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thobymusgrave@gmail.com www.bucksinhand.blogspot.com
Drill Sergeant Fullerton Harde invites you to...
FULL HARDE BOOT CAMP!!!
Hard men broken. Not for Pussies. No liberal or "correct" expectations. No down-time. No questions.
A white-painted boulder half immersed in the dirt, about the size of four sandbags, marks the gate-entrance to Full Harde Boot Camp. Upon the white rock's rough surface, the black lettered words "FULL HARDE" appear in capitals, facing the roadway. It's a normal farm-gate, like any other in this district, and the dirt-road which leads away in a straight line between ranks of Douglas Firs, looks like the approach to any one of the many ranches in these parts. But the white rock nestled in the bushes signals something different.
Ten miles on, past the gate on the dirt track, there lies Full Harde Boot Camp – the destination which has been named in whispers by those who know. Fullerton Harde runs his camp only for the right kind of subjects.
So, in the tradition of exclusive hotels and select vacation-spots, let as advertise firstly the accommodation provided at this elite and private place.
It is exclusive indeed, for only six young men are taken at any one time. They sleep in a concrete slot wide enough only for two columns of three narrow wooden shelves, bolted and hinged to the cement walls and slung outward on diagonal chains. The recruits are stacked up-down two-by-three on these rough pallets, and the routine at Full Harde Boot Camp ensures they are in no need of pillows, blankets, or sheets to exploit the four hours per night of their allotted sleep-sector. They slumber fitfully, nakedly, and closely, breathing the sweat and vapours of their companions and the hot, tangy smell of fresh spunk – the clotted fluid emissions of very young men under hard duress. No inducement is needed for sleep, and the wooden boards of the triple-stacked ledges appear as feather-beds at the end of the day – twelve o'clock midnight for the lucky ones.
The bare, white-hot arc-light on the ceiling of the small cell is extinguished and the grunting, whimpering men lose no time in attaining their individual dreamlands. Their big, naked bodies make enough warmth in the tiny space, along with the residual heat from the light, and any nocturnal disturbances they make generally pass by ignored in the close-packed closet of sleep-desperate recruits. They are coated with grease and warm, dripping juices. Limbs and the meat of unashamed male parts dangle in the slats and between the shelves, and the narrow cubicle is filled with the stink of hard-worked men.
Above each reclining body, a pair of spit-lustred black boots is suspended by its laces, either from the slats of the pallet above or from a nail in the ceiling. The treasured shine is worked with tongue and precious crusts of scattered polish which might be found, and one recruit or more might choose to forego their sleep sector for a few hours of spit-shining in the dark. Drill Sergeant Fullerton Harde wants to see his own reflection in the toes of those boots every morning, and the prospect of punishment ensures a mirror finish.
The boots are more than twice the age of the wearers – well-worn and used – but the hours of burnish-work must achieve a pass at the inspection-muster nonetheless. Nailed into the soles are big steel studs which make a sharp clackety-clackety-clack on the parade-runway during drill.
The bare concrete compartment solidly packed with sleeping, heaving muscle is shuttered and triple-bolted with a heavy iron door. There is a small, noisy swing-hinged window in the iron, making an aperture to the warmly textured atmosphere of the closed sleeping-box within. Also, there is an electric hammer fire-bell fixed to the inner side, which resonates on the iron structure with an ear-shattering clarity. It is activated at four AM from a switch on the outside.
The sudden, brutal awakening is met with howls and shrieks of shocked confusion and outrage from inside the cement box, and limbs and bodies tumble and senses spin. The strong lights come on. The big iron door is flung viciously open, outwards against the external concrete wall of the miniature, free-standing bunker, and the interior is blasted with a firehose charged with one hundred and eighty pounds per square-inch of ice-needle terror. They are literally washed bodily from their bunks by the one-inch mouth of the brass nozzle, and the interior of their tight barrack is blasted clean in seconds. Shitting and pissing is done into a single stainless-steel bucket under the freezing jet, and with the wet, panicked ablutions completed, the bucket is scattered by the powerful, stinging spray.
Every morning is like this. The obscene, fast-clanging bell is the moment's warning before the battering attack of the firehose. Before the minds of the six lads are clear – before their wakefulness is complete – they are required to muster at inspection-posture on the row of outdoor stands in front of the blockhouse accommodation barrack. Within thirty seconds of the foul, dream-splitting initiation of the electric fire-bell, they are to be booted and fully laced, and spread for review. The black, mirror-surface boots will be sloshing with water and their erections will be fully risen – pole-hard and at their bellies – demonstrating the vitality necessary for the new day at Full Harde Boot Camp. No night-time masturbation is countered. A limp cock signals the depletion of a man's energy in nocturnal activities – energy that would be better spent in more work and more drill.
Immaculate boots are planted a regulation three feet apart, toes directly on green-painted square brackets on the concrete, labelled L' and R' and reserved with letters and numbers in a single line of six inspection-stands. Hands are clasped and fingers are laced behind erect necks. Elbows are pushed back. Guts are sucked in and buttocks are clenched and lifted. Laxity will be corrected sharply with a poke and a flick from a flexing cane.
The overhead floodlights on slender metallic poles show the jewelled droplets decorating the smooth, bare muscle on display. Their chins are raised very high, diligently, and their sharpened eyes are fixed on some point in the darkened sky beyond the lights. Their armpits are spread and opened, hands clasped behind zip-clippered skulls. Fullerton Harde's staff have arrived in an army-green Humvee. They are dressed in warm, woollen uniforms with flak-armor and black-visor riot-gear, and they shout through a battery of hand-held megaphones.
The four AM night-time hour is assaulted with screeching orders and insults. One black-gloved hand hard-slaps an erect cock sideways with a well-swung arm. Another swishes a long, disciplinary cane, and one bears the hard baton of a big steel flashlight firmly between tight buttocks from behind, lifting and shifting the recruit onto his toes and parting the crack with the cold, knurled truncheon. It all happens so quickly. A hard gut-punch lays one recruit to the concrete, and the amplified shrieks babble anew in the night, clamoring for the downed man to return to inspection-posture.
At a barked command, kits are donned. The equipment is stored in the open. They frantically grease themselves from two big cans – one of green and one of brown – all over, from skull to tippy toe and every crevice in between. Bodily camouflaged with artistically slapped-on wet greasepaint, the six young recruits charge around under the stark lights, frantic to be dressed and ready.
They are formed-up into their squad of two-by-three, and without delay they are triple-marching, clackety-clack-clacking on the tarmac road with their studded boots in concert-tempo. Fullerton Harde knows how to train a team of young male muscle so that they will not fall out of step. In fact, they abhor a momentary lapse as much as he does. At Full Harde Boot Camp, everyone is trained to the same intent, and that is of iron, unflinching discipline.
The six recruits are warming under their greasepaint at triple-march speed, at a wintery four AM and followed closely by the Humvee with lights blazing and speakers howling. It is a noisy procession of mind-blanking fury, for at Full Harde Boot Camp everything is focussed one-hundred percent on the task at hand. Six mouths are blowing fast steamy breath into the cold air. Six tight-muscled bare backsides are bouncing, flinching, and running in close formation, painted in green and brown with the colored grease slathered into the six snug, fast-moving, fast-pulsing crevices. Under the paint, the numbers 1,' 2,' 3,' 4,' 5,' and 6' are stencilled onto the six left buttocks – in black on the Caucasian boys and the Asian, and in white ink onto the single negro buck. The black boy is number `1,' and positioned at the front left of the triple-marching squad.
Green, WWII GI helmets are mounted high on shaved skulls, strapped on hard with webbing belts around the ears and cheeks. Numbers on the helmet-fronts correspond to the numbered butt-stamps. 1,' 2,' 3,' 4,' 5,' and 6.' The task of balancing the heavy headgear on top keeps necks erect and concentration focussed on the drill. Packs are loaded with six steel ammunition boxes each, and each box contains two bricks. It's a frightful weight to tolerate, borne on the canvas shoulder-straps and the tight-cinched webbing belt at the belly, but the Humvee rolling behind dictates a crackingly severe pace.
Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack! go the steel-shod feet of six big, strong younkers working strenuously under load and at speed.
In front, boltless Lee-Enfield rifles are held at high-port. The arms of the young recruits will ache with fire at half a mile. Their limbs will be marked with outstanding, pulsing veins under the greasepaint and their brows will be creased with effort and distress as their mouths and cheeks work to forcefully suck and blow from the chilled air.
`1': Tyrone Baycliffe. Front left. High cheekbones and a noble face, with a wide mouth and full lips which turn delicately at the corners. His skin is a shining jet-black, highlighting the miniature silver dog-tag pinned to his left nipple with a stud. Like the others, he was pierced with a spring-loaded gun on arrival at Camp Harde. Clack Clack Clack go his boots in the formation.
The loudspeaker on the Humvee screeches with an angry voice making foul exhortations. Faster!
`2': Ky Lang. Front right. A wide, squishy nose and prominent brows making dark slits of his eyes. His hair is glossy black. Clack Clack Clack. He grips the rifle out in front and makes strained, open-mouthed "hah" noises in time with his breathing and his pace.
The big tyres of the vehicle crunch on the road behind, pushing closer to the close-formed, hard-running squad of six.
`3': Dylan Dale. Middle left. Big, feminine eyes with sweeping lashes, and an angular face. He swivels his pumping backside in tight rotations as he balances the tall pack-load of bricks in ammo-boxes on his back.
The air-horn blasts, adding more offensive noise to the pool of white light isolated in the darkness.
`4': Dane Daniels. Middle right. A sweet-faced twink-boy with sharp eyes and narrow lips – a twink in face only, contrasting with the body of big, hard muscle. The grease on him is mixing with running sweat and making lurid streaks of brown and green, trickling in his sharp-etched contours and in the hot wetness of his rear crack.
The powerful lights are close behind, making long, jiggling shadows of the drilling squad on the road ahead.
`5': Brett Damme. Rear left. Rounded features. Full, red lips and rosy cheeks of sensitive skin. His thigh muscles are working and flaring like springs and burning with effort. He can feel his flying male-meat thumping and reaching alternately sideways to each hip with his rhythm.
The noise of the speakers and the horn will be heard for miles around. The headlights illuminate the indecent scene starkly and blatantly.
`6': Bang Hung. Rear right. A wide nose with flaring nostrils. Eyes pulled into almond-shape by golden skin. The steel-pinned dog-tag at his left nipple makes a faint "ting" "ting" "ting" as it rattles along with the sharp Clack Clack of his boots. Keep up. Keep in time. That is the only thought for each of them.
Their names don't matter now. They are "One," "Two," "Three," "Four," "Five," or "Six." Or "boy" or "faggot" or "cocksucker." Nor do their respective features or skin-tones matter, slathered under slippery greasepaint as they are and working like bullocks. Pack-drill will be ten miles before a breakfast of water, bread, and cold gruel, wolfed directly from their helmets in the field.
Pack-drill. Field manoeuvres. Bivouac. Classroom work. Cleaning-stations. Work-party. Kit-muster. And after dinner – punishments and surprises. Somewhere, time has to be found for keeping those boots up to standard. And somewhere else far-off, there remains some abstract necessity for sleep.
Sergeant Fullerton Harde is ferociously efficient, and licks his team into tippety-top drilling shape good and fast. He takes coffee from a thermos in the front seat of the Hummer and scrutinizes through the windscreen with some measure of satisfaction. The Bakelite microphone is in his hand and he is listening for the slightest mistiming in the clack-clack step of the six hustling recruits belting the road with their big, steel-stud boots. The only uncontrolled element of the unit is the set of six swinging penises as the naked young men jostle for speed.
Harde's voice is an unmistakeable thunder in the roof-mounted loudspeaker.
"Closer! Noses touching the pack in front! Don't lag! Faster! Step it up and boogaloo-loo-loo! Knees up! Chins up! Swing those schlongs and waltz those asses! Or I'll drill you fuckers back for another ten miles! Move it, fuckbags!"
Sleep-sector at the boot-camp is over, and now, the recruits are revived from their torpor and fully focussed on the new day. They must be. There is not a second of free time to be had at Full Harde Boot Camp.
thobymusgrave@gmail.com www.bucksinhand.blogspot.com