Copyright 2010 by the author
thobyandover@y7mail.com
Comments, suggestions most welcome.
STRIPPED RECRUITS
The freezing night air clutched at the bare skin of four muscular youths. A dark night, surely, but the darkness existed only beyond the blinding arc of the powerful spotlight mounted on the truck's roll bar. The hard, cold surface of the private road almost glittered under its day-bright sweep and four sets of boots clopped neatly on the asphalt in a timed clip as the recruits ran. Inside the warm cabin behind them, Sergeant Colthorp bellowed into the screechy loudspeaker.
"PACE UP, FUCKERS! KEEP THE CENTRE OF THE SPOT! YOU HAVEN'T EVEN BROUGHT UP A SWEAT, FUCK-BOYS! NOW MOVE!"
Last in the close-fitting line of four, Luke Rogers felt the hot blow from the truck's radiator on his ass as it cycled to a higher gear. Trying to keep warm, the recruits stretched their stride in fine-timed unison and faced the dark envelope in front, beyond the light's cold, bright reach.
They ran naked, except for the boots and the white-painted webbing at their ankles, and they ran at attention -- that is -- with arms and hands straight down by their sides and their knees lifting high. Formed in close ranks and almost touching, Sing-Sing style, they had to keep a timed pace. Leftrightleftrightleftright. Fast. As the white circle of artificial light traced a moving position on the road, they raced to keep up with the brightest centre of the spot, their bare rump-cheeks rolling in its hard glare. Staff Sergeant Colthorp and Corporal Childers were behind in that dark cabin, and Justin Laycock -- second in the running squad, cursed to himself soundlessly as the cold air burnt his lungs and he felt his nipples turning to icy stones. It was the second night at Discipline Camp.
The ancient, disposal-store boots and whited webbing which weighed the recruits' feet and ankles had been provided on their arrival twenty-four hours earlier. Those boots, which had seen much use in the past and little maintenance, had to be polished overnight to a high gleam, and the buckled army webbing had to be freshly painted. The four young men had performed furiously to complete these tasks throughout the night and had entered their training on the first day having obtained no sleep. Now, on the second evening, rest seemed a long way off.
The hard-hoofing rank of fit young muscle was driven by the centre of the spotlight along the centre of the frost-patched road, sprinting awkwardly and with shoulders aching from the unnatural, ordered attention-posture of their arms. Ten miles had been done, running hard, and still the sweat dried instantly on their solidly pumping bodies in the chill. Tiny, metallic particles of ice cut into their nipples and their flapping cocks, and the miniscule coloured shards could be seen in the night air, and were sucked into four sets of bursting lungs.
Mustered as raw recruits that morning after the night spent polishing, each of them had been butt-stamped with his black-inked number on his left rump-cheek. 1' -- Aaryn Locke at the front of the line, the fresh-stencilled numeral denoting him from behind as the first in need of military adjustment. 2' -- Justin Laycock running close behind, and bearing that denomination on his fast-moving hide. 3' -- Bang Vo. Third in line, with the number turning and moving on his hard, narrow backside. Finally, 4' -- the stencil and spray-paint applied to the finely-tuned rear bands of muscle in Luke Rogers' ass.
The four recruits thought only of the orders ricocheting into the night from the loudspeaker, the timing of their quad-marched formation, and the cold. Staff Sergeant Colthorp and Corporal Childers warmed their hands against the truck's heater airflow. There was serious work to be done. Four punk-ass recruits needed whipping into shape!
"You punks will be getting a shape-up, good and proper!" Colthorp had lectured at their arrival. "You'll work hard at being soldiers at this camp! You'll be under orders every moment of the day! There'll be no free-time! Myself and the other staff will see that your little butts are worked off! Understand!?"
"M... Yes, Sir..." came the hesitant reply from four petulantly pouting mouths.
"THAT'S SIR!!! YES!!! SIR!!!" bellowed Corporal Childers.
"SIR!!! YES!!! SIR!!!" was the shout from youthful, energetic lungs.
"WHAT?"
"SIR YES SIR!" It was a loud-as-possible shriek.
"I WILL KICK YOUR BUTTS FROM HERE TO CHRISTMAS, YOU FUCK-TARDS!!! SO GET READY, COCKSUCKERS!!! YOU'RE GOING TO HELL!!!"
And that's exactly where they went.
Naked and shivering, they had lined up on four army-green painted circles on a cement square. Aaryn Locke on position 1,' Justin Laycock on 2,' each circle's worn, painted numeral corresponding with the butt-stamp of its attention-placed trainee. It rained. Ice-cold driving sheets of wind-swept blizzard lashed them in the open while Colthorp and Childers waited in a wooden hut for the storm to dissipate.
Chin up and fingers together straight down by his thighs, Aaryn felt his schlong swinging in the wind. His balls climbed up, trying to escape the stinging cold. He closed his eyes to the dark clouds and tensed every muscle, willing the flow of warm blood into his veins.
One metre away, Justin felt his boots fill with water. "Well, I knew this was going to be tough," he thought. "I wonder when we eat!" He felt a familiar stirring, and his cock slowly arose, erecting itself at attention at his belly. But the cold rain drove it down again.
"This is fucking shit!" Bang thought. "I can't fucking believe this!" He almost laughed out loud in perverse despair as rain streamed through his hair and down his face. "I can't fucking believe how shit this is!"
Despite the whipping rain, Luke Rogers maintained a full erection. It swayed upright in the wind, vibrating like a flagpole in a gale, thrumming and straining like a bass-string. He wanted to touch it. The underside of his shaft presented itself proudly to the dark windows of the wooden hut, like the full-chested soldier who owned it.
"Wiggle your toes in your boots to try to keep warm!" Aaryn called helpfully to his companions, his words being beaten away by the gale. Colthorp appeared at the hut door and splashed across the cement in his black boots. He ignored the foul weather.
He gut-punched Aaryn to his knees, and the big recruit "Ooophed!" his blonde hair splayed in straggled strands across his forehead.
"GET THE FUCK UP, RECRUIT! GET THE FUCK UP!"
Aaryn climbed to his feet and resumed attention-posture, guts quivering. He didn't know whether to be angry or scared.
"Leave them on the marker-circles for another hour-and-a-half." Colthorp said, back in the hut. "Then -- pack-drill on the runway. It doesn't look like this weather's letting up. We may as well make the most of the week and they need a proper indoctrination on the first day, otherwise the pussies will whine the whole time. Teach `em we mean business!"
Outside, Aaryn Locke and the other recruits remained formed at attention, chins held high to the rain and fingers together and straight by their sides.
Pack-drill was hell. Each stout young recruit was equipped with a heavy load. Aaryn Locke carried two army-packs -- one on his back and the other reversed at his front -- each laden with fifty-year old .303 ammunition in sodden cardboard boxes. Justin Laycock bore an un-working 1945 Mk 10 Mod 1 valve radio on his back. The twenty-foot whip-aerial waved in the air with a small, red flag at its tip. Bang Vo and Luke Rogers -- the biggest lads -- each hefted a wooden crate strapped to their backs and loaded with stones.
In a line they ran. Green U.S. Army helmets were numbered 1 to 4 and balanced high on their nodding, bobbing noggins, strapped on tight with webbing chinstraps. Boltless, rusty .303 Lee-Enfields were carried out in front. Their boots splashed on the ground and their rippling, hard-tensed six-pack bellies undulated in time with the weight of their respective loads, and the streaming cold rain ran through their `V' waists to their pubes.
Number 1 Aaryn Locke, in front, couldn't see. The forward army-pack kept his head to the side, so he followed the white, painted line to his side, watching and concentrating. If he tripped, the pack would carry his fall, but the other recruits would come crashing on top. He thought to himself; he'd easily prefer two shake-ups in a row under his wrestling coach to this punishment-drill!
The twenty-foot whip aerial of Laycock's radio-set, with its red flag, could be seen across the treetops by anyone foolish enough to venture into this rotten weather within a mile of where the militarised formation of naked, disciplined young men performed their grim quadrille. It lashed to and fro, swinging with every pace. "Fuck!" Laycock thought, unable to form a curse with his breath. "Fuck!"
"Fuck!" thought Bang Vo. Every other power of his intellect was devoted to the hefting of the load on his back. He could think of nothing else. Each step required as much mental stamina as physical, and he fixed his narrowed eyes on the thumping, wagging backside of Laycock in front. "Fuck...!"
When Luke Rogers had first crouched to shoulder the crate full of stones, he had little believed he'd be able to lift it. What was the Staff Sergeant thinking? What were they thinking? No one could run with this load! But he did. Vo's sharply-rippling number `3' moved before him and he refused to fall behind!
The loudspeaker honked.
"KEEP MOVING, RECRUITS! KEEP THOSE SCHLONGS PROPELLORING! BACKS STRAIGHT! NOW MOVE UP TO A GALLOP! LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT! STAY IN CLOSE FORMATION OR I'LL COME OUT THERE AND HORSE YOUR SORRY ASSES WITH THE FANBELT FROM THIS TRUCK!!!"
"Not sure that the number one should have been loaded with two packs, Sarge," said Corporal Childers to Colthorp in the cabin of the Truck. "He's skinnier than the others."
"They're all big-buck lads!" said the Sergeant. "And number one'll be hitched with two packs if I say so! Plenty of punk-ass pussies have shaped up under my old army training!" He reached for the Bakelite microphone and shouted more orders.
"HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP! MOVE ALONG LADS! WE'RE TAKING YOU THROUGH THE GATES AND INTO THE TOWN! STRAIGHT THROUGH THE QUAGMIRE! STEP IT OUT, BOYS! HUP! HUP! HUP!"
"The truck'll be filthy!" said Childers.
"They'll wash it," the Sergeant replied. "As soon as they've finishes hucking out the latrines!"
"In any case, there'll be no mosquitoes about in the bog. Not with this pouring rain."
The main street was entirely deserted, and for this, the driving rain could be thanked. But the four pack-drilled recruits could hardly be less inclined to thank anyone, and they felt anything but gratitude. With their packs, their .303 Lee-Enfields and their bodies covered in mud from the local quagmire, they hip-hopped in cadence down the middle of the street, closely followed by the army-truck.
With his head turned to the left by the imposing, loaded pack carried in front, and with his American Army helmet riding high and inscribed with the white numeral `1,' Aaryn glimpsed a parted lace curtain -- a momentary flutter of movement in a shopfront as he passed -- he saw a bystander taking shelter at a bus-stop -- and he angrily lifted his knees with renewed gusto, twirling his slippery penis.
"LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT!!! HUP! HUP! HUP! GALLOP-PACE NOW, PUNKS!!! MOVE!!!" came the amplified voice of the Staff Sergeant, echoing even in the rain from the shingle roofs and sandstone clock-tower. They moved fast to the end of the main street.
The town receded into to the rear for the running recruits, their wagging backsides waving the rain-soaked townlet bye-bye. The merry troupe was tripled marched around a back-road, past a crumbling gas-plant and several disused quarries, and back toward the camp.
The rain ceased but the air was still wet and the wind blustered. The breathless, voiceless recruits were fed six ration-packs each of dry army biscuits on the wet concrete outside the wooden control-hut. They drank greedily from a single bucket, taking turns. That had been the first morning of Discipline Camp.
"You fuckers are here to learn discipline and respect!" Colthorp said as the men were lined-up once again on the green markers.
"Are we going to get any clothes?" Luke thought to himself.
"But this afternoon you're getting it easy!" continued the Sergeant. "Lucky punks! You'll be out of the rain! Inside the barracks! Strip, seal, and polish the floor! Now MOVE!"
They took off in a jumble.
"GET IN LINE! TRIPLE-MARCH AT ATTENTION! IN LINE, COCKSUCKERS! ARMS DOWN! FORM UP! NOW TRIPLE! HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP!"
"Get the scrubbing pads from the cleaning-locker!" said Luke to the others, teeth chattering, as they entered the old barracks building. "Hurry! I know how to do this! We've got to scrape the old sealant off the floor!"
There was an old, thick layer of varnish on the linoleum, and the four young soldiers had to scrub on their knees, their bare asses wiggling in the air.
"This is going to take ages!" Justin puffed.
"Move it! Keep scrubbing!" said Luke.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Corporal Childers shrieked. "And get in line!!! You're out of order! You fuck-tards can't even count to four!"
In a row, the busy recruits arranged themselves on their knees, their wobbling, numbered asses now consecutively placed. 1. 2. 3. 4. They scoured the floor alongside each other, breaking the old polish into scattering shards.
The dilapidated old barracks was windswept even on the inside, with missing doors and rows of broken-down cots. Filthy mattresses were piled here and there, and if it wasn't for the whistling wind, it was obvious the place would have stunk. The cracked flooring was impossible to shine properly, and Colthorp and Childers screamed and kicked at the recruits' failure. The sole of Colthorp's shiny boot was placed on Laycock's bare backside, and it shoved. Justin went sprawling across the floor, his helmet clunking and his own, heavy old boots scrabbling.
"GET BACK IN LINE YOU USELESS FAGGOT!!!" came the noisy shriek.
Hours were spent. They shivered. They mopped. They laid new polish. And then they hand-rubbed the new surface, trying to make it shine. At six p.m. they were fed more biscuits, and then the four dispirited soldiers were ordered to clean the latrines.
Unlike the barracks, the brick toilet-block did stink. A row of stainless-steel commodes, without cubicles, overflowed and gurgled with brown, rusty stains and filthy water and the floor was streaked with green growth. Their equipment consisted of one brush and one leaky bucket, filled from an outside faucet.
"YOU'LL LICK THIS FUCKING PLACE CLEAN, YOU SHIT-EATING MAGGOT!" the angry Staff-Sergeant bellowed as he shoved Luke Rogers' face against the steel rim of one of the bowls.
"LICK, FUCKER!!!"
As Childers held the recruit's arms and Colthorp yanked and pushed his head, Rogers licked. Meanwhile, Laycock scrubbed furiously on the tiles with the single brush. Vo and Locke cupped their hands with water from the bucket and rubbed the inside of the bowls with their bare palms.
Again, it was impossible to do a proper job. Nevertheless, the latrine-block benefited immeasurably from the cleaning performed by the four frantic recruits. They were amazed at themselves.
Next, the truck was washed under flashlights, and four bare, black-numbered asses wiggled about it as the day's mud came off and rags were applied. When the job was complete, it was midnight. Their arms and legs ached and their knees were sore from kneeling -- and Staff Sergeant Colthorp and Corporal Childers did not seem in the least bit satisfied with the work they'd done. Colthorp, particularly, had a voice seemingly unaffected by fatigue. It boxed their eardrums without respite. It made them jump and perform, and formed them into their line again -- Locke -- Laycock -- Vo -- Rogers. They obeyed.
So they were placed in line and triple-marched out into the freezing night, in the beam of the truck's spotlight.
"You fuckers won't be sleeping in a barracks you can't even clean properly! First day at Boot-Camp and you prove you're a bunch of useless jackasses!!!"
They ran ten miles in the night to a small tin shack, and this is where their first day came to an end. Bundled inside, they shucked off the boots and helmets -- the only clothing they'd been issued -- and collapsed exhausted into a double bunk. Numbers 1 and 2 fell together onto the lower shelf, huddling under a threadbare blanket on bare wooden slats. 3 and 4 on top. There were no pillows. Aaryn and Justin wrapped themselves tightly in their meagre covering as Bang and Luke climbed to the upper section. The bed creaked as the four big lads shuffled and squirmed. It was 2 a.m. and very quickly they found slumber -- their first sleep in two days.
Asleep, Aaryn huddled into Laycock's shivering body. They'd never met prior to their arrival at the military camp, and even now had barely exchanged two words. There hadn't been time. Now, sleep seemed far more important than pleasantries. The two boys encircled each other with their arms, far too exhausted for words and their limbs aching. They were intent on not being dislodged from the narrow bunk. Aaryn felt a hardness in his dreams, rubbing in his belly. Unconsciously he returned the rhythmic motions, feeling a warm, oncoming flood. There was soft breathing in his ear -- and light, tickling fingers playing on the stiffness in his loins. His dream was of Staff Sergeant Colthorp. The big soldier he'd known for only one day had a blonde buzz-cut and piercing blue eyes. He radiated authority and menace -- not completely because of the massive, outstanding chest and tree-branch arms -- and it wasn't totally the foghorn voice, either. The man just possessed something else, too. It was power.
Like the others, Aaryn had obeyed instinctively, automatically. When Colthorp had ordered `run,' -- they'd run. The sleeping recruit stirred when his unconscious, head-bound imagery turned to the events of the day spent under Colthorp's orders, naked and wet, and slogging it out shod in boots he'd spit-shined himself. And the other boys. They were big healthy buck-studs like himself -- and even though they were all quite unacquainted, Aaryn was pleased they were there with him. Their muscles had strained with pain, like his, and the veins on their limbs had stood out, pumping.
Now, in the rudimentary bunk, he felt a rush and a surge and he was momentarily half-awake, whimpering softly and pumping a full, hot load into the dark between the two enveloping bodies. In the next moment he was asleep again.
Then he dreamt of the strange, no-nonsense little advert. "Military Discipline Camp. 17-24 Feb. Punishment discipline for punks and studs. Be very fit. Phone the Staff Sergeant. No slackers."
The black ink of the cheap box-ad loomed in his reveries. His sleepy head returned to it again and again, just as he had in reality during the week he'd spent deciding. The eventual phone-call buzzed sharply in his dreams also. "Yes, Sir!" he had barked at the distaining voice on the line -- the same voice which had screeched and yowled at him all day through the loudspeaker.
He'd been told to call again at an exact time for an "interview." There had been more "Yes, Sirs!" and he had to practically plead -- insisting that he was fit enough. Everything was "Sir!" "Nineteen, Sir!" "A hundred & fifteen kilos, Sir!" "Not fat. Muscle, Sir!" "Wrestling, swimming, weights, Sir!"
"Turn up here..." he was told. Then `click.'
He turned up and had come to regret it. There had been nineteen others during the elimination process, all big, strong men, but somehow, Aaryn had been unable to allow himself to be disqualified. One had departed when they had all been ordered to strip in the basement of the city townhouse, and five others soon after, angrily dragging their clothes back on, fed up with the Staff Sergeant's furious bawling.
One by one, the remaining fourteen had presented -- on a painted spot, of course -- in a side-room before a panel at a wooden bench. Some emerged from that ordeal and quit voluntarily and some were simply kicked out. The others were told to line up against the wall and wait. Aaryn had stood to attention before the bench not really believing what he was doing. Staff Sergeant Colthorp, Corporal Childers and others, all uniformed, had grilled him and examined him, testing him to evaluate whether he could last out the week. Questions were asked abruptly. He'd answered with "Sir!" and choked back irate comments of his own. Colthorp was a bastard! But quitting would be... losing!
It would have seemed corny -- uniformed, dime-store soldiers in half-baked military costume pretending authority -- but you had to be there. Some of them were puffed-up little Generals acting-out a false gravity, but Colthorp, he was the real deal. Aaryn's male organ had risen to his belly as he justified his attendance before the panel. Colthorp had wounded him with distain and Aaryn had clenched his butt in humiliation.
These ordeals and visions swished in his dreams. The old rug under the wooden bench. The scraping chairs. And the cool, painted cement under his own bare feet. His clothes were in a cardboard box outside the room where the others waited, dumped hurriedly in the crowded chamber of naked men.
As he stood on the spot, he'd written an essay on two sides of a piece of slate with a lump of chalk. They watched him do it and Aaryn had felt their eyes on his swinging cock. He hadn't remembered what he'd scribbled and he assumed -- hoped -- no one had read it. "Why I need Military Discipline," he scrawled at the top of the rough board. "Sir, I need Military Discipline because..." How fucking corny!
In the end, four had remained. All young and fit, and confident. They'd been driven off in the back of the truck, forbidden to talk and their clothes remaining behind in the cardboard boxes.
In his dream he heard again the Staff Sergeant's voice... then... it wasn't a dream.
"UP! YOU FAGGOTS! UP & AT `EM! WAKEY WAKEY, HANDS OFF SNAKEY!"
It was still a dream. It had to be! He'd only just closed his eyes that very second after laying his head on the narrow, wooden pallet.
"I SAID GET UP! GET IN LINE! MOVE!!"
... No way... Aaryn struggled with his crusty eyes. There was the ear-splitting crash of a baton on a shit-tin lid.
"MOVE IT!"
CRASH!
As fast as fast could be, the naked recruits got into their boots, their ankle webbing, and their numbered US Army helmets. Outside it was still pitch-dark night. Then the truck's spot lit up.
Oh no! Please!
They formed up in line at attention, their helmets riding high and the chinstraps buckled.
"COCKS TO ATTENTION, BOYS! I WANT EVERY MAN ERECT! THERE'LL BE NO MASTURBATORS AT BOOT-CAMP!!! YOU HEAR THAT, THREE!? YOU'RE LIMP, BOY! YOU BEEN FUCKIN' PULLIN' YOUR PUD' IN BED!"
Three of the four exhibited fully-grown erections, but Bang Vo had failed.
"YOU'LL FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS TO DONG-PULLERS TONIGHT, FAGGOT!!!"
Now, Corporal Childer's voice came screaming from the loudspeaker.
"LEFT TURN! TRIPLE MARCH! LEFT.. LEFT..LEFT..!"
"HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP!"
Aaryn's legs ached with leaden weight as he tripled at attention, arms straight down. His erection was soon gone and, at the front of the line, his schlong flipped and flopped as he lifted his knees. Behind him, he felt Justin pressing into him, trying to stay close. If any man fell behind or separated only slightly, the offensive voice barked more obscenities from the speaker.
It was another ten-mile run in the dark. What time was it? Fucking early!
"HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP!" came Corporal Childer's insufferable voice, baying like a banshee from the truck. Those two fuckers in their army uniforms! Clothed and warm, riding in the cabin and yelling orders! Aaryn thought of his shocking mistake. Informing his city friends he was "going away," mysteriously, for a week. His nipples pouted and hardened and he felt the freezing morning air at the end of his flapping cock, turning it blue. The only thing to do was run. Run hard. With his three new companions pushing from behind.
On arrival back at the barracks-block and control-hut, the shivering recruits were formed up once again on the painted markers. By now, they knew not to mess-up their order. 1. 2. 3. 4. At attention. Then Aaryn saw Staff Sergeant Colthorp dragging on something. His blood curdled. It was a firehose.
Oh Jesus, no!
Childers charged the hose from a hydrant and Colthorp opened the brass nozzle. The jet knocked Aaryn's breath away.
"YAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!"
The recruits shrieked and danced on their numbered spots as the stinging fountain played across their jigging, freezing, naked bodies.
"YEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOWW!!!" "HOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
"STAND STILL YOU SORRY FUCK-TARDS! SCARED OF A BATH, FILTHY FAGGOTS!!! THIS'LL MAKE YER BALLS RUN OFF A MILE! EH, PUNK-BOYS!?"
Aaryn nearly cried, and Colthorp took his leisurely time aiming and teasing the jet. "Reckon these dirty fuckers are clean yet, Corporal Childers!?" "Not yet, Sarge! They still stink!"
While the cold, solid stream jetted into one writhing young soldier, the others wrapped themselves in their arms and bent double, stamping and cursing. Then the torrent moved across to the next shivering lad. Back and forth. Back and forth.
"FUCK!" "JESUS!" "SHIT!!!"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, MAGGOTS! YOU! NUMBER ONE! BLONDE PRETTY BOY! STAND STILL YOU GIRLY FAGGOT! NUMBER TWO! QUIT JIGGLING YER BIG SCHLONG, PUNK-BOY!!!"
The loud chattering of four sets of teeth could clearly be heard as the hydrant was shut off, and four dripping, blue recruits were formed in line and triple-marched to the ramshackle stores-shed. They strutted at top speed gladly, shaking the icy water from themselves and pressing together for warmth. They were becoming practiced now, at their close, Sing-Sing style formation, moving in unison in a co-ordinated, eight legged clip with their arms straight down by their sides.
The stores-hut was another old weatherboard shack, and more numbered circles were painted on the concrete outside. They knew what to do. They shivered involuntarily, trying to keep still and properly at attention.
"Say hello to corporal Smets, girls!" said Colthorp. "Corporal Smets will issue you with your uniforms! Say `thanks' to Corporal Smets, you lucky punk-rags!"
The young, wiry Corporal Smets leered delightedly at the four naked lads at attention. He carried a tin bucket as he emerged from the hut -- in it; their uniforms. A pair of old, worn-out army-green pants was thrown to each recruit, and a length of rope to belt them.
"GET `EM ON YOU BUNCH OF FUCK-BAGS!" Colthorp bellowed. "NO ONE WANTS TER SEE YER DINGLE-DANGLIN' COCKS WAGGIN' ANYMORE!!!"
As the first glimmer of sun peeked through the surrounding treetops, a second day at the military camp began.
************************ Got any good ideas for the Stripped Recruits? thobyandover@y7mail.com