Copyright 2011 by the author
rod.storme@yahoo.com
HARD TRAININ' THE KID PART 2 Chapter 3
Adults only. Gay sex and authoritarianism.
Now, some of you guys have written in with very kind messages, and ol' Sergeant Storme can't tell you how much of a kick he gets from knowing that you like it enough to write to the humble author. Fact is though, your Sgt. Storme isn't nearly as egotistical as he might seem within these pages, the Sergeant being a character who is "switched on" when the requirement arises, such as when a tight-bodied wise-ass punk needs some hard trainin' – or when the tough NCO recounts these adventures at the keyboard and falls into the habit of referring to himself in the third-person. What I'm trying to say is; I'm not the total asshole, so if you feel like contactin' the Sarge, be cool and go right ahead. The door to the Sarge's office is open, metaphorically speaking.
Now hey. This writin' gig is tougher than I thought and I can really feel the pressure, so if you're hangin' for the next instalment and The Kid is fallin' down the list on Nifty, then try to be patient. The Sarge will eventually get around to bringin' you up to date (all two of you). And here I was thinkin' these writers had it easy.
Alright. Enough of that shit. If you remember the end of the last episode, you will recall that I was going on about scything a field. A scythe is one of those things carried around by the Grim Reaper, and he – being a heavy-duty kind of dude – carries it as a symbol of his power to cut-down the wavering fronds and separate them from their life on Earth. Luckily, Sergeant Storme isn't quite that hardcore. I bet that if confronted with the Grim Reaper, the whiny-ass cry-baby recruit would go running to the arms of his feared Sergeant Storme.
Just what the fuck is Sgt. Storme on about here? Well, he's tryin' to introduce the confused reader to the mechanics of the medieval and earthly scythe. But really, the kid had to be introduced as well, so we might as well just follow along with young Recruit Bang Hyu and see how he does it. Does that make sense?
Mike had a whole shitload of ancient farming junk in that old hayshed, and leaning up against the wooden planks in the gloom was this useless old sickle. It had a long shaft of dry, splitting wood, a handle at the top, another handle in the middle, and a curved, rusty blade at the bottom. It was heavy. I took some pity and found some work-gloves.
If any of you guys have ever done some rootin' around on a farm, you'll know of the old equipment that lies around in sheds for decades. The soldier-boy's eyes lit with a natural curiosity when he saw it. He stood in his woeful but spit-shined boots on the green linoleum circle, cock still erect, and whip-fired ass still glowing with those handsome welts (thanks H.).
"Be careful with this, boy! Don't cut yer fuckin' feet off! Carry it across yer shoulders an' put these gloves on first. See that field down there? Get down there an' climb over that fence. We got fuckin' work to do, boy, and don't plan for any breaks!"
I followed him in the truck. The day ahead was going to be hot and I wanted the amenity of an AC running off an idling V8 and a six-pack in a 12-volt cooler.
Now, if any of you are interested – and maybe some of you are – here's how it's done, and here's what I instructed the kid.
You get the top grip in your left hand and the middle one in your right, and you sweep the blade before you from right to left. You gotta twist, and you gotta angle the blade just right – not trying to cut too much in a single swing or it's wasted effort. Those pre-industrial peasants sure would have had a hard time of it back in the day, and you manly types mowin' your lawns can be thankful Sir James Edison Watt invented the two-stroke orbital mower. Otherwise you'd be swingin' one of these heavy sickles every time the grass grew.
Keep the blade level with the ground, and not too close or you foul it with dirt. Now twist as you bring it across. Yeah, that's right, kid. Twist at the waist, nice an' supple – an' hop yer little butt back for the next stroke. Now faster. Twist, hop, wiggle, now back for the next. That's great, kid, but we gotta go faster. Keep hoppin' an' wigglin'. That butt's gotta rotate like a harlot-stripper in a Kings Cross club if we wanna have this finished today. Shit. You're pretty good, kid. You've got ol' Sgt. Storme pretty much converted to the artistic merits of ballet dancin'. No wonder all those old codgers line up at the Opera House to see Swan's Lake. With a chorus-line of toned little backsides like that movin' about like you're doin' now, who'd want to miss it?
Don't slow down, kid. Keep that rhythm. Hard work, ain't it? An' those thistles sure itch when it sticks to your sweat. Hey kid, I bet that whipped ass o' yours is feelin' the heat. That's okay. It keeps your mind on the job. Now, I told you not to try to take too much in a single swing. Keep the angle shallow. It's six-thirty AM, we been goin' for two minutes, an' you got thirty acres an' all day to go, so you gonna need to be efficient in your movements if you don't wanna disappoint your Sergeant Storme. That's it, kid. A twist, a wiggle and a hop, and you're on your way. Your boots fulla dirt yet? Just think how great it's gonna be when you've finished mowing this field and it's time to bundle-up all this thistle and carry it down the road. Fuck, it's hot already and the sun ain't over the trees yet. `Scuse me while I get back in the truck and run the AC.
It's too early for a beer, I thought, but fuck it. I'm thirsty. As I took the first sip, it occurred to me how rather strangely lucky I was to score this kid. Through the windscreen, I watched him work assiduously. By fuck that waist was slim, and that ass moved with tight, muscle-driven control as the slender buck danced with the scythe, howing and mowing with grass offcuts and bits of thistle sticking to his shining flesh. With every swipe, some of those tall weeds fell and the hard-working kid hopped forward, attacking with precise, fluid moves. His upper back went red with effort and the muscles stood proudly in wet lustre. By crimminy, I had my very own dancin' boy puttin' on a ballet-show just for me!
I edged the truck slowly along the fence-line, with a beer in one hand and the steering-wheel in the other. As I overtook him, I got to see his brown cock flickin' with his quick moves and ass-swingin' progress.
"Keep it up, dancin'-boy!" I yelled with my beer-arm hanging from the truck window. "Shi-it! You sure know how to move that ass! Boogaloo-loo-loo! Hey! Get a grip on that sickle an' twist at the waist! That's it! You're learnin' good, pal! You look like you're dancin' t' yer doof-doof music! Hey kid! This is good practice fer yer ballet-dancin' ain't it?"
From what I could tell, the kid paid me no attention. The work was too hard and the use of the heavy scythe took too much effort and concentration. His eyes were narrowed and sharp – focussed on the swinging blade. His lips and mouth forced air like a straining athlete with no breath to spare, and his boot-shod feet were planted widely in the dirt to balance the unwieldy tool as it swayed. With every swipe he jumped and veered, his bare ass swivelling and his torso rockin'.
You wanna teach a kid the value of hard work? Use a buggy-whip. There ain't no way a man's gonna slack-off after he's tasted that leather on his ass. And hey, at that moment I realised that I ain't never had a man or a boy so determined and resolute as this kid and I felt a surge of fondness as I viewed his naked form hoppin' an' skippin' with that sickle.
Now, this was Sunday and I'd planned to hit the road back to the city around midday, but mowing Mike's paddock was a worthwhile thing to get done and a way of thankin' him for the use of his old farm – not that it made much difference to him. But nevertheless, the job wasn't going to be left half done, and that meant a full – full day's work.
At eight am, the short fence-line was mowed.
"TURN AROUND, KID, AN' GET HACKIN' ON THE NEXT PASS. I TOLD YER THERE'D BE NO BREAKS. NOW I WANNA SEE THAT ASS JIVIN' AN' THE STALKS FLYIN'! YOU BETTER BOP LIKE A LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER IF YER WANNA GET HOME TONIGHT!"
The shrill, truck-mounted speaker yelled its asshole screech across the field. While I drank beer, I gunned the truck up the hill to get a big jerry-can of water. At nine, I summoned him across the fence and he stuck his head under the stream which sloshed from the tailgate. He slurped desperately.
"Take yer time getting' watered, kid. Yer still got a full day o' this." His brown body gleamed like a shining beacon in the hot sun, every muscle tensed, and even in the open air the fresh, tangy stink of sweat made itself known to my nostrils. Now guys, I don't know how many of you are into this. The contemplation of a hard-laborin' young buck in the field is perhaps not something that translates all that well on the page, but imagine if you will, my prize catch – the determined kid who had sacrificed a weekend of doof-doofin' in the nightclubs to toil and struggle for his rough ol' Sarge. Now there was a spectacle of which many of you would be envious. Lucky bastard I am.
At ten o'clock I watered him again. He was panting with effort. The field appeared as a shimmering, blazing hell with no end. Still, his cock rose as he knelt in the dirt under the tap and I saw his wandering hand flap toward it.
"Leave yer crank alone, boy! No time to pull yer muscle when there's work to be done!" I said. Two pleading brown eyes were turned upwards to me and I saw the word `please' beginning to form on those pliable lips. The rigid, ascendant man-meat beat like an urgent hammer into that flat belly, but I was fucked if he was going to be allowed to touch it. The little fucker needed all his spunk for the work ahead, and the Sarge knows how to regulate his young recruits. I learnt that much in the marines.
"Now high-tail it back over that fence an' get jigglin' with that sickle, boy! We don't have time to waste!"
The day went on, and to describe any more of it in the same manner would be very tedious to you, the reader. But by now you know that mowing a field in the fashion of our medieval ancestors is a tedious and grinding undertaking. Every springing muscle on the kid would be aching like hell for days. Jeez, it was wearisome enough for me just sittin' in the truck. I had to stop with the beers due to the impending drive back home that night, and as the day wore on I had to keep yellin' into the PA to keep the little punk movin' with the blade. Sometimes he'd lean on it, trying to rest for a second, and my voice in the amplified horn had to make him jump back to life. No use losing the rhythm.
At around six in the afternoon, the field was done. Now that was one hell of a job for one man in one day, if I might say so, and the poor kid was a stumbling wreck as he shouldered the heavy sickle and ran it back up the hill to the hayshed – with his old Sarge barkin' and urging from behind in the truck. On the concrete section of the yard he leant over with his hands on his knees and head down, breathing hard. Sinew and veins stood-out all over that tough buckeroo's body, his balls and cock limp, hanging, and swinging. He turned his head sideways to me and his eyes spoke for the voice he couldn't muster. "What next?!"
"Get yer fuckin' ass on that muster-point, boy! Yer look like a seasoned pig on a spit with all that sweat an' bristle-grass stuck ter yer! Move twinkle-toes! This ain't ballet-school!"
I watched those hard little rump-cheeks roll and pump as he jogged over to the linoleum circle. By fuck, readers, but imagine how tired and uncomfortable the boy must have been. No sleep. A horrible hard day's labor. Covered in sweat, dirt, and itching bristle-grass – and an ass stinging from the whip. Still, he managed to assume a posture of attention, back straight, chin up proudly, and fingers vertically down by his thighs. And those dancers' thighs! They tensed and relaxed alternately, making adorable little notches just above the knees. I guess maybe I've mentioned those magnificent legs before. I can't remember.
His hair was a mess, plastered across his brow and trailing into his eyes. The sweat on him started to dry in the cool breeze and I could see prickling goose-bumps on his torso and limbs as dusk closed. His cock rose, again assuming its curved, upstanding posture with its purple head nosing that rippled, fluctuating belly. It was time, I thought, to call it quits on the weekend of testing.
"You got a hammer on you that looks in need of attention, soldier-boy! You ready to take care o' that crank?"
"Sir, yes, Sir!" he panted, eyes widening. His hands flinched.
"Keep at attention, boy! No one's told you to move! Now, it looks like you managed to get yer faggotty little ass through the entrance examinations. I'll be fucked if I know how! Pretty-boys don't usually last the course in my division. How'd yer like to stroke that cock o' yours an' empty those balls?"
He sucked in sharply. "Sir! Yes! Sir!"
"KEEP STILL yer little fucker!!! I ain't decided yet whether yer can afford ter expend yer jizz."
He whimpered.
"So, you need release, soldier?"
"Sir! Yes! Sir!"
"What?"
"Sir! I need release! Sir!"
"Triple-march!" I ordered. "Once around the parade-ground. Keep at attention with yer arms down straight! Lift yer knees and keep yer back straight!"
He was moving in a flash, clip-cloppin' awkwardly in those boots around the perimeter of the square.
"LIFT THOSE KNEES, DANCIN' BOY! I WANT YER PRANCIN' LIKE A PRIZE PONY!!!"
Impressive. The naked kid frisked along at a good clip with a fine, straight carriage, arms down and with his prong wobbling at his belly.
"ROUND AGAIN, SOLDIER BOY, IF YER WANNA PUMP YER CREAM YER'LL NEED TER GET A SWEAT UP AGAIN!"
He lifted his chin and gritted his teeth, determined to make good.
"ALL RIGHT, SPUNK-BOY! TRIPLE OVER TO THE GRASS! AND LIFT THOSE FUCKIN' KNEES!!!"
The kid had been naked for more than twenty-four hours and had worked like a mule. He'd sucked off his Sarge and had taken more cuts of the buggy-whip than this NCO thought wise or kindly, so guys, your softy ol' Sarge reckoned he was due some relief. The raging meat on him looked ready to pound, and I didn't want it in my truck on the way home with a full load ready to make a mess.
"Shoot yer load, boy! You got twenty seconds!"
He made a surprising trilling sound of desperation as he crunched down onto his knees. His hand went to the object of his concern, but the first shot was already looping high into the air in a powerful jet.
Jesuz!
There were painful little cries of abject heartache as his cock jerked of its own accord. I trained a hose on him.
"Gotta get you cleaned up for the ride home, boy. Wash down an' quit squeakin'!"
Under the cold spray, the kid's fist thumped hard at his loins as he remained on his knees.
"Oh shit! Oh shit!" he peeped. "I'm coming! Oh shit!"
The dirt came off him in streams as I aimed the hose, and at the same time he pumped himself empty. The white spurts of jism broke through the shower of water, curling in thrown ribbons.
"Get yer clothes out the back of the truck!"
"Oh God! I'm still coming!"
"MOVE!!! NOW!!!"
He ran, shivering and wet, moaning in misery with thick gobbets of man-juice falling to the ground.
"Don't get any spunk on my truck, twinkie-toes! Now get fuckin' dressed!!!"
It was heart-rending to watch as the kid squeezed tears from his eyes and wrestled with his t-shirt and jeans. His cock was still pulsing its last dribbles, but apart from that he was washed clean, his glistening skin shining with droplets of water and shivering as the sun went down. I guess it was tough to wiggle into those tight jeans with that whip-burned ass, and he winced and oohed and aahed in stinging pain.
Up in the front seat of the truck, he twisted and turned on the seat, trying to keep the weight off his backside. His wet hair flipped and flopped as he turned this way and that.
"Ow! Shit! Yow! Fuck!"
"So whadder yer reckon, kid? Enjoy yer stay at the bootcamp with Sergeant Storme?" I said as I put the truck in gear.
"Owww!" he complained as one hand kept his ass off the seat and the other gripped his still-hard meat through his pants.
"You ready to go home, my little buck-soldier?"
"Sir, yes, SIR!"
"Good. I reckon you've had about enough of Sergeant Storme's trainin' for one weekend. Look, kid. Sit still will yer? Yer fuckin' wigglin' about all over the place!"
He turned, sitting sideways on his hip, his feet shuffling backwards and forwards in the foot-well.
"Hey kid. The next part o' your trainin' is a full weekend of punishment drill! Yer ready for that?"
"Ohhh, shit!"
We were twenty-minutes down the road – away from Mike's farm. The kid sniffled, staring out the window and saying nothing. As I glanced sideways at his pretty profile, I saw his eyes droop with fatigue – then jerk awake again. But soon, the sleepless labor he'd endured overtook him. He slipped sideways.
"Hey kid..."
That wet, fluffy head came to rest on my thigh and in moments it was snoring softly. My free hand stroked the soft hair and felt the warm breath. And jeez... ol' Sgt. Storme felt a funny feeling of achievement. We'd done it – got through a full, merciless session of the Sergeant's entrance exams. Well, I didn't expect we'd get this far, but... I guess the kid was tougher than I thought.
Later, just as we hit the freeway, the kid started making those damn little whimpering noises again and jerking his slender body. Bare brown arms gripped my thigh as he came in his sleep with little spasms, creaming his jeans. He didn't wake up.
rod.storme@yahoo.com