Copyright 2015 by the author. For private use only.
garystayton@yahoo.com
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Sorry about the delay with this installment. Some have said they were waiting. The faucet for this stuff gets turned on and off, it seems, and for a while the writey urges were just not there. Feel free to let me know if you find any continuity problems which bother you. And for God's sake give me some guidance on inter-character dynamics, and whatever else.
ELITE FORCE TRAINING
Josh was relieved his boots had received a substantial amount of prep-work back at Fort Roland. Now, under inspection on his first day at Elite Force School, it was obvious that top-quality work was the requirement. Standing rigid and naked, he inwardly quailed as the big, no-nonsense Sergeant examined the combat-specials. They rested on their steel studs – three feet apart – shoved onto bare feet and positioned meticulously on the line of number `14' muster-stand.
There was a short glance between the Private and the Sergeant at post 14. "Eyes to the front, boy. Forty-five degrees."
That low growl resurrected a knot of fear and excitement inside the Private. But now it was mostly fear. At four am, stripped and strictly postured in the biting cold of the night, there seemed little scope for pleasurable anticipation. Nevertheless, the nineteen year-old's male member surged and rose with apparent enthusiasm.
The Sergeant – his name was McCloud, Josh knew – made sharp, striking footsteps on the concrete of the yard. His words, his bearing, and his massively imposing frame were obviously all meant for business. As Josh caught that look from the hard, resolute grey eyes, he sucked cold air between his teeth and forced his risen elbows higher, stiffer, and further back.
By the time the sixteen men had been inspected, McCloud had demonstrated – twice – a trademark gut-punch, sending two men to the ground, heaving for air. Facing the Quartermaster's Hut with his eyes fixed in front, Josh heard the beatings take place to his right. Men moved in and used fists, truncheons, and strops. Each sharp crack was met with earnest bellows from the trainees who had been deemed to fail the inspection.
"Extra work on kit-maintenance will be undertaken during the silent hours," the Sergeant said in a clipped, angry voice which signaled the expectation of utter compliance.
"This is not boot-camp," he said to the sixteen-man line. At three yard intervals between the inspection-stands, the single rank was maybe fifty yards in length, but there was an effortless and clearly heard declaration in the words which sounded across the yard.
"There will be no allowances made. You will strive for diligence, discipline, and efficiency, and expect punishment for failure. The rules are that you will obey every order given without question or hesitation. No speaking unless spoken to. Everybody is `Sir.' There will be no need for you to squawk amongst yourselves. You won't have the time or inclination. There is no mess-hall or meal-hours. So all you have to worry about in those heads of yours will be how to obey the last order, how to keep your kit maintained to proper standard, and how to keep me satisfied."
The short speech was reckoned to be sufficient to welcome and inform the new arrivals, and inspiring as it may have been for young Joshua Jaeger to hear it, he was given very little time to digest its contents. With a shocking explosion of noise from blasting horns and screaming loudspeakers, the platoon was roused for drill.
It began at zero-four-hundred-hours – four am. Sixteen old, used pairs of combat pants were issued, tossed from a can, belted about the trainees' waists with rope. Pants, boots, rope; that was all. Then the parade-runway beckoned with its five straight miles of hard concrete.
Two ranks of eight triple-marched side by side in Elite Force School style, directly down the center of the runway. With knees lifting high and with arms held rigidly by their sides, they huffed hard with the effort required for triple speed. Fingers and thumbs were to be borne down straight at the thighs, and chins were to be lifted high. The metallic clack of steel studs on concrete had to make a tight, fast, united rhythm. The unbending music of the drill made evident any wayward participant who fell from the firm cadence – and fierce, screeching shouts of admonishment rung from the speakers on the shadowing Humvee.
Captain Damme turned up the heat blowing inside the truck's cabin. He keyed the mike.
"I want those footfalls sounding as one! I want five faultless miles or we continue `till you meet with my satisfaction! Now get that sloppy performance shaped into proper drill!"
"HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT!" Sergeant McCloud's amp-charged voice joined the encouragement, and sixteen men strove for drill perfection.
Josh Jaeger trip-drilled at the right-hand rank, near the rear at position 14. At this station he could hear the tires of the Hummer crunching slowly on the surface of the runway – behind the formation at the starboard quarter – and the obscene noise of the close loudspeaker shocked him from his concentration when it barked. The voice of the Captain in the cabin preserved its malevolent intent through the squawking battery amplifier. Perhaps worse, the big Sergeant's orders also jolted him when they came on the air.
"HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT!"
The unnatural, straight-arm run made his shoulders ache. The close-shorn, bright yellow hair of the man in front became a monotonous vision in his eyesight. Josh could see beads of sweat on that scalp, even in the cold of the morning before sunrise. In the dark, the formation drilling at triple-speed was guided largely by a pool of light from a roof-mounted spotlight on the vehicle.
"Eleven! Lift the knees! Two! Chin up! Nine! Get back in step! Fourteen! Get that chin up, boy!" That was the Captain. Then;
"HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT!"
The Sergeant's strident command issued forth and electrified Josh into a disciplined, controlled machine.
At the end of the five-mile runway, the men were fallen-out, ordered stripped, and mustered barefoot onto another set of sixteen inspection-stands.
"Don't dawdle, you bunch of fucktards!" the Sergeant roared as he strode across the tarmac toward the harried platoon. "Inspection stance! Now! When I've finished with you you'll leap to the stands instantly at the blip of my horn! Now GET YER FUCKIN' SCHLONGS ON PARADE!!!"
Josh tightened in the cold, the soles of his feet freezing on the hard surface of the runway, his eyes blinded in the powerful light from the truck.
Someone was gut-punched. He heard the strained oof as the Sergeant's fist made contact and the man dropped.
"GET ON YER FUCKIN' FEET, FAGGOT!!!"
He felt his dangling balls pull upwards in the chill, jerking between his parted legs. The headlights of another truck approached and more soldiers spilled out, their boots scraping and their movements purposeful in the edge of the artificial cone of light.
With a loud, sharp, stainless-steel click, a man primed a spring-driven tool. It was like a staple-gun. A handful of sixteen silver dog-tags jangled as the first one was loaded to the instrument, and the number-1 trainee shouted in surprise and pain as the mechanism was released.
One by one, dog-tags on steel rings were punched through each man's left nipple. Josh felt the cold steel at his hard-pinched breast, and he yelped forcefully as the small, shining adornment was driven home.
"A combat-operator doesn't squeak, boy," the Sergeant said to him. "Bellow like a man or we'll teach you how with the strop-whip."
Josh stiffened, arching his back at inspection-posture, forcing the rear of his skull back into his folded hands. The man who had pulled the trigger grinned, close at his face, and offered an open-palm, sideways cuff to his male meat which sounded with a dull slap. During the five-mile return leg on the runway, Josh could hear the faint ting ting of his new tag as it bounced at his nip – suspended from the zenith of a pointedly muscled tit, the little piece of shining metal swinging softly and prominently at the delicate overhang of the trim breast. His swollen nip hardened in the cold and hurt with its recent puncture.
The men were now fully decorated and recognizable as inducted Elite Force trainees – with their large black numbers stenciled fore and aft, their respective weights inked onto their bare backsides, and their cropped hair colored yellow. A pink hue rose in the sky above a distant line of trees, and the platoon was trip-marched back to the Hell School enclosure for a breakfast of ration-pack biscuits devoured from the plastic as they stood – mustered again – on their stands. Water was distributed from a single jerry-can, poured directly and impatiently into waiting lips. At zero-six-hundred it was time for cleaning-stations.
It had never been among the ambitions of Joshua Jeremy Jaeger to be able to clean forty latrines within two hours, but overseen by two Corporals and a Private, all armed with rubber-bladed strop-whips, it is impressive what a young man can achieve. He worked naked on the tiles. Forced with boot and fist, he tested the inside of each stainless-steel commode with his tongue. When forty shining toilets stood sparkling, a slippery, gliding hand made its way quickly and rudely between his buttocks. His ankles were gripped and parted as a probing finger entered his hole.
The boy made a trilling birdsong as his inner regions were massaged, and he spurted quickly with long, shooting ropes of hot come. With a boot at the back of his neck and with his wrists raised painfully behind, he slurped the gobbets of cooling jelly from the tiles with his tongue, swallowing and gulping under the strop-blade which hummed in the air.
"Har! Har!" the leering Corporal heckled into his ear as he struggled, face down. "Twinky-boy thinks he's good enough for Elite Force! Whadda fuckin' joke! I'm gonna bounce this faggot hard!"
Josh squirmed, his wrists gripped and bent at his shoulder blades. His breath was ragged from the recent and surprising ejaculation of his male juice, and he whimpered pitifully, tasting his own thick, salty gobbets of cream.
"SWALLOW faggot!" the Corporal yelled, his angry spit flying.
"Say SIR, FUCKIN' YES SIR when I speak to you, faggot-boy!"
"SIR! YES! SIR!" Josh roared in fury from his place on the floor. The tiled chamber reverberated with the sound.
A stunning CRACK landed on his bare ass, courtesy of a wood-handled strop and a full-strength shoulder-swing.
"AAAAAAAARGH!!! FUUUUUUUCK!!!"
For a moment, Josh had a vision of his old pal Benjie – reclining on his bunk back at Fort Roland with a magazine and a mouthful of Twinkie-Roll. Then it was an apparition of Captain Ball – the officer who had drawn attention to Josh's `glutes'. That part of Josh's anatomy needed no further notice made of it, as it seared hotly under the single stroke of the rubber strop.
It was now a world owned Sergeant McCloud, Captain Damme, and this evil Corporal.
"I got you singled-out, faggot. We don't want no pretty-ass twink-boy in the outfit, and we gonna see you squeal for a new assignment."
His name was Corporal Weston. That information was freely available, although Josh and the other Privates of the Hell-School platoon needed only to know him as `Sir'.
"Fuck these early mornings," Weston said to the other Corporal and the staff-Private as the hooters blared for the start of Forenoon Watch. Josh dashed for the yard at the insistent summons with his rump blazing.
"I can't believe you made him blow his jism like that."
"Fuckin' faggot."
It was another boot inspection at the stands – a regularity which Josh was beginning to learn for the start of every watch.
"No fucking way!" he heard someone breath desperately as the sixteen trainees rushed and struggled to do something – anything – to improve the appearance of their footwear for the no-notice muster. He glanced down. Thankfully, he'd managed to preserve most of the shine during his two hours scrubbing toilets. Others had been less lucky and, having been consigned during cleaning stations to their knees with wire brushes on the small parade-ground, they now wore their boots in a badly scratched state.
"Congratulations, fuckbags," McCloud announced to the mustered platoon. "First day at the school and you're all to be dispatched for punishment. You're not getting me to inspect those disgraceful excuses on your fucking feet. Full kit-issue is delayed until tonight. You've fucked the schedule real damn quick haven't you? And you're due eight hours of punishment drill. Starting now."
As the first clacks of steel studs on bitumen sounded, and the drill formation began its circuit under sirens, horns, and speakers, Josh quickly wondered if – and how – an eight-hour drill session was possible. Captain Ball had said he wouldn't find a moment to sit down, and sure enough, he hadn't slept. And at the beginning of the first day it seemed there was a full program to extend well into the night.
Two ranks of eight. Side by side. This time it was regulation punishment-drill – arms folded behind the head and elbows high, triple-marching at inspection-posture. It was a public parade. Past the Gunner's Store, through the Gunnery Square. Command block. Admin building. The roadway behind – and in front of most of the barracks, stores-buildings, and miscellaneous agencies of Fort Drexel – naked and with bare rump-cheeks pumping hard in unison.
"CLOSE FORMATION! TIGHTER! CLOSE-UP! DON'T SWING YER FUCKIN' ELBOWS AND GET THOSE DONGS SPINNING AT TRIPLE-SPEED!!!"
"How's this lot shaping up, Sergeant?"
"Too early to tell, Sir."
"Yeah. But your men will have a sweepstake on which one will fail-out first."
"They usually do, Sir."
"So which is leading?"
Major Fletcher wanted an advantage in the Officers' Mess betting, McCloud knew, and no one had better insight into the form than himself – the Sergeant of the Elite Force School. Except perhaps the combined intelligence of his men who worked the compound – and Captain Damme.
Anyway, Damme would be hard to beat in the Officers' Mess, and that was why McCloud expected to be sounded-out by more than a few gambling men in that quarter. He didn't quite understand the keen gaming fixation the various messes had with the Elite Force training ejection tally, but then, Fort Drexel was isolated, and all these men had few distractions.
"The money's on number fourteen, Sir. By a long way," McCloud said airily, sounding as if he didn't care – and he didn't, did he?
"Good, good," Major Fletcher said, rubbing his hands. "Fourteen. What's the problem with him? I'll get a look for myself when they're under my window. Good idea – the punishment-drill circuit on the first day. Let's everyone have a look. Noisy though. You can hear them coming a mile off. It's to go all day, is it?"
"Eight hours, Sir."
"Well, I suppose that'll give a real good look to everyone who wants it. Here they come now."
"I reckon they're down by Maritime Command, Sir. Might be here in ten minutes."
On the third floor of Tactical HQ, the distant racket could be heard faintly through the windowpanes of Major Fletcher's office. It was a mixed clamor of angry, amplified voices and the urging whoops of electric sirens. Sergeant McCloud had excused himself from the trailing Humvee and Jeeped here for the strange little surreptitious meeting. It was a relief to be away from the noise of the slow-rolling drill procession.
"There's a few who have their eyes on number sixteen, Sir."
"Another tall one, eh? The tall ones tend to fail-out early I'm told."
Presently, a Hummer turned into the paved square between Tactical HQ and the opposing wing of ELINT Operations, and into the view of the Sergeant and the Major. The vehicle showed flashing strobes and issued a stormy barrage of howls from its speakers, both human and electronic. Then the platoon rounded the corner, its sharp, fast-striking footfalls sounding through the commotion. The two ranks of naked men, shod in their boots, tripled hard in the convoy between the forward Hummer and a personnel carrier behind, their elbows raised, their carriages erect, and concentrated expressions of pain and effort on their faces.
"HUT HUT HUT HUT!" the trucks bawled.
Clack clack clack clack. The men hurried, striving, the hot grill of the rear vehicle close at the hindmost pair of asses.
"Fourteen. That one. Second from the rear," said Fletcher. "He's a young colt. Looks mighty fine from here. But I can see why he's odds-on first to go. Just a young buck, eh Sergeant? Won't have the stamina or the mental fortitude."
"I really don't know, Sir." McCloud was tiring of this meeting.
"Good legs," said Fletcher, peering thoughtfully through the window-pane, his nose close to the glass. "Look how slim the lad is. He'll be good in the water. And Christ! That's the smallest ass at Fort Drexel! Jeesh! We should have him up in the Officers' Mess to collect a prize!"
Fletcher laughed. McCloud frowned. Down below, the sixteen men of the platoon exhibited their form for the many faces at the windows all around. Sixteen shorn scalps painted bright yellow nodded and jerked together in short, rigid movements as they ran. Sixteen sweat-stained torsos glowed with a fine, oiled sheen, and sixteen loose, meaty penises flipped and flopped and swung and slapped.
McCloud could clearly see how the slighter, slimmer youngster at position 14 was distinguished from the other more bullish men. And from up here in Major Fletcher's office, the Sergeant could still make out the kid's pretty features as he passed below – the narrowed eyes and the stern, downturned corners of the mouth.
The Sergeant considered the betting sweeps (of which the kid was an early and prominent favorite) a somewhat sordid tradition. In most messes and workplaces, sixteen numbers were auctioned, some attracting high prices. The first man to fail-out from Elite Force School rewarded his backers with all the money collected for that sweep. The next round offered fifteen numbers, and so on. It was therefore with much interest that the form of the trainees was studied.
The problem was; when McCloud's own men made their stakes, there was scope for conflict. Whoever purchased a certain number would ride hard on the corresponding trainee. In fact, each of the sixteen cadets had their own multiple `sponsors,' so to speak, who had bought the numbered tickets from various bookmaking operations and whose financial interests were linked to that man being bounced.
The start of the six-week school saw fervent bidding on the obvious weaker ones, with others selling for nominal amounts. The game could be become more interesting, or less so, as the weeks progressed. Sometimes the Elite Force platoon had a high attrition rate, and there seemed to be imminent fail-outs for most of the course. Other times, a few bounced near the beginning and left a sizeable, tough core of trainees to continue. This killed the betting early and made some disappointed speculators around the base.
As 2IC of the Elite Force Training School, McCloud probably had the authority to kill off the activity amongst his own men, at least most of it, just as he'd banned the `Burton Duck-Suck,' an ignoble piece of entertainment named after his predecessor, Sergeant Burton, who had invented it. McCloud had been appalled when he first took over the compound. Now, he saw the value in some toughening, team-building, and somewhat illicit techniques. Still, the Burton duck-suck had been beyond the pale.
Under Burton, the trainees had been mustered to their stands. Each uneven numbered man had been made to crouch, with his arms folded behind his head, and to duck-waddle to the even number next in line. Here, squatting to conserve the shine on his footwear, he had sucked on the inspection-presented cock. The vulgar pursuit of Sergeant Burton and his men had been initiated late in the six-week course, when discipline and compliance were drilled home hard
They had one minute. Then the crouching uneven-numbers waddled across to the next even number at the blip of an air-horn, and sucked on the next erected prong of meat. It was a regimented and complicated choreography. If a man came, he swapped with the squatting sucker before him, and so it went. Around in a lewd display, the last in line had to waddle behind the rank for fifty feet to take in his mouth the first – until every participant had unloaded his balls.
It was a demonstration of the absolute obedience instilled by Elite Force Training. There were no complaints. Every effort was made to prevent a drop of juice hitting the small parade-ground which was the compound-yard, so they gulped desperately, well aware of the punishments on hand.
And punishment was given. Both the first and last man to come were sent to the submarine facility at the edge of the bay where they were treated by the sailors for whom such a novelty was rare.
McCloud cast-off the memory of the crude experiment he'd seen when he first arrived. Here, in Fletcher's office, he considered his own current platoon of determined hopefuls and their prospective challenges. The big money was on the kid at the fourteen-spot to drop-out first. It was impossible to tell how long that boy would last, but now McCloud predicted that the youngster's sojourn at Elite Force Training School would be shorter rather than longer.
The platoon's punishment-drill kept it busily moving – a coordinated, hop-dancing unit of thirty-two black-booted feet in concentrated rhythm. Every hour it was watered – run through a stagnant, concrete channel – down the shallow slope with steel studs ringing on the hard surface. Then emerging on the other side to continue with the Hummers and Jeeps, slaked, dripping, and wheezing.
Harsh road-grit found its way deep into wet butt-cracks. It scraped between pulsing, working buttocks, stuck to opened armpits, and caked the insides of mouths – mouths which were wide with appalled distress in the midst of the torture-drill.
McCloud spun the wheels of his Jeep in the gravel outside of Tactical HQ. He caught up with the procession and drew alongside the naked men as they performed in drill-formation. Sixteen schlongs whirled and slapped as the incessant ring of steel on bitumen sounded the platoon's progress. The kid looked to be doing fine – better than most – but this was lightweight speed-drill, and the boy could be expected to suffer grievously under full pack-load. Now, he loped effortlessly and well, arms controlled and locked behind the head, bare, springing muscles streaming with filth and sweat.
Time would tell the future for every member of the elite platoon. But for the time being, the eight-hour punishment circuit would end with each man crying tears of agony as he faced the next sector.
garystayton@yahoo.com