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
In the first episode, our hero, the useless street-punker Bobby Ryker was brought into his first contact with the hard-as-hell Sergeant Jake O'Rourke, and public indecency ensued, as you will recall. Now, things must escalate as young Bobby learns that the Sergeant is no ordinary man – and the reader learns that O'Rourke has some rather unusual and potent plans for the hard-bodied punk!
Chapter 2
The guy was big. Huge, in fact, and Bobby briefly wondered whether he'd ever seen him at Cell Block-H. No, he didn't think so. If he had, Bobby would have made a move. He had hard, steely eyes which meant business, and big, meaty fists which gripped the steering-wheel with authority. And the way he spoke! It caused a hot little wire of excitement to ignite in the pit of Bobby's belly. Yes, Bobby sighed to himself, the whole package was damn attractive. But he didn't quite know yet whether he'd been lucky or unlucky to choose this guy's truck to bust the aerial off.
"Mister," Bobby said. "I'm sorry about the aerial. I guess I... I should make it up. I should pay for it I guess."
"Where do you live, boy?" There was that voice again. It demanded an answer.
"Over on Newton Street. With my buddy Darren."
"Is he your boyfriend?"
"Yes. No. I mean maybe. No. Not really."
"What's your name, boy?"
"Bobby Ryker."
"Aren't you worried about having charges laid?"
"Naaaah," Bobby yawned. "The Police. What dicks."
"You been in trouble before?"
"I got a possession rap."
"So you really are a worthless punker!"
"It was possession of a stolen skateboard. And it was when I was fifteen."
"How old are you now?"
"Eighteen."
"That's good for me, boy. Bad for you."
"Why?"
"Because I can't be done for having a naked minor in my car, and you'll face antenna-snapping charges as an adult."
"If I make up to you about the damage I caused, maybe they won't put me in jail," Bobby said.
"You in jail?" said the big guy. "Ha! That would be lovely. A fine young buck like you on the tiles would be everybody's treat."
"I mean it," said Bobby. "I want to make it up."
"What's your job? Where do they let you work with hair like that?"
"I'm a bike courier."
"On a bicycle. That explains the overdeveloped legs. And you go to the gym. I can tell."
"Yep."
"What have you got planned today, boy?"
"Go home and sleep. I've got a hangover and I've been up all night."
"Change of plans, punk. I have some work for you."
"But Mister, I'm beat! And..."
The Chevy had pulled-up to the curb, right where Bobby had first seen it. The guy placed the back of his fist in Bobby's belly, firmly, and with a slap of knuckles on hard muscle. He held it there, making Bobby sit-up.
"A few things to get straight, punk-boy. First: When I tell you something, you don't question me." The voice was cold, hard, and menacing. Those flinty eyes held Bobby's with unflinching beams.
"Second thing: I don't wanna hear your voice unless I ask you something. Understand, punk-ass?"
"Yes, Mister."
"Third: You start calling me `Sir' right now."
"Yes, Sir."
"That's my house. You've got work to do. You'll be pleased to know that your hangover will be sweated out, because it's hard labor. That belly is nice an' tight, and a big, sturdy buck like you should relish using your muscle for something useful."
"But I've got no clothes on..."
"You've got your boots on. That's all you'll need. Now, that's the last time you'll speak out of turn. GET OUT OF MY FUCKING TRUCK AND USE THAT SIDE GATE AND GET YOUR FUCKING ASS IN MY BACKYARD, YOU SHIT-FOR-BRAINS FUCKBAG! MOVE!"
The shouted barrage was at a murderous volume, and it shook the interior of the Chevy's cabin. Bobby dashed instantly, jumping down through the truck's passenger door and wagging his butt as he ran for the gate.
"DIG!"
The order was given as a long-handled shovel was thrown. It speared the grass near Bobby's boots. He dug.
"The dirt goes over there. Make a neat pile. Get on that shovel and swing on it. Use your weight and swing. Work faster. Come on. Speed it up, punk-boy. I'll be watching from the kitchen. No breaks. No slowing-down."
The ground was tough. Bobby had to plant both of his boots on the shovel and use all his weight to get it to penetrate. Clods of earth had to be carried on the spade to the spot which had been indicated, twenty feet away.
He bounced with both feet on the shovel, swung on it and levered out a clod, started to carry it, then...
"RUN!"
He Ran, deposited the earth, ran back, speared for the next load and got both feet on the shovel...
"FASTER!"
Bobby panted – planting, swinging, levering, and running...
"NOT FAST ENOUGH, FUCKBAG! I WANT TWICE YOUR WEIGHT IN DIRT MOVED IN HALF AN HOUR!"
The yelled orders from the kitchen-window soon had him racing. What was the hole for? A fishpond?
A fresh sweat broke out and oiled his naked body in a glistening coat of lustre. Then the dirt joined it and made him wet-brown all over. He paused to wipe his brow and...
"I SAID NO BREAKS, FUCKER! KEEP BOTH HANDS ON THE SHOVEL!"
As his arms began to ache and his breathing became ragged, Bobby stole a glance at the window. The guy had a beer, and Bobby considered the time of day. It was afternoon. He'd been at the Police-station for hours – and the sun was hot and high. At the first hint of slowness, the dude emerged from the house, beer in one hand, the ten-foot black aerial in the other.
"I said I needed twice your weight in dirt. Looks like I'll give you a little helping hand."
The aerial hummed in the air, its lissom flexiness whistling. It was no longer an antenna for a CB. It was a whip.
CRACK!
The sting was shocking. It was a red-hot wire burning Bobby's bare backside as he ran past with a shovel-load.
"Fuck! Shit!"
"Better to save your breath, boy. Now there's no point bein' out here at this wholesome labor unless you're workin' as fast as you can, and I'm gonna teach you that you can work a whole lot faster than you think you can. Understand?"
Bobby moved with frantic speed when he came past the newly-employed, synthetic whip. He sure as hell didn't want to feel it again!
CRACK!
"Understand?"
"YES, SIR, I UNDERSTAND!" Bobby cried. His face was taut with anger and painful effort. Now he couldn't slow down. In fact, he had to work faster. Always within reach of the whip, he was allowed no negligence whatsoever.
The afternoon dragged on, the sun lowering slowly and the monotonous, tiresome work continuing. At some point, Bobby realised that it was the hardest day's work he had ever done in his life. Hours had passed. Sweat blinded him and wet dirt ran in the contours of his muscles, in rivulets, converging in the `V' of his loins and matting his pubic bush. Muddy grease ran in his rear crack, and down his legs where clods collected in his boots.
And throughout, the swishing latex whip-aerial kept him hippity-hop-hopping and leaning desperately on the shovel, dragging rocky chunks from well beneath the grassline.
CRACK!
Regularly, but always with stunning surprise, he was reminded and encouraged by that most effective instrument.
"It seems like a pretty good weapon, boy!" Bobby's overseer said cheerfully. "Would you agree?"
"Yes (suck-exhale)...Sir! (suck-exhale)..." Bobby yelled, breathlessly and angrily. The work had become hellish, and he needed to apply all his concentration to each cycle of thrust-swing-run-throw-run. The hole was no fishpond. Now, late in the afternoon, he had to get fully and bodily into it to continue the excavation. Perhaps it was for a hot-tub. Any falter, any slip, any mis-thrust with the shovel that clanked on a rock instead of finding penetrable earth was answered with the whip on his ass.
And goddammit! It fucking hurt!
Bobby worked, never resting, never being allowed to break his concentration, making that hole bigger and bigger. After the sun went down – after his hair had changed from bright-orange to wet-orange to dull-orange to a matted mess of brown which got in his eyes, he was told "That'll do."
He collapsed in the hole, sprawling naked in the dirt, huffing hard and working his lungs for air.
"Need... a... drink..." he panted. A garden hose played on him, the cold water welcome on his filthy body. It quickly turned the hole into a brown pit of mud in which Bobby wallowed, quaffing at the stream splashing down on top of him and following it with his gulping mouth. He lay in the water, recovering.
"I haven't eaten anything all day," he said, still panting.
"A Soldier learns to tough it in the field, with time to eat or not," the guy said. "That's a pretty shitty foxhole, boy, and you took way too long to do it. Fill it up. Get to work."
"What? No!"
"I said fill it, boy."
"I'm outta here! I don't have to do this!"
"Where you gonna go without clothes, son? Better get that hole filled and you better start now. Because I'm gonna be checking on you after Letterman ends. That means you gotta work at top-speed. None of this pussy-ass fiddling around like you've been doing all afternoon. I'll leave the porch-light on."
Bobby lay in the filthy sludge as the back-door to the house slammed. He could get home. He could manage that, naked and dirty as he was, easy. His cock was hard and he was slick all over with mud. He arched his head back as he thought of the man who had... taken charge of him! He didn't even know his name. His panting became rapid again as his hand did its slippery, stroking work under the muddy water. Then he emerged from the hole like a monster from a lagoon, covered from absolute top to toe with filth, and began to refill it from the pile of dirt.
The kid had a few surprises in him. The lithe little beef-slab hadn't chucked or lost his shit. Just the type of recruit the Army wanted, in fact. And Jesus! What about those reed-slender hips? Seen at a recruiting-office, Jake would say that those hips wouldn't stand up to pack-drill, but having seen the boy's stamina at the shovel, he wasn't nearly as sure.
Jake's lawn had been spoiled, but what the fuck? Maybe he'd put in a tub after all. At the appointed time after Letterman, Jake fetched a field-issue vacuum-sealed ration-pack and quietly slipped outside.
The kid was kneeling with his back to the porch, grasping the upright shovel with his head bowed between his arms as if he were praying to it. His flanks were heaving mightily, expanding and contracting fast, and Jake could hear the vocal, rasping groans as the kid fought for breath.
But by fuck! The hole was filled! The kid had done it! Not bad for a punk-ass motherfucker. There was dirt sprayed around and the big section where the cavity had been was ragged and mounded, but there it was – filled.
Jake threw the ration-pack, hitting the kid on the back. The boy turned and looked at it vacantly as it lay on the dirty grass in the light from the porch.
"Get stuck into your dinner, boy. Water's in the hose."
The boy used the shovel to raise himself and staggered, puffing and panting to the outdoor faucet. He gurgled and guzzled on the nozzle greedily for some time. Then he ripped open the pack, sending energy-bars flying to the dirt. They were consumed while he was on his knees, without comport or table-manners, one being stuffed into that big, chewing gob directly after another. More water. Then more biscuits from the pack.
Then Jake saw that one of his plastic trash-bins was out of place. It was encrusted with dirt. The kid had used it to drag earth from the pile back to the hole. Aha! So that's how he did it.
"Guess what, kid. I'm quite impressed with your performance, but I'm more impressed with your ingenuity. `Improvise, adapt, overcome.' That's what they say in the Army. Just to show you what I think of your dig, I'm going to get you to pull all of that dirt out again, so you'll get another chance to show me a decent foxhole. Whad're think?"
There was no response, just two big, brown doe-eyes in the light from the porch, showing defeat. Then, one weakly uttered word:
"...Now?..."
"Yes, now."
The kid's head dropped.
"And," Jake continued. "Something else. I haven't heard you address me as `Sir' recently, so you'll be using this."
He threw another object. It was a short, fold-up shovel – Army-issue for field use, and significantly harder to use than the full-handled tool. It was really only meant for irrigation channels around a tent, or for shitholes. The kid wouldn't be able to use his weight or leverage with that little hand-tool – just his bare strength.
Now, there was a real reaction. The boy's eyes flashed suddenly to life and his face turned dark. "It's all over," Jake thought. "The punk's gonna run off home and I've got a great big mess in my backyard." But the kid grabbed the little camp-spade and fucked with it until he'd got it open and extended. Then he attacked the dirt, savagely and with angry energy, scraping, pulling, and lifting the earth with his quivering, work-pumped arms.
Bravo! He could have given up if he'd wanted. But no – the determined little punk-ass with shitty hair confronted the challenge as if there were no other choice. The dumb kid had chosen to fight, and anything else but to re-dig that hole would be a surrender.
The boy looked to Jake with his fiery eyes and his snarling mouth while he struggled, digging and running, as if to say; "go get your whip if you want! Either way, I'm digging you another fucking hole!"
Jake said cheerfully "That's the spirit, son! Get that thing dug by morning – and you're supposed to be able to get into a foxhole at least up to your neck. Go deep, not wide. And don't at any time use the other shovel. That would be wilful disobedience."
"Yes, SIR!" the kid spat loudly.
"And by fuck, I bet he does it, too," Jake thought.
It was 1:30 am, but Jake knew that Conway Finn would still be up, drinking rye and watching late-night trash TV. So he phoned.
"Hi Con."
"Jake."
"Con, ever thought about re-opening the Hell-Camp?"
"Can't do it, Jake. You know that. Command issued a warning on all that shit. It's totally against policy... but ha! It was great when it was going, eh Jake? Fuck, those were the good old days!"
"I might have a candidate."
"That's too bad, Jake. I understand though. You never picked a dud. Don't know how you did it. Your eye for the prime buck-recruit in the division never failed. And those young studs enjoyed it too! No. it's a pity it had to stop."
Jake heard Conway take a noisy sip of his drink, then told him; "This is different. This is a civilian. There are no regulations."
"Is it a kid?"
"Yes."
"What? Some punk off the streets?"
"Well... yes."
"So it's not exactly in the interests of the Service, is it?" Conway said. "I mean... we used to use the stockade-compound, and the old punishment-yards."
"No one ever goes down there anymore, Con! It's virtually out of bounds on the base!"
"Oh sure, Jake, but think! If we were running some buck on a hell-routine down there and he flunked-out and complained to someone, it'd be sand for breakfast for our careers! A civilian? Think about it!"
"You said my eye never failed, Con."
"Alright then! Alright! Who is it? Who's so good that he's up to our old Hell-Camp?" Over the phone, Jake could hear Conway getting worked up.
"Well, I'm not sure yet."
"Leave it then. Don't go messing around on that old training-ground. I think they do live-firings over that land."
"The kid's digging a foxhole in my backyard right now."
"Leave it that way."
"He might have what it takes, Con."
"Well, if you say so. He's got to prove something to me personally before I go trainin' up a goddamn civilian."
"So you'll think about it?"
"I said something has to be proved, Jake. I'll think about it after that."
"There's something else I should tell you, Con. He has orange hair."
"Oh for Christ's fucking sake. You're going soft, Jake! Get a grip!"
Jake had sometimes driven down to the old, disused training-grounds and stockade. It was something like one-hundred acres of haphazard facilities and scrubby, bushy manoeuvre-fields. The barrack was a big, corrugated-iron hangar with a curved roof – cold in winter and stinking-hot in summer – built in the days, it seemed, when soldiers were expected to be conditioned without luxuries. Inside the big shed, men had slept on wooden pallet-racks in tiers of four. Stainless-steel cans were used for ablutions – emptied by hand – carried two miles to the "shit-farm" – a primitive processing facility. What a wretched duty that must have been! Showers were held in the open under overhead pipes and cold-water-nozzles, all opened and closed by a single valve. One hundred naked men had stood in rows, four to a nozzle and a cake of soap.
The big old barrack-shed was now a rusting monument of sorts. Loose corners of corrugated-iron flapped in the wind, and the inside was swept with flurries of dead leaves. But Jake and Conway's private little "Hell-Camps" had been conducted on a much smaller scale, and their single subject had been accommodated in a more convenient concrete bunker – in a bare slot on a narrow wooden pallet on the floor.
The disused old training-grounds featured a ten-mile obstacle course of fence-climbs and mud-crawls under barbed-wire. There was also a straight, twenty-mile drilling-track of concrete – a runway fifteen feet wide, with a line painted down the middle. It could carry a formation ten men across. Beside it ran a vehicular track and electrical poles. At exactly every half mile there was a numbered pole bearing loudspeakers and a large, stopwatch-style clock on display. And in one of the bunkers, it was all controlled from a switchboard. Timings were set on old, Bakelite dials and when set to `GO,' the system started all its clocks and hooted its electric horns individually at intervals, from one end of the track to the other, signalling the required drill-speed. Jake wondered if the ingenious system could be gotten to work again.
In the stockade-prison there was a variety of cells from different periods, dating back God knows when – from the earliest strap-iron cages in the open, to small concrete holes covered in gratings, and slots behind thick iron doors. Some punishment-cells had a floor-space of twelve inches by twelve inches – one square foot. In comparison, the standard slot of one foot by six was a mansion.
Somebody in the past – some Commander or Commandant – had had a flair for punishment. In the yards there was a row of fixed, upright pillories – ten of them – designed to enclose neck, wrists and ankles. These heavy wooden yokes were now weathered and splitting, but a more wince-inducing device existed. It was the smaller "man-yoke," a miniature pillory with a single coin-sized hole at waist-height.
In the base library, in one of the dusty, hand-bound picture-books which documented the local history, there was an old photograph of a soldier mounted on the man-yoke. It was the same little pillory which now withered and decayed in the punishment-yards. The boy looked straight into the camera with doleful eyes, his unhappy expression untempered by the sepia of the age. His arms were wrenched behind him and his ankles were fixed wide apart to the base of the yoke's uprights with iron manacles. Loaded with his cock and squeezed balls, the yoke was jacked up high, bringing the buck-soldier well up onto his toes.
Jake imagined the work of the photographer – setting up his stand and preparing his plates and daguerreotype while the lad watched from the yoke-stand, his male meat slung in its rough, tight enclosure and hanging through the hole in dismay. With a single flicker of boldness and doggedness, the kid in Jake's backyard trying to dig a foxhole had reminded him of the hinted defiance in the eyes of the boy in the old photograph.
thobymusgrave@yahoo.com