This story is fiction. It is a sequel to Texas 1956, a novel-length examination. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. It's copyrighted 2021 by The Jordan Project, all rights reserved outside of Nifty. The reader comes first, so I live for feedback. Please take some time to provide it to TBTop@protonmail.com. What worked, what didn't work.
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Texas 1957 - Chapter 4
Following orders was the easiest part, just as the captain had predicted. Or at least it seemed to be for a while.
"Corporal, I've been giving you slack to let you adjust," Henry said after the first week had passed, his stern voice and hard stare conveying dissatisfaction. "The bullshit stops now."
The staff sergeant had planned it with the doctor's help. He would be consistent, but demanding, rarely doing anything but pointing out where Jensen had failed. He could do virtually nothing right, and Henry spared no opportunity to make it known, sometimes with a slap in the face or a knuckle rap on the head.
It didn't take long for Jensen to realize that what he thought would carry him through – his ability to follow orders – was no shield, and actually worked against him. No matter how faithfully he carried out his chores and tasks, he could never really measure up to Henry's legitimate and high expectations.
His strength turned to another weakness, the corporal lost his confidence. Henry became the focus of his new life, making sure to offer occasional praise along with the pointed criticisms. Jensen knew that the evaluations were correct on both sides, but he was never certain of what it would be. Together with the Correctol formula, he gradually became dependent on his superior's moods and reactions, hungering for the staff sergeant's approval and wounded by the opposite.
After a while, as little as a frown, or a smile, would rule Jensen's days, as he felt any control slip away. At the base, where the other guards outranked him and he was required to address them as "sir," he noticed their grins. It wasn't exactly every day that a staff sergeant was busted to corporal, and Jensen's unpopularity among the guards didn't help things. He was now the lowest-ranking Marine in the brig, and they let him know it.
"It seems like everything I do is wrong, sir" Jensen said to the captain when he dropped in one afternoon after work. "I'm horny all the time, and I wish I could do things right so he'll fuck me or something."
Ridgeton frowned, and spoke impatiently, as if correcting a child.
"It's good that you want to do things right, but as long as you're doing it so he'll fuck you, he's not going to fuck you. You're here to make his life better, and that means that he's your superior and your job is to get that into your head."
The corporal let the words sink in.
"Yes sir," he replied after a while. "I guess it takes time, sir."
"You'll figure out what the staff sergeant cares about the most," the captain said, his tone condescending yet firm. "You can't do a half-ass job on anything, of course, but you'll need to put him first all the time, and look for ways to please him apart from the chores he gives you. Ask yourself: How can I make his life easier? He's the only one who matters. He'll come around if you work at it."
"Yes sir," Jensen replied.
"Don't ever ask for his dick, not even once," the captain said. "Now, I can give you a hint on pleasing that Man, which is the only hope you have of getting what you want."
"I would really appreciate that," the corporal replied, his tone humble and sincere, his eyes locked on the captain's. Ridgeton smiled, and spoke.
"Staff Sergeant Henry loves that motorcycle of his," he said. "When he was locked up, he told people that he missed his Harley Davidson as much as he missed his freedom. So if he's satisfied with how you wash and wax his truck, ask him if you can take care of his motorcycle. If he even lets you near it, that's a big compliment. And if he does, then you'd better clean off every speck of dirt and road grime."
"Yes sir, I will remember that," Jensen replied.
"Back to being horny," the captain said, "the thing to do is turn that into working for him and making his life easier. The cage and the plug aren't there just to keep you from screwing around. You know that, right?"
The corporal flashed a confused look.
"I guess you don't," Ridgeton replied. "Being tied up, plugged up, and tightened up is a way to remind you that the staff sergeant is your superior, not just in rank like me but as a Man. The plugs are part of your training and management. They are there not just for physical control, but to remind you of your place."
"Yeah, and to remind me that I might as well not have a dick or a set of balls," Jensen replied, his voice melancholy.
"More like to remind you that your penis is for urination and your testicles are there so you don't lose your energy," the captain said. "And, like I just said, to remind you that Staff Sergeant Henry's authority is absolute. And it is complete, including your body, inside and out, and eventually your mind. Got it?"
"I hear you, sir," the chastened corporal responded. "I can see how it makes sense, sir. I'm just not used to it, that's all."
"That'll come," Ridgeton said. "You'll see. Quit worrying about what you can't have and concentrate on following orders and on making your superior Man's life easier."
"Yes sir," Jensen replied. "You've told me that a few times, and I think it's sinking in."
"If I were you, I'd keep what you just said about not having a penis or testicles to yourself," Ridgeton added. "You don't want to wind up becoming one of Major Schmidt's surgical experiments. Even if you can no longer use them as you'd like to, it's better that you not have those removed."
Jensen took the captain's advice to heart. He began recording his "extras" along with his chores, and his superior's evaluations, and redoubled his efforts to do better, realizing that he was never really used to working to such an exacting standard. He put everything into it, and began to draw more praise from Henry.
Combined with the Correctol formula's effects, he felt his mind coming into alignment with his new status.
Henry walked up as the corporal finished cleaning the pickup truck. Jensen was still working on the lower part of a fender while the staff sergeant inspected the rest. It was his third try, and he hoped it would be satisfactory. Henry ordered him to remove a hub cap. Jensen was prepared; the last time, he'd made the corporal clean it with a toothbrush, and use a tweezer to pick stones out of the treads. This time, the cap was spotless inside, and the exterior was polished, and the tires shined from the baby oil mixture Henry had told him to use.
After checking, he smiled and drained the last of his beer, leaning against the truck that sat gleaming in the sun while the corporal rubbed the wax below.
"I knew you could get 'er done right," the staff sergeant said, his voice gentle and patronizing. He unzipped the fly of his jeans, filled the empty beer bottle, handed it to Jensen, and watched the corporal drink his piss. His arms were folded across his chest and his expression was part grin, part smirk.
"That a-boy," he said, "you're starting to get things right, so I thought I'd give you something you like."
The corporal couldn't help stealing a glance at the Man's crotch, enhanced by a tight rubber ring that trapped his blood and made his dick and balls push out against the fabric of his tight, faded denim jeans. Henry caught it and smiled, and Jensen quickly changed his gaze, and stared upward into the staff sergeant's placid eyes as he drank.
Jensen thought back to boot camp. Harassment, chaos, and occasional violence, becoming praise as the recruits learned. Brutal as it could be, Marine Corps training was designed to build up a recruit by creating obstacles to be overcome them, generating a sense of achievement and equality, even power. This training was in no way a preparation for equality, but the other way around.
It was the Man's calmness that stuck in Jensen's mind as he looked upward and realized that the staff sergeant was far ahead of the drill instructors. He recalled a recruit who had enlisted, only to become almost immediately disillusioned. The more they shout the bigger the joke, and there was a lot of joking, he'd say.
"Biggest bunch of pussies I ever saw," the recruit said. "Richards is the only one of 'em who's worth a shit."
Drill instructors had impeccable service records, but that alone wasn't enough. They were chosen for their spit-and-polish and their looks, the idea to inspire recruits with trainers who embodied everything the Marine Corps sought to promote.
Even by those standards, Gunny Sergeant Drake Richards was a standout. He was painfully handsome, standing 6'4" and weighing at least 225 pounds. He was muscular everywhere: from his thick neck to a torso and arms that strained against his shirt, massive legs that bulged in his trousers, an ass that looked like a quarterhorse. The creases in his immaculate uniform could have been knife edges, and his footwear was shined to a blinding gloss.
Jensen was drawn to the Man, becoming a keen observer of his manner, his movements, his uniforms, and what was inside them. The attraction was sublimated, which only made it stronger, and he found himself looking for ways to get close as possible. It wasn't easy; Richards was a senior drill instructor, overseeing three platoons, making his presence irregular.
Jensen's problem was solved a few weeks into training. Drill instructors had quarters in the training barracks, and alternated nights. By tradition, recruits who made a serious error could find themselves on "house mouse" duty, cleaning the instructors' quarters, laundering their uniforms, and sleeping on a cot. When he left a live round in a rifle, Jensen became a house mouse for two weeks.