. The slimline sides were one inch, and they scalloped forward to the restrained, tightly held bulge. Behind, they gripped a backside no wider than the span of a man's hand and sought the rearward crack with their small, hugging fit.
The waistband was low enough to verge on the indecent, wrapped just below the hip-bones, and any cheekily peeking tuft of hair had been zipped off with electric cutters. The bare skin of the belly was a field of neat tummy-muscles arrayed about a lively navel, rising and falling with quick little flutters.
A blue canvas vest was laced at the front. It was sleeveless and short, lifted with the upraised arms and exposing the belly. The boy's torso made a narrow, streamlined `V,' and under the vest, pert, upright breasts could be discerned.
The postured buck was eighteen, and muscled for speed like a racehorse. His longish neck rose to a chin which was diligently raised, and which had been lifted so many times by the flicking end of the riding-crop that it now adopted its elevated stance automatically. The wide, expressive mouth was turned down at the corners with charming, serious intent. The nostrils of the little, turned-up pixie-nose flared, and deep in the mud-pie brown eyes there were shining sparks, raised upwards to a fixed point well above the horizon. There was even a little furrow of concern between the eyebrows - genuine concern that the inspection-muster would not be met with that dreaded 'F' word - "FAIL"
Cocked forward on the skull was a chinstrapped British sailor's cap, for the lad had not recently been subject to the modern fashions, and his kit reflected the choices of a traditionalist enterprise not concerned with current vogue. Thusly, the boy would stand for an hour at inspection-posture in his pretty, blue-white rig, not thinking of moving but nonetheless ready to fly instantly if so ordered. If it rained, he would remain with his head raised to the clouds. If footsteps approached, his eyes would stay fixed on the chimney-pot on the roof of the Quartermaster's Hut.
That chimney showed wisps of white smoke, for inside Sergeant Jake O'Rourke was warming the room with a little fire. It was six o'clock in the morning of a winter's Sunday, and the chill could be felt in the wooden hut despite his woollen uniform. Hopefully, the punk would pass inspection. It was the day-off and the kid was supposed to spend it scrubbing the barrack and maintaining his kit – not being supervised on punishment-routine. Jake didn't need or want to spend his Sunday shouting obscenities on the drilling-track.
Bobby Ryker gave a short whoop of cruel joy as an empty beer-bottle flew from his hand and smashed in the narrow, inner-city residential street.
"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed his pal Darren. It was seven a.m., and the two of them were still quite drunk. Cell Block-H had been pumping with raucous music and sweaty men the night previously, and the lads were on their way home - supposedly - with some half-witted little detours. This street seemed like a nice, quiet place to disrupt. They were in their sticky nightclub clothes – lurid and somewhat ridiculous in the stark light of day. Darren wore tight, bum-hugging jeans and a fluorescent green t-shirt, but Bobby was more conspicuously attired – or not. Dinky little Lycra shorts were the extent of his modesty, along with cute leather wristbands and a collar purchased at a shop called The Shed. His matching t-shirt had been lost on the wet, crowded floor of the toilet at Cell Block-H while he'd sucked the come out of some big, beefy bear-guy.
Bobby Ryker was quite proud of his slurpy sucking ability and the dizzying effect it had on those so-called hard-men of the leather pursuits. Some were attracted by his pretty good-looks, and others regarded him with askance, sceptical of his truly belonging in a scene such as the Cell Block. But whomsoever he tasted became wide-eyed with amazement at the adroitness and skill of his rough little tongue.
"Hmmm," he wondered to himself. "Now was I go-go dancing on the pedestal last night? I can't remember. Or was it the night before? I'm far and away the best dancer who's ever gone into Cell Block-H! Someone should have come up to me and said `hey you. I've seen you dance before. Get up on that pedestal and show us your moves!'"
"Hey! Darren!" he shouted down the street to his friend. "Was I shakin' my booty on the stage?"
"What? Don't you remember?" Darren shouted back. "Do you remember sucking that guy's cock in the toilets?" Darren was kicking a rolling, clinking bottle along the road. Somewhere nearby, a window slammed.
"Whew," Bobby thought to himself. "I think my shorts smell like cigar-smoke. No, wait. It's my hair."
It was orange hair – longish and floppy and cut in a lollipop bob. The sweaty boy began to consider the prospect of a nice hot shower and then, perhaps, curling up with Darren in a warm embrace beneath some clean sheets.
Parked at the curb was a big old-model blue Chevy truck. Bobby grasped the long black CB aerial and yanked it, flexing it down and letting it fly back up again with a swish, watching it wave in the air. Then he worked it, bending it at the base and finally snapping it off with a crack. He went running after Darren, waving the ten-foot pole and pretending to smack his friend on the backside with the flexing whip.
"Hey! Yow! Stop it!" Darren laughed, but in moments, their shouts of juvenile delight were stilled by a blipping patrol-car. Bobby was arrested by three cops in visor helmets. They came quickly from the car and slammed him to the ground. While Darren ran away, Bobby was handcuffed at his shoulder-blades, one arm over his head and bent down to his other wrist which reached up from behind. With his limbs thus twisted and restrained, he danced and protested as his ankle was cuffed to a handy signpost. His meagre Lycra shorts were snipped off in the pretext of a strip-search.
"Oh me oh my," Bobby thought as he jangled in his stainless-steel restraints. "This reminds me of the time I responded to an ad in The Kraken."
His cock flopped forward in its natural, bowed state as the cops searched for his wallet and ID. They found them in his left boot. Bobby just caught sight of a group of laughing kids across the street before a stun-gun turned his world into a blue, blinding flash. He tasted the asphalt with his face and lips before he was hauled to his feet again, his arms still stretched and his wrists locked at his back behind his neck. His head swam.
"Nice cock!" It was one of the kids nearby. Bobby heard the cops talking about the CB aerial he'd "stolen," and he managed a smart-ass; "You guys will make detective in no time!"
The tazer hit him again, in the buttocks, and he was out. He remembered the cold, ridged metal floor of the rear tray of a police wagon – the sliding and bashing as it took corners. His arms remained twisted at the elbows and locked, useless, at his shoulder blades.
In the dizzy turmoil, Bobby thought of the damn fucking expensive little Lycra shorts that had been ruined, and the damn fucking expensive t-shirt he'd lost at Cell Block-H. He laughed.
"It's a damn fucking strange world," he thought. "Now I'm bare-ass naked in the back of a paddy-van. I know guys who would pay money for this!" Presently, the rear-doors were opened.
They kept him delirious with another kick from the electric prod. At the third stun, it induced nightmares. He saw the big, blue spark and actually smelled the burnt, ionised air after the horrid, sizzling CRACK.
Slack-jawed and with vacant, uncomprehending eyes, Bobby was dragged for a block to the station, the toes of his boots dragging on the sidewalk. He saw the early-morning shoppers as they paused, and he wondered vaguely what they were looking at.
"Public indecency," he heard someone say.
"Arrested for the orange hair? Ha ha ha ha!"
"Look at the wang on it! Fuck, that's a big cock!"
He was awoken somewhat when he was slammed across a hard wooden table. His feet were kicked wide apart and the rubber of a condom was snapped right near his ear.
"Time for searchy-searchy in the punk-boy's cavity!" he heard as the sheathed finger was waved an inch from his face. "Whadda we gonna find down there, punk-boy? Ain't that where you faggots keep your ecstasy pills?"
In his spinning head, Bobby remembered the face of a grinning young Constable who had lifted his visor at the site of his arrest. For some reason he guessed or knew or decided to believe that the grinning Constable owned the finger that now explored his hole. It forced, wriggled, and squirmed and found his prostate. It kneaded and flicked and tweaked that magic button, and Bobby's head spun anew.
He heard himself panting, then squeaking.
"...Ah! ...Ah! ...Ah! ...Ah! ...Ah! ...Ah!" he trilled in delicate birdsong.
"Hahahahahaha! You should get a job in the choir, faggot-boy!"
"...Ah! ...Ah! ...Ah! ..."
Bobby's cock sprung to steel-hard fullness, and wedged painfully against the table over which he was bent. The inner bulb of his prostate was massaged with dexterity, then pressed like a crosswalk button – multiple times, fast and rudely.
"AHaHaHaHaHaHaHa...!" Now, Bobby's voice was a staccato warble, hitting high, sweet notes and dropping to baritone vibrations alternately in fast quavers and tremors. Around him, there was laughing. He saw spots. There was a warm flush within his loin, and he came under the table with powerful, gushing energy. The thick, hot fluid pissed in a continual stream, joining the individual thrusts of his pumping organ with a constant, vigorous flow as he bucked desperately, thumping against the table.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!" he wailed in misery as the looping stream splashed audibly on the floor. Within seconds, while the whizzing jets of white still came, Bobby was face-planted to the hard linoleum under the table and was licking with a boot at his neck.
He licked assiduously, slurping-up and swallowing the cooling gobbets and strings of his male fluid as the furious shouts rained down from above. Then he was hauled away with his come dripping from his loose, quivering lips. Just outside a cell in a bare, white corridor, he saw the taze-prod again and started struggling and yelping in panic. The prod was applied to his balls and triggered.
The CRACK blinded him. He was falling, his muscles turned to jelly – falling and falling with the effect of the searing jolt felt throughout his body. For how long, he didn't know, but eventually he awoke to the close proximity of a cement floor near his nose. At first, he couldn't feel anything, and nor could he move. Slowly he became aware of the biting handcuffs behind his shoulder blades, and the aching immovability of his twisted arms. He tried to move, and succeeded only in turning his head. The cell was a bare white box with a metal door and a single bulb.
"Well, well, well," he thought. "I guess you haven't lived until you've been arrested for disorderly behaviour!
"Shit, my head hurts. I've got a massive hangover..."
He remembered the bright blue spark of the tazer-prod and rapidly vomited.
"Mr O'Rourke, this is the Police."
"What? What's the matter?"
"We have something that belongs to you."
Jake O'Rourke's mind raced as he gripped the phone.
"What's going on?"
"It's really nothing much to worry about, Mr O'Rourke. A couple of our officers arrested a punk kid who ripped the antenna off your car. They traced you by your licence-plate."
"My truck? What the fuck? Ripped the antenna off? A kid? Why, the little punk-ass motherfucker! Who is it?"
"If you come to the station we can return your antenna and give you access to any details you might be entitled to."
"How old is the little shit?"
"He's technically an adult, Mr O'Rourke."
Outside, Jake O'Rourke inspected his Chevy parked in the street. "Yep. The fuckin' aerial's gone," he said. The Chev was not something which could be classed as Jake's `pride and joy,' but nevertheless he was fond of it. He took it camping quite often when he was on leave from the Army base where he currently fulfilled the role of head Drill-Sergeant. He climbed into the leather driver's seat and the door clunked solidly.
"Well, here's your antenna, Mr O'Rourke," the Constable said at the front counter of the station.
"Yeah, great." Jake took the long, black object and wondered what to do with it. He didn't see how he was going to put it back on again, and reckoned that he'd have to get a new one fitted. "Now where's this little punk that snapped it off?"
"He's not all that little, Mr O'Rourke. We had to tazer him quite a few times."
"Really? Jesus Christ!"
"And he performed quite a disgusting act on the station floor."
"Jesus! He must be a real little anti-social hoodlum! I can't wait to see the fuck!"
"That might not happen, Mr O'Rourke. There are a couple of details we need to discuss. If you let us keep the antenna, we can charge him with theft. If you want to take it with you now, we can charge him with vandalism. In either case, you'll have to fill out a report-form and file it with us so we can submit the charges to the Justice Department..."
"Fuck all that shit... Sorry. I mean; to hell with all that. Just let me see him so I can knock his punk-ass block off."
"You'll be able to see him when he fronts a Magistrate, Mr O'Rourke, and that won't happen for a few months. Right now we keep him confined until we put the paperwork through."
"Then what?"
"Then we let him go with a notice to attend."
"Oh, so you let him go, do you? Well, in a way, that's good. I'll be able to meet up with him and teach him a thing or two..."
Constable Dally rather liked the idea of this gentleman meeting the orange-haired punk in cell-3. The fellow at the counter whose antenna had been busted was enormous – built like brick outhouse and obviously solid muscle. But... and this was the way all things went... there would be no natural justice. The punk's name would be suppressed from the other parties until the hearing, and Mr Jake O'Rourke wouldn't be allowed to know the identity until then. Even if he waited outside the station, there were too many people coming and going for him to be sure he got the right one.
Unless...
"Mr O'Rourke," said Constable Dally. "This young man has been quite a handful, and I'd not recommend anyone involved in an active court-case meet a defendant. It's not supposed to happen. Also, this alleged thief and vandal could be quite dangerous if you came into contact with him, but..."
"But what?"
Constable Dally leant over and whispered. "He has orange hair."
"Right! Thank you!"
The big man slapped the counter with a huge, satisfied palm and moved so fast out the door that the Constable was left holding the unfinished paperwork before he could say anything more. Dally wondered how Jake O'Rourke could move so fast and so fluidly, given that immense size.
The orange-haired punk emerged from the station wearing Police-issue disposable white paper coveralls. Jake moved swiftly from across the street, carrying his broken antenna.
"Right! You!"
"Whaaa...?" said the kid as Jake grabbed him by the collar. What should have been – by rights – a short struggle was terminated when the paper overalls were ripped off completely – to everybody's surprise, including the gaggle of smokers standing around outside the station.
"Oh shit!" said Jake as common-sense descended upon him too late. He had wanted to give the kid a good whuppin', but that was dumb right outside a Police station, and now the punk was butt-naked with his cock flopping around in public. Jake had visions of assault charges.
"Christ, I'm forty years old," he thought. "I should have known better than this. This could fuck me up in the Army."
Still, with an eye for a decent cut of meat, Jake noticed that the kid was a big, healthy buck-stud, with muscles suited for physical-training.
"Come on, punk!" he said as he grabbed a fistful of the kid's stupid orange hair. "We've gotta get outta here."
"Waaah! Shit! What the fuck? Who the fuck are you?" the kid wailed as he was dragged across the street, cock flapping. He shut up when he recognised the big blue Chevy, then he said "Oh shit."
"Get in," said Jake. "Let's get your dumb-ass stupid butt out of public view."
At first there was silence in the truck as Jake drove through the inner-city streets with his nude, orange-haired passenger. Then the punk piped-up.
"Hey Mister. Where you takin' me?"
"I'd like to take you straight to an Army recruitment centre and kick your sorry ass into shape! You might have got me in trouble back there! Don't get skid-marks on the seat!"
"Mind if I beat-off while you drive me around?"
"A smart mouth, eh? Your stupid trap wouldn't be so sassy if I took that aerial to your ass like I intended to!"
"Oh golly!" the kid said. "Now I really do need to beat-off! Sounds like something they put on in Cell Block-H!"
Jake looked over. "You go to Cell Block-H?"
"I was there last night. Don't tell me you go there too?"
"Sometimes," said Jake. "Jesus, kid. So you probably enjoyed your little sojourn in the Police cells. Hope they fucked you hard."
"They're pussies," the kid said. "I only get fucked by real men. Say, Mister. What're you gonna do with me?"
"If I was to do anything with you, punk-boy, the first thing would be to shut-down that mouth of yours and make you show respect. And I mean make you. I don't put up with shit from any young buckeroo, never mind one with orange hair who snaps my aerial. You been skatin' on that pretty-boy face and gotten away with lots. I can tell. A sweet face doesn't count for shit with me."
"Gee Mister! You sound like you're in the Military!"
"Do you want me to knock the horseshit outta you? You're certainly going the right way about it. You won't like me, boy, and you sure as hell won't like my methods. I make a living teaching punk-asses like you fear and respect. You think I'm fulla shit, boy? Just try me out."
Jake heard the kid gulp. "Oh golly," the boy breathed.
thobymusgrave@yahoo.com