Copyright by the author 2010
The story is fiction. It contains gay sex and bondage scenes. Illegal for minors.
HELLFIRE BOOTCAMP part 1
dark_entries01@yahoo.com
Comments welcome.
Brett Buckfield knelt on the hard, linoleum floor of the barracks boxroom, arching backwards, his breast and his long, rutted torso stretched and facing the ceiling. If he flopped his head back, his upside-down nose could touch the wall behind him and the crown of his head made contact with the floor. Under him, his wrists were cross-cuffed to his ankles, his folded legs supporting him with knees spread wide. It took effort, to remain like this, the cramps coming and going and the aching alternating with numbness. There would be no sleep, just constant straining and tension. The big Sergeant had secured the four-way iron hog-cuffs in the small of Brett's back while the recruit had lain face-down, and then flipped him over. The Sergeant's angry curses thundered in the small room as Brett shifted and spread on the floor, finding his position with his four limbs under him.
"Tough it out here, fucker, and tomorrow you'll jump to orders! How's that, fuck-boy?"
"Sir! Aye aye Sir!" Brett gargled, his neck curving back and his torso twisting this way and that. He'd been half a second late hopping to the inspection point by his bunk, and the nineteen other men in the division had remained at attention while Recruit Buckfield had been ordered stripped for punishment.
"Too late to bunk down – don't deserve a bed and blanket!" the Sergeant had bellowed in the long, bare dormitory, and Brett had been manhandled down between the two rows of men by their bunks, his cock jiggling and his bare feet slapping on the polished floor.
In the dark boxroom he heard himself breathing sharply and felt the rising and falling of his belly, his nudity stark in the cool air and low light. His cock twitched and hardened and probed solidly at his navel. Since arriving at the bootcamp he'd barely had time to touch it – except to piss hurriedly in the latrines before running to the next muster – and now, it made its neglect known. It strained uselessly for attention while its shackled owner cursed and waited for the morning.
Fuck it, this had almost been a bet! Dennis had threatened to send Brett down to Hellfire Bootcamp – the punishment division – and Brett had dared him to! He remembered Dennis's hesitant hand at the paperwork. Dennis – that's Sergeant Dennis Judd – had said "you're sure, hard man? Or do you wanna stop fuckin' around now?"
Brett had been defiant. Stupidly defiant. The illicit relationship with Sergeant Dennis Judd had come to this – a wavering pen over the green assignment form – a ticked box – and the young soldier had awaited his orders. Over the next couple of days at Camp Helga, Brett had been unable or unwilling to regret his tough-guy stance. Fuck it! Dennis and others had mentioned Hellfire Bootcamp as if no one wanted to go there. But by this time Brett had decided; what-the-fuck? They said guys come out of Hellfire pretty hardened. During those few days, whenever Brett thought of it, a hot little wire of fear and excitement was set off in the pit of his belly. Fuck Dennis! No! Fuck Sergeant Dennis Judd. Then the transport arrived.
Brett struggled briefly on the floor of the boxroom, twisting hard with the cuffs biting his wrists and ankles behind him. He lifted his buttocks and strained at the waist. Twenty men had crammed into the back of the truck for Hellfire. It had been the last time any of them had been allowed to chatter freely, and they were silenced when they saw the collection of low, concrete buildings on the cold, windswept peninsular. "Welcome to Hellfire Camp – Enjoy your stay!" was the cheery sign daubed in rough strokes on the big rock at the gate.
"Twenty slabs of meat on the hoof for conditioning!" said the Quartermaster as he peered through the canvas flaps into the back of the truck. "Oh ho! There's a young one!" The twinkling eye was directly on Brett.
Recruit Buckfield was not known or called by that name at Camp Hellfire. Rather, his name was 66925 – and that number was told to him once. Then, he had to remember it. "Six six nine two five!" "Yes, Sir!" The words drilled his ears even as he lay bent backwards on the boxroom floor. He would jump in Pavlovian response if he even thought he heard it. "Six six nine two five!" The yelped "Sir!" had been a word Brett had used more in the past two days than... Two days! That's all the time he had been here! It felt like two years!
Dennis's big hands were a memory on his bare flanks, sliding and holding. He had squirmed, whimpering in the store-room among the sacks of flour. Hot breaths had passed between the big Sergeant and the raw recruit, and the boy had gasped with need during the stolen minutes. The tang of Dennis and sweaty man-sex made his nostrils flare. He thought he could still smell it. But no. Just the cold air of the boxroom at night. His nipples hardened into stones and his swollen male organ heaved and pulsed.
For his part, Dennis Judd had had grave second thoughts. Sergeant to Sergeant, he phoned the Hellfire division commander with the message; go easy on Buckfield. Only afterward did he realise that he had singled out his smooth young recruit for God knows what. He thought of those whip-slim hips struggling with a loaded pack and regretted the call. It was well circulated that Captain Catchcrowe of Hellfire Bootcamp kept an oiled buggy-lash and an antique Alabama man-harness stored in a Civil-War period wardrobe.
As Sergeant Dennis Judd was contemplating the leather tactility of Captain Catchcrowe's buggy-whip and antique Alabama man-harness, the new intake at Camp Hellfire was being emptied from the truck. Twenty men were stripped, shaved, and hosed on the parade-ground with all the staff standing by, trying to discern which would be hardest to break. The young slim one would go down first. He'd be crying for Mommy in under two days... unless he was particularly tough. The rest were hardened defaulters, well due for a stretch in the punishment division. One could check the records if one wanted to. This one would be in for slugging an officer, that one for recalcitrant behaviour. There was Private Stubb, known for stealing eighty-six dollars from the Camp Helga canteen-fund. What was the kid in for though? Didn't he punk his little ass sufficiently at the Helga Wardroom? Har, har!
The Supply Officer and his assistants stencilled each man's number on the respective man's chest in white ink – five numerals between the nipples in a clear font. If a soldier was non-negro, he received black ink instead. Then, a big red marker-pen was used to designate three men only. Private Stubb had "SA" written on his belly, for "Special Attention." Private Rickman groaned in misery as the "SA" was applied to his gut too, although neither of these soldiers would be known by the names Stubb' or Rickman' while their bodily inscriptions were in force. The third man due for the unfortunate "SA" in red was Recruit Buckfield. The grinning Corporal with the marker-pen dotted his "SA" artfully and then drew a thick line over the top of Brett's penis.
"Nice cock," the Corporal said. "Better in red!"
Brett knew not to say anything. Someone else did, and was gut-punched to the parade-ground and flogged with a razor-strop. After that, twenty men knew to only open their mouths when they were ready to shriek "Sir!"
Medical staff stencilled the weight to each soldier's left butt-cheek and the age to the right. "Eighteen!" said the corpsman with satisfaction as he lifted the stencil from the firmly rounded flesh. "And just wide enough! Lucky you're not 118, spunk-boy! That ass is narrower than the span of my hand!" With a hearty slap, the stripped young recruit was sent scurrying to his muster-point.
Dennis took the call with a sharp intake of breath. The voice said "just to let you know, Sergeant. Your boy's been marked `Special Attention.'" He didn't remember whether he said "thanks" or what tone he used. He hung-up with a thoughtful drop of the receiver and thought of Brett – big, dumb Brett – with the enquiring wide brown eyes and the sensitive dry lips. Why did that stupid kid have to big-man himself in the barracks – yammering like a giggle-box about his screwing with the Sergeant. Next thing you know, Dennis had to shut him up – or do something. Was Hellfire Bootcamp the answer? Well, at least the dumb punk would learn to keep his mouth closed.
Brett learnt as many things that he imagined his brain could hold, and he learnt them very quickly. He learnt the meaning of his red `Special Attention' status, even if Dennis wasn't sure. Firstly, it meant a beating. Chained arms-above to a crane-post, he was flogged with hard rubber blades until the Sirs came in gasping sobs. Three big men surrounded the naked, kneeling youth, all armed with rubber truncheons and spitting with violence. When the thick blades had found their mark with tuned effect, he made gloss-coat of sweat despite the biting cold wind on the parade-ground. It streamed from his open armpits and oiled his body in a slick sheen as he struggled with his wrists shackled high. His loose penis felt the wet parade-ground as it flopped between his spread thighs.
"Want more, boy?" one of the NCOs said.
He didn't know what to say and so was punished for saying nothing... or anything, the rubber tools knowing no difference.
Twenty men were issued with twenty pairs of old, old, second-hand boots, and that was all. The boots would have to be run-in before any more uniform was given. And run they did. Two ranks of seven and one of six kept a tight formation within a painted track until those steel-soles made a single, sharp clack clack on the bitumen. They ran at attention, arms straight down by their sides, striding desperately with steel-and-leather-shod feet. Fast.
For Brett, this was something of a relief. Lean, streamlined, and smooth, he took the forced sprint easier than the bigger, heavier men. All around him was gutted heaves and splutter, and naked, sweating, hairy bodies. Like a trained horse he moved his booted feet in a graceful pace and timed the weight of his steel-nail soles on the hard surface.
"Lookit the spunk-boy go!" someone in uniformed warmth yelled. Then another voice: "Move him to the left-front. He sets the pace."
As Brett felt his cock slapping from left to right he snatched a quick thought of Dennis. No. He needed to concentrate on his tempo and rhythm. But Dennis kept coming back. The prickly bristles of the square-jawed, just-shaved face... The strong hands...
Shackled on the floor of the boxroom, Brett hooted in anger, calling the name in a guttural cry. Dennis! You fuck-bag! Come get me out of Hellfire Bootcamp!
End of part 1 dark_entries01@yahoo.com