Copyright 2013 by the author. Not for distribution without permission.
The story is for ADULTS ONLY. Gay sex, bondage, and discipline.
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thobymusgrave@yahoo.com
PUNK DRILLED INTO SHAPE BY MILITARY HELL SERGEANT!!!
Thoby Musgrave
So far, young Bobby Ryker has become besotted with the hard-as-Hell Sergeant Jake O'Rourke, and has commenced some landscaping activities in the Sergeant's backyard. The diligent reader will no doubt recall that weird business. Now, Sergeant O'Rourke is "fixin'" to recruit his pal and colleague, Conway Finn, into the deal. It will take more than one tough-ass Sergeant to lick this punk into shape!
Chapter 3
The smell of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen window hadn't woken the kid. He lay sprawled – spreadeagled, in fact – on a pile of dirt in the backyard, and he was covered in a crusty layer of dried mud. His hair was matted-down over his eyes, keeping off the morning sun, and his slack, slightly open mouth and supple lips gave off soft little snoring breaths. The crust-layer was on every inch of his face too.
"That looks like a nice big mouth for sucking," Jake found himself thinking. The boy's tummy rose and fell. The banded muscles which were laced with his ribs at the flanks could be discerned under the filthy grime as they expanded ever so slightly in time with his breathing. Jake noticed that the muscle-cut between the pectoral plates went right to the breastbone, making a tight, jagged little cleavage. And for the first time he noticed a stud through the left nip – silver and sparkling amidst the covering of dirt and soil.
The big, male meat of the penis was flopped to one side, across the top of the thigh and reaching the hip with its uncut head. The pizzle-slit just peeked from the soft, ropey foreskin. A big vein pulsed visibly, meandering along one side of the fleshy shaft.
Jake reached down and thumbed the nip-stud. He took the rubbery little nub and its silver decoration between his thumb and forefinger and gently kneaded, feeling the nipple grow stiff. It pouted, and became as hard as bubble-gum.
The cock lurched suddenly to life, snaking and slithering onto the flat belly, then puffing itself like an adder. The boy whimpered softly in his sleep as the organ flared at the sides and developed a deeply ridged and stiffened crest along its arched underside. It was like a big, ripe banana, curving and straining and nudging at the navel. Jake continued to flick and tweak at the nipple while the kid snivelled and hiccupped, still asleep.
The testicles jerked. The kid made a single, warbling, open-mouthed "Ah!" and Jake withdrew, stepping back just in time. A shot of white liquid squirted up the boy's belly, reaching his chest, neck, and face. Then he was pumping hard, and spurts of clean white jism were spraying into the dirt beyond his head, leaving multiple, clotted ropes strung out across his body.
"Jesus!" Jake said. The boy was making pitiful, high-pitched noises as he unloaded his spunk, still unconscious, flapping his limbs in a useless fret. The spurting continued, hot and high in great looping ribbons, until the boy finally made grunting noises as if he were awake.
"That must have been one hell of a wet dream!" Jake said as the kid opened one eye – the other was glued shut with a thick blob of semen. The punk made a confused, choking noise, and then he groaned in despair.
"Smell breakfast, boy?" Jake asked. "Are you awake yet or what? Or are you just gonna lie their covered in your own spunk? You sure messed up my backyard real good. I don't know what I'm gonna do about all this!"
Jake gestured and looked around. The re-dug hole was an untidy crater, strung with roots and clad with loose rocks, but worse was the littered mess everywhere else. The dirt pile was there again after having been shifted three times, and there were more rocks piled nearby.
The punk on the ground looked up at Jake vacantly, as if he still didn't understand where he was.
"Come on." Jake kicked the boy. "Get up and let's get you hosed down."
"Please let me fill up your hole again, Mister Sir!" the boy squeaked.
"Still a fucking smart-mouth punk!" Jake snorted.
After being thoroughly hosed and washed, the punk was allowed inside the house, and Jake had an old pair of cargo-pants for him – and a piece of rope to belt them onto the slim waist. He'd cooked plenty of bacon and plenty of eggs – enough for five healthy men, and the buck ate for four, greedily and without pause. He drank about a gallon of orange-juice.
"Well, you have a lot to learn about digging foxholes, punk-boy," Jake said cheerfully as he got behind the wheel of his Chev. "But I had a word with my pal Con last night, and we think you might be suitable for one of our specialty training sessions. It's a little holiday in Hell, and your smackable little butt will be drilled `till... Hey, punk?"
The boy was fitfully asleep, drooling, his head against the passenger-side window.
"Hey! Where you been?" Darren called out as Bobby came in. "What did the Police do?"
"He gave me bacon and eggs," Bobby mumbled, staggering to his bedroom, delirious with exhaustion and two sleepless nights. He flopped down and was asleep before his head hit the pillow, still wearing O'Rourke's big cargo-pants.
He dreamt of dirt – of digging it, lifting it, carrying it, and tasting it. And he dreamt of the square-jawed motherfucker with the steel-eyes and the thundercrack-voice. He heard that voice, ordering him, and also guiding him in his dreams.
The electric Tazer-prod sizzled with its blue spark, crackling and burning. There was a grinning face behind that spark, waving it in his face and taunting him with its nightmare-inducing power. Bobby awoke with a sharp gasp just as his being was touched with the blue fire.
Bobby knocked on the guy's door. The blue Chevy was parked out front, so it was a fair guess he was home. Bobby had carefully considered what to wear, and decided upon `sensible' – jeans, t-shirt, runners.
Yes, he'd figured that the guy was in the Army, and he knew his name – Jake O'Rourke. That had been easy from seeing some bills and stuff lying around in the kitchen while he'd eaten breakfast here the other day. The door opened. O'Rourke was as huge and imposing as ever, in a tight t-shirt and khaki pants. His chest was like a jutting, geographical shelf of rock overlooking a bend in a meandering river.
"Hi, Mister. Just canvassing the neighbourhood. Need any yard-work done? Any cocks sucked? I also specialise in go-go dancing."
O'Rourke just looked down at Bobby with hard, withering eyes. Bobby paused. "Oh golly," he thought. "I think he's unamused!"
Bobby grunted as his lollipop orange hair was grabbed in a steel fist. He was yanked, and then hauled, bent over with his head at the guy's beltline, down some stairs to a dark, musty cellar. Swung by his hair as if he were as light as a rag, Bobby was heaved against a brick wall, hard.
"Ooof!" he went, and crumpled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His scalp stung where his hair had been wrenched. He wiped his nose with his fingers. Blood. Shit! It was going to get on his t-shirt! "I need to stop wearing my expensive things if I'm going to hang around this dude," he thought.
"Fun and games are over, boy!" said O'Rourke. It was that hard, chilling voice again, made pervasive and loud in the confines of the basement, even though the words were spoken low and clear. "I've put up with your horseshit so far, but now you have some decisions to make. First is whether you wanna play by Sergeant O'Rourke's rules. If your answer is `no,' then you will out my front door within five seconds – all friendly like – but gone. I don't wanna see your stupid ass anymore. Understand?"
Bobby gulped. "Yessir."
"Before you answer yes' or no,' I'll explain what my rules are. Ready?"
"Yessir."
"I'm sick of the sight of your hair. I'm not gonna be seen with a no-good street-punker. The hair's gonna change."
"Yessir."
"But wait. That's the easy part. The other thing that's gonna change is your attitude, and I'm the one that's gonna change it. That won't be easy for you or me. We are gonna set aside two weeks, and we are gonna work full time at changin' you from a slacking, wise-ass punk into something that might... might... shape up to my standards. Do you wanna shape up to my standards, boy?"
"Yes, Sir!" Bobby yipped from the floor. He was breathless.
"When can you get time off work?"
"Anytime. Being a courier is freelance." Bobby explained.
"Two weeks?"
"Yes, Sir."
"To shape you up in two weeks, I'm gonna have to drill the bejesus outa you. For me it will be hard work. For you it will be Hell. Non-stop, full-time Hell. No free-time. No equity guidelines. No human-rights. No complaints."
"Yes, Sir." Bobby's heart was thumping.
"You'll have more chances to back out, but here's what gonna happen right now. Your wise-ass mouth offered three things at my front-door just now. Let's see how smart that mouth really is. First, you're gonna suck my cock right here and now. Then the yard-work. And guess what. I decided to buy a tree to fill that hole you messed my yard up with. You're gonna plant that tree and get it dug-in. The go-go dancin' I'll save for another time. When the tree's properly planted, report to me by knocking respectfully at the back door and respectfully asking for me to come and inspect your work. Got all that, punker?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well get sucking, slag-mouth!"
Bobby scrambled on the floor toward the towering Sergeant.
"Well, unzip it, cocksucker! What are you, fuckin' dumb or somethin'?"
Bobby tugged down on the zip-tag. "Uh oh," he thought. "There's somethin' big in here!"
There was a slow Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzipp...!
The big meat-hose unfurled and dropped. Bobby gulped in surprise. He had not seen bigger, and he had seen and tasted many. But his mouth was experienced, and now he had to put that practice to use.
"Knees apart," O'Rourke ordered him curtly. "Back straight. Come on. Up. Up. Up. You don't suck my cock with a slovenly posture! Now put your hands behind your head. Interlace your fingers. Cocksuckers don't grab hold of my pants. Force your elbows back. Well back. Keep `em there."
The thing had risen to half-mast, and was swelling, getting bigger. The tang of stale jock-sweat hit Bobby's nose. He'd sniffed that smell before! O'Rourke took a fistful of his hair.
"It never occurred to me your stupid punk-rag hair would be useful. All my soldiers have buzz-cuts. But now – something to grab onto. Never occurred to me. How about that?"
Bobby extended his tongue and teased the tip as it rose, flicking and licking. Then he twisted and went under it, slurping along the underside. His head was quickly jerked upwards by his hair.
"None o' that shit. Get it in and get it covered!"
He took it, the enlarging meat propping open his jaw and making his lips into a wide, stretched, circular `O.'
"Good thing you got a big mouth, eh, kid? Usually it's flappin' with your stupid horseshit nonsense. This is much more useful employment for it!"
Bobby's gullet was breached and he concentrated on his gag-suppressing techniques. His eyes were wide, his nostrils sniffed and flared dramatically with fast, urgent sucking noises, and his mouth distended to its absolute, lip-tearing fullest.
"Mmmf...!"
He pushed down on the panic that threatened to rise.
"You gonna do somethin', punk? Or just sit there with my meat pluggin' ya hole?"
There was almost nothing Bobby could do. His tongue was flattened, squashed to the floor of his mouth and there was no room for movement or spit. But he worked back a bit, got his tongue moving, and managed some shafting action.
"Keep workin' that tongue, kid. Right. Like that. More. Yeah. Oh shit! Like that! Keep doin' it, fucker!"
Bobby felt the pulses of excitement beating in the distended meat filling his mouth and throat. He gagged, suppressed, and worked again with his tongue.
"Shit! Motherfucker...! You little fuckin' tongue-twirler! Are you fuckin' magic or somethin'?"
Bobby worked some more, then felt the beating frequency rise.
"Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!" O'Rourke moaned.
Suddenly, the Sergeant was bending Bobby's head back, and with his other hand he worked the fingers into the sides of Bobby's mouth, pinching and dragging desperately, as if he were pulling on a condom.
"C'mon cocksucker!"
He threw Bobby over by his hair and slapped him onto his back on the concrete floor. Then his started thrusting down, fucking the boy's face. Grunting, thrusting, and drilling into Bobby's gullet. It was less than un-gentlemanly. It was violent. The back of Bobby's head knocked on the floor and tears formed in his horrified eyes. The Sergeant came explosively, gushing his profuse, beer-salted fountain straight through the aperture deep in Bobby's throat.
Bobby felt a drowning sensation, and it was impossible to quell the panic. White glue spurted from his nose in thick globules, and the Sergeant kept thrusting, harder than before. It took some minutes after the spit and come-wetted shaft was withdrawn for both participants to recover – O'Rourke firstly gasping and wheezing, and then filling his lungs in slow, controlled breaths – and Bobby retching and spitting with rattling, hacking coughs. His own cock was steel-hard and hurting in his jeans.
"Come over here and lick me clean, boy, then clean the floor," O'Rourke said, his voice low and not altogether composed. Bobby crawled to obey, and again tasted the salty, funky male residue of their recent congress. Then he lapped at the floor, swallowing every last milky bead.
"Now you've got a tree to plant," Said O'Rourke. "Get to work."
So Jake says this kid is tough, does he? That's what went through Conway Finn's mind when he laid eyes on the stupid looking fuck who'd been sent over to be "checked out." Conway wanted to have a good look before he committed to a two-week Hell Camp. And Jake was going to need more than just Conway's support. They were going to need Corporal Hollows to help take training shifts, and Jake said he'd found a suitable Private to do the cooking. If it all came together, it would be a regular, fully-scheduled Army-routine of their very own, although completely unsanctioned by command, of course. The kid was a civilian, after all – if you could even call this punk-haired shit-kicker a civilian.
What did Jake see in the punk? Well, it was true it was a sturdy-looking young buck which had presented itself to Conway. There was obvious muscle under the t-shirt, and the bare arms featured the strong contours and the popping vein that showed gym-work. But the limbs were loose and coltish, and the kid was no bull-chested powerhouse. The pecs were those spunky little mounds worn by pretty-boy gym-faggots, topped with sprightly nips pressing against the t-shirt.
"Shuck off, boy!" Conway ordered. The kid cocked his head to one side, flopping his hair over one eye and widening his mouth in a sneer.
"Whaaaaat?" the boy said. "I ain't been sent over here for that shit! You must be kidding. Stripping off in your living-room? No way!"
Conway gut-punched him, as hard as he could. The punk crumpled with a loud "Ooof!" and knocked over a lamp. Then, on the floor, he held his stomach gasping for the return of his breath. An evil eye was turned upwards toward Conway as the kid struggled for air.
In time, the punk recovered his feet, rising slowly. Then Conway was hit on the jaw with a closed fist. Now it was his turn to go down. It was a creditably hard strike, and before Conway could pick himself up, the punk had departed and the front-door had slammed.
Fuck!
Conway made a phone call.
"Jake? You wanna know If I'll come on this jaunt down to the training-grounds? Well, yeah, you bet your fuckin' ass I will! We're gonna fuck the daylights outta that fuckin' punk!"
As far as Bobby considered, he'd been given his orders. Dates had been set. He'd had most of the orange cut out of his hair – according to the ominous mandate issued in O'Rourke's basement – leaving a shortened, tufting crown of untidy brown with traces of the lurid dye. He'd been told to stop partying, and to be well-rested on the Friday night of the departure. Heck – the Conway Finn dude was not a welcome addition to the crew. Bobby didn't like his attitude or his thin-lipped smile which was more like a grimace. But it sure seemed probable that Bobby had the better of Finn.
"Golly!" he thought. "It's a good thing I clocked the bastard like I did, otherwise he was liable to give me trouble on the camp. Fancy gut-punching me like that! And expecting me to shuck in his house! What a dickwad!"
For Bobby, though, Jake O'Rourke was a different story, and despite the portentous warnings about what he was getting into, there was a barely restrained excitement at the prospect of spending two-weeks... two weeks!... on a camp, following the orders of that big, beefy mountain of a man. There was no way Bobby was going to miss out – Conway Finn or not!
"Oh golly, oh golly, oh golly!" Bobby thought to himself numerous times as the date approached.
The mixture of exhilaration and fear made a hot, pleasurable knot in his stomach. He watched what he ate, attended the gym more often, and resisted Cell Block H on most nights. Darren seemed a little perplexed at the idea of his housemate "going on a vacation," but shrugged and said; "Must be a health resort. You're not going out as much now and you won't get drunk on weeknights. Maybe old-age is getting to you, old Bobby old pal! What happened to the days when we ripped-up Cell Block H every night?"
"Hard discipline," O'Rourke had told him. "Two weeks of it."
"Probably what I need," Bobby thought.
No young soldier of any division could anticipate, however, the literal intent of Sergeant Jake O'Rourke's "Hell-Camp." There would be no going back or getting out, and once the thing had begun, there would be no recourse to the outside world.
Bobby had been told all this, of course. "We're going hard-core and deep, O'Rourke said. "And you, my big buck soldier-boy, are going to wish for deliverance."
thobymusgrave@yahoo.com