Copyright 2014 by the author
The story is intended for a mature audience.
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OP SWIMMER HELL SCHOOL
Combat Operations Swimmers belong to the fittest, toughest unit in the Military. Much effort is invested in their training, and only the best and most determined are chosen. Op Swimmer School – known as "Hell School" – is staffed by dedicated professionals, men who are fiercely capable of indoctrinating and moulding the hopeful young Combat Swimmers.
The School is legendary... and infamous. A course is of indeterminate length, for a Combat Swimmer Trainee will remain on-board until he is adequately assessed, or quits, or is ejected. The failure-rate is high.
Op Swimmer School lies on the icy peninsula of Coldbath Point, an inhospitable outcrop populated with windblown scrub, and rocks dashed by a black, heaving ocean. The school itself is no more welcoming than its surroundings – a low-lying cluster of weathered concrete bunkers – all surrounded by a high, iron fence. The arched, painted metal sign over the gate reads "Coldbath Operations Swimmer School," and underneath - Suscipiat ad Inferos - "Welcome to Hell." The mirthless joke lies in the suggestion of inferno – there is no heating and the only hot water is in the small set of staff-quarters.
Here is where they come – volunteers for the hardest Military training in the toughest outfit. They are warned. There are no modern conventions of equity or correctness – no moderation or concessions. There are no weekends, no liberty, no free time. Don't bother bringing your phone or iPod.
What we are about to see is how training is conducted at Op Swimmer Hell School.
First Middle Watch – 48-hour Indoc Sector. Twenty-Three-Fifty-Nine-Hundred Hours – Midnight:
The change of watch was marked by clanging electric-hammer fire-bells. These were the first official moments for the new intake of four men – a small class, but low numbers were quite usual. The screening and weeding for acceptances were efficient processes.
Midnight in the yard under harsh, bright-white floodlights. Most of the staff were present to greet the new-kids. Tiny, colorful shards of ice could be seen flying in the light, flicked and tossed by a wind straight off the sea. The officers, NCO's, and soldiers were muffled tight to their necks with warm Army woollens, burying their noses in their collars. It was a Wintertime course-session.
The initial, alarming arrival was completed with megaphones screaming obscenities and the threat of flying truncheons and bats. The trainees were roused from the dark innards of a transport-truck after a journey of ten hours spent on the bouncing metal tray. Into the bright-lit quadrangle of the yard they were kicked, squinting and yelping. Now, the four new Swimmers stood in a row, each over a drain at the centre of the yard, four metres apart. They were all eighteen years-old, and all healthy, prize bucks. Naked and poised like ballet-dancers, they strained on tip-toes and made elegant, curved postures with their arms reaching high above their heads – as high as they could – to where their wrists were shackled in handcuffs, close together, palms facing outwards, hoisted on stainless-steel ratchet chains to an iron pipe running over the yard.
Thusly posed, their lat-wings flared expansively from the exposed flanks, bearing fine belts of muscle laced with the ribcages, which showed in pockets near the deep, deep hollows of the wide-opened pits. The plates of breast-muscle were spread widely and flattened, the brown nips as hard as bubble-gum, pouting and swelling in the biting cold. Each stretched, expanded torso narrowed dramatically to a set of flicking, super-smooth and slender hips. Truly, they were swimmers, and the system had chosen well, it seemed. These youths were big, powerful, and streamlined. The long, lean fields of belly-muscle swivelled and swerved as each kid tried to find his ideal stance on extended toes, winched upwards on the chain like a prize slab of beef on display. The thigh-muscles sprung and popped as they lifted and shifted the weight, making delicate networks of pleated sinew stand out on those graceful legs.
As if to prove the condition and vitality of the naked flesh exhibited in the yard, each male organ was fully erected, curving and flaring like four aroused cobras, showing their pulsing undersides and thrusting hard to the navel.
"Which one's got the best cock?" said Corporal Taggard loudly. There was laughter, and steaming breath at the mouths of the Privates and Corporals. The freezing air almost hurt the lungs, and had subdued the usual high-spirits which accompany a new intake – so Taggard's cheekiness was somewhat welcome.
The administration had been done. The four young bucks had been busted in rank from Private back to shitkicking Recruit Special – lower even than the Recruit Regular who has been in the Forces for half an hour – and it takes a special kind to volunteer for that. It was almost impossible that one of them would meet the proverbial Recruit Regular anytime soon, but if he did, the Recruit Regular with half an hour's service under his belt would have to be called "Sir," and be obeyed quickly with a "Sir, yes Sir!"
That is what these four young Combat Swimmers were here to learn. They had to be broken hard into Hell School harness, and it was best that they learn quickly. Their heads had been zip-clipped to a prickling number-one, and the remaining hair sprayed bright yellow for visibility in the water. They were numbered 1,' 2,' 3,' and 4' from left to right, the big numerals stencilled in black ink, six-inches high in the middle of their breasts between the nipples, and on their backs. Registration numbers were written in red indelible marker on their bellies, and the doctor had marked their respective weights in black on each small, hard left buttock.
"Toes together," they were told. "Chins up. Forty-five degrees. Suck in the guts. Clench the buttocks. Don't move. Don't speak unless spoken to. Use `Sir' at the beginning and end of every sentence."
There were rules at Op Swimmer School – rules enforced by punishment. The four boys stopped their chattering teeth. Now, their knees were tensed and locked, lifting their heels, and pushing upward toward the pipe overhead. They posed – stretched and secured – with fingers flowering from the steel, military ratchet-cuffs.
It is time we met them individually. There is no point in knowing their names, for from now on they are 1, 2, 3, and 4, but we might know them as Twinky,' Ugly,' Spunky,' and Goofy.' These were among the repertoire of monikers used at Op Swimmer School to distinguish its trainees based upon their facial features. Twinky looked like the serious one – a small crease of determination between his eyebrows as he raised his chin to a regulation forty-five degree tilt and stared straight above the roofline of the quartermaster's building. Ugly' might be the defiant one – a spark of fire in his eyes. Spunky' looked as though he might be harbouring some doubts at this early stage, his lower lip exhibiting one small quiver. And Goofy looked doubtful too, his wide, elastic red lips expressing a hint of confusion.
"You big buck studs are makin' a fine impression already, with yer big hard-ons. You faggots must be in love with this place. Good for you!"
It was the voice of Captain Damme – a deep, treacly baritone full of smart-assery and confidence.
"What about you, Twinky? You all cosy for your first night in Hell School?"
"Sir! Yes! Sir!"
Twinky couldn't keep the desperate chatter from his teeth. His lips were pulled back and his voice was a boyish squeak.
"What, fuckbag?"
"SIR! YES! SIR!"
"Not loud enough, Twinky-boy. Can't hear ya."
The voice of the number `1' trainee made a powerful shout in response, his youthful lungs ringing against the concrete walls of the surrounding blocks admirably, even as his body twitched in the freezing wind, suspended in the steel cuffs.
A big hand gloved in warm brown leather made a hearty sideways slap, twanging the hard-risen man-meat thrusting from Twinky's loin.
"That's the spirit, Twinky-boy! Now you, Ugly? Kid, you got a cute little button-nose!"
The inspection continued. Cold-swollen nipples were tweaked and rolled between thumbs and forefingers. There were rude hands and rude comments – tickling, ill-mannered leather gloves in tight crevices and snarled insults spat directly. Hard, polished-wood parade-sticks made adjustments – prodding a belly, lifting a chin, and smacking into tense muscle. One was fitted into a tight rearward crack, parting the hard-muscled cheeks with some force, like a sliding rail in a groove, and lifting, pressing at the anus and making the big shackled buck take tiny forward ballet-steps on tippy-toes.
"Goofy," said Captain Damme. "You look cold. Your lips are blue an' your schlong is startin' to droop."
"Sir! I think I'm getting hypothermia, S... S... Sir!..."
"Sergeant McCloud! Get this trainee warmed!"
Number 4's mistake was certainly the last of its kind. The strop-whip was a flexing, oiled leather blade built specifically for purpose – seven feet long – riveted to a two-hand wooden grip and stitched on the tail with a thread-pattern intended to leave its mark. It hummed, burning the air and whistling toward its sonic crack. Goofy roared its effectiveness at the first stroke, and was then told he must perform the count.
"SIR! ONE! SIR!" he bellowed with tears in his eyes, learning fast.
"Did that hurt?" asked a smirking, baby-faced Private.
Goofy was cured of his complaints at the first arrival of the flying, leather strop on his rump, but a further three cuts were administered. The other three boys elevated themselves diligently on their toes and presented their armpits, looking straight ahead and raising their chins to forty-five degrees while Goofy took his cracking licks noisily – timed by the big Sergeant McCloud with steady, military precision. The number 4 kid's bellows were deep and manly, delivered with force from the guts. His counting of the whip-cuts was performed with gusto, and when he announced "SIR! FOUR! SIR!" he had been transformed from the big-eyed Goofy we knew moments ago, to a young man who knew his place.
"Right, you fuckers!" bellowed Captain Damme. "Honeymoon time is over! Here's how it works! You'll obey every order! Instantly! Without question or complaint! And your pal, young Goof there, just fucked-up in the first ten minutes! He complained! A dereliction of Standing-Orders! And I don't have the patience for squealing faggots who shouldn't be here!"
As Captain Damme spoke, a three-inch canvas firehose hissed and snaked on the concrete as it was charged with one-hundred and eighty pound per square inch of pressure. The brass nozzle was a half-inch aperture, held by two men. There was a moment's silence as four sets of wide eyes stared into the black, half-inch brass throat. Then the nozzle-spigot was opened on Twinky – number 1. The belting shock was met with a massive hoot from Twinky's mouth as the air was knocked from his lungs. He danced like a motherfucker, beaten and spun in his hoisted handcuffs. The dousing lasted one, two, maybe three minutes, then it moved to the next. Down the line the hose was trained, lashing the bare skin raw with its hammer-force, ice-needle jet. Then, back up the line, from 4 back to number 1.
This was no quick bath. It was a prolonged piece of fun. When the hose was not on him, each naked buck hip-hopped desperately on his toes for warmth, raising his knees high and swerving his hips actively to the sides in a fast disco-dance.
"Boogaloo-loo-loo you big buckeroos!" the men shouted to the tangoing youths. "Yer big schlongs ain't so hard now!" They used their megaphones to be heard above the rush of the hose-jet and the appalled whoops of the boys in their sub-zero ordeal.
"GAH! GAH! GAH!" the young swimmers shouted as they bopped and capered, fighting the freezing wait for their next turn under the hose. They turned and jumped with their wrists held high overhead.
"Which one's the best boogie-dancer? Fuck a cow-herd backwards! It's Spunky Number three! He's turnin' his cock like a windmill and shakin' his hips like a Vegas go-go-girl! Hey Spunky! Where'd you learn to dance? You shoulda joined Radio City Music Hall with that twirlin' ass o' yours! Get the hose on Spunky! We wanna see him show his moves!"
Number 3 – Spunky – was a tapered cut of dynamic human muscle working hard under the battering nozzle of the firehose. He danced like a crazed slut seeking dollar bills. The high-heels were enforced by the stainless-steel manacles lifting him to his toes.
"Check out the Spunk-Boy! I'm serious! This guy moves like trained ballet-dancer! Whadder yer think o' that? Hey Spunk-Boy! Can you shimmy like they do in "Nuns on the Run"?
Jeremy Johnson had indeed done some professional dancing before joining the military, but his name and his previous training was of hardly any consequence now, excepting whereupon it enabled him to twirl his heavy penis in propeller-swings from his vigorously moving loin, and amuse his superiors with his skill. He was Number 3 – "Spunk-Boy" – with his number stencilled on his front and back and his close-clipped hair colored yellow.
"Spunky's set the boogie-woogie standard! Yer a real fine mover, Spunky-Boy! Get the hose on em all until they're twistin' like Spunky! Ha! Come on boys! Rotate those asses and spin those cocks! Hey Sarge! Wouldn't it be somethin' if we could get em all whirlin' their schlongs in unison! Can we get some music goin'? What about Parker's AC/DC tape?"
The fight against hypothermia under the battering firehose took a great deal of dynamic vigour – driving, muscular momentum forced onto tip-toe by the overhead steel restraints. Under the floodlights, it made a spirited show, and the frantic energy of the dancing-boys in a row was perceived even at a distance of two kilometres – by eyes pressed to tripod-mounted binoculars in the window of a local's shack. The silent, white-lighted stage of the School's concrete yard made a distant theatre for an audience on the side of Rifle Peak.
Up close, it wasn't silent.
"GAH! GAH! GAH! GAH!" The Op Swimmers shrieked. The megaphones squawked angrily, and the pounding hammer of the firehose continued, making swirling torrents on the concrete which the drains could hardly swallow. The soldiers stepped back, careful to avoid the freezing gushes. They muffled themselves more snuggly in their wool scarves as they watched the bare, shackled buckstuds battling under the hose in the centre of the yard.
It was getting late. They drifted off to their quarters, but well into the early morning there was someone willing to take up the brass nozzle and spigot, and feel the empowering distraction of making a naked stud dance. Later, during the very silent hours between zero-two and zero-three hundred hours, the Middle-Watchmen released the chains and unlocked the steel cuffs. The four trainee Op Swimmers had been racked onto their toes in the yard for two and a half hours.
The only items of kit allowed from their previous life were their boots – already worn-in and drill-ready. They had to be polished to Parade Standard before the inspection-muster at the start of Morning Watch. Small nuggets of hard, old boot-black were issued, and the four trainees were given four ten-inch green-painted circles on the concrete upon which to stand. The circles were numbered 1, 2, 3, and 4. Their feet were not allowed to stray outside. The boots were not allowed to touch the ground until the parade-ready mirror-gloss was finished, and the four trainees began their work.
Spit, fingers, black lumps of polish, and boot-leather were worked assiduously and economically. They were alone now, under the bright floodlights on their respective numbered marker-circles, concentrating on their task. There was no talking. Erections rose hard to their bellies and fell, ignored, the begging male organs sadly disappointed at the rubbing employment now occupying their owners as they worked on their boots.
The zero-four-hundred-hour Morning Watch was approaching fast, and the trainee swimmers knew that their boots had to fucking shine – reflecting in mirror-finish the faces of the officers and NCO's who would conduct the inspection. The first four-hour watch of Op Swimmer Hell School was closing. The sun was getting ready to rise, and the remainder of the forty-eight hour Indoc-sector remained to be completed.
***** sergeantwright338@gmail.com