Copyright 2011 by the author
dark_entries01@yahoo.com
Not to be read by minors. The story contains gay fetish, bondage, and graphic elements.
Responses are always welcome. The author doesn't know whether the story will continue, or what direction it should take, so let me know if you have any general plot ideas.
HELLFIRE BOOTCAMP part 5
How to train a harness team.
Captain Tyrone Catchcrowe was a man of singular enthusiasms. He savoured the solid feel of a brightly polished leather boot as it was placed into a stirrup -- the balance of a Texas-built horsewhip held in his riding-gloves. Actual horsemanship, however, was not among his known hobbies. But Captain Catchcrowe's equestrian skills were deployed nonetheless.
Captain Catchcrowe enjoyed riding his "chariot" -- a light, single-seat buggy welded from tubular steel with two large, spoked wheels with narrow, air-filled tires. The cart's swiftness was limited only by the speed of the team in front, and the Captain liked to push the rig fast on the circular track of smooth, hard-pressed dirt as he bounced on the seat's coiled-spring suspension. Rarely though, did he possess a well co-ordinated and well-trained team. When he did, he could be seen driving around the meandering roads of the camp's extremities.
The carriage itself was a simple affair -- basic but efficient. It was the pulling rig which required ingenuity in design and careful adjustment. It was made for four men closely side-by-side (hence the moniker "chariot"), and the buckles and leather straps needed to be carefully fitted and trialled. The steeds had to be carefully chosen -- an even distribution between bullish strength and greyhound speed was best, obviously. The young recruit at Camp Hellfire had impressed Catchcrowe with his looks. The long legs of graceful muscularity and an overall coltish appearance... by fuck I should have that young stud leashed to my chariot sometime soon, he thought.
"Are their boots properly worn-in?" Catchrowe asked as he strode onto the cobblestones of the stable compound.
"Aye aye Captain," Micklethorpe replied.
"Good. Put the tall lean one on the outside. That's where we need the speed. The two big ones in the middle. Use that crop hard if they give you trouble. Make sure they know about it. Sergeant Phillips, take your time buckling them up. We need to make sure the harnesses are well-bedded and the team's settled."
"Aye aye, Sir."
Each man held a curved wooden pulling piece in the small of his back with his hooked elbows, his wrists strapped in front at his belly. The rest of the harness was time-consuming but satisfyingly comprehensive. Captain Catchcrowe liked to know that his control was as complete as could be when he jerked the reigns.
Black leather gripped the upper torso with two belts and a square fixture at the breast, fastened tight under the arms and around the ribcage, and then tightened some more. The vertical section was another leather piece in front going from collar to scrotum, the shackle tightened with a locking Allen-key about the base of the penis and nutsack. It was here that the pressure was felt when the reigns were pulled. A narrow metal hook went under, backwards, and up, tipped with a golf-ball. It reminded the man intimately, deep in his hole, that the gloved hands of the driver and the reigns in their grip were to be obeyed. The harnessed steed moved smoothly, carefully, and obediently, anxiously aware of his steel-gripped male-parts and the jerking thing riding in his anus.
The four men made loud exclamations of surprise and anger. Then, when they realised the totality of their confinement in the harness, they protested in useless curses -- until rubber bits were fitted, strapped tightly.
Brett bit down hard and grunted. In the line, he was attached to the others by the close-formed rig, and when one hopped, the others felt the jerk and hopped too. So for a while they skittered together on the cobblestones in their boots, grunting and shifting, almost in desperation. He skipped on the spot, wiggling the plug in his ass, trying to move it. But it pushed in solidly, highly, and rudely. It was impossible to stay still. When one of the men jumped, Brett felt the leather pull and the shackle tighten, and they all ended up hopping like eager colts, spitting unmouthed curses into their hard mouth-bits. He realised they would all, somehow, have to move in unison.
"All right," said Catchcrowe. "Let `em settle, until they're used to it."
"This one's ornery," said the Sergeant with the whip.
"So's that one," someone else said. "Mebbe we should release the probe angle a bit."
"No. That's normal," Catchcrowe said. "Sergeant, jiggle the cross-line. It's a good idea to jack the whole team before a run."
"Bet the spunk-boy goes first! Lookit the boner on it!"
The collar was too tall for Brett to look down, but he felt the tightening grip of the keyed nutshackle as his member swelled. Thickened and upright, it made a shockingly hard bar as it nudged at the leather at his belly. He felt the cold metal of a buckle with his sensitive tip. His fingers tried to reach it but his hands were strapped near his sides, his arms held back by the elbows. In his rectum, the hard ball squeezed against his inner bulb, sending shots of lightning through his loins and pulsing energy to his surging flesh-pole.
He couldn't bend forward so he leant back, feeling the rigid restriction of the harness. When the Sergeant started to manually joggle the rig, the jolts inside him came quicker, and he opened his mouth in astonishment, passing a long, loud, and manly "AAAAAAAHH!!!" The others made noises too, as best they could, stifled by their bits.
"Hey, Micklethorpe. Ever jacked four men at once before?"
Brett felt the rising heat in great, quaking gushes. Inside him, warm jelly pitched upwards. His throttled tune changed to the trilling choirboy, and he made an ongoing rhythmic series of high falsetto "AH!!!"s.
"There he goes!"
A torrid jet splashed into his raised chin. The next splashed into his face in clotted lumps. He tasted it.
"Holy Mackeroly! Lookit him go!"
The soldiers watched in amazement as the harnessed colt shot stream after white stream into the air of the stable compound. They could hear it landing on the cobblestones in thick ropes. One man dashed to get out of the way.
The four upraised cocks of the four closely formed men spurted in sequence. They groaned and gnashed their teeth at their rubber mouth-pieces, and onlooking soldiers could only guess at the expletives within them.
"All right," Catchcrowe said. "Tether them to the swing. Sergeant, get em moving. Bring em around the compound and get `em trotting in time."
The harnessed team hobbled briefly, then quick-marched when the snatches were pulled. Brett was on the outside of the large circle they were to transit around the compound, and had to move the fastest. The diligent Captain had found through past experience that to keep a balanced draw, the team should pace not left-right-left-right, but inner-outer -- the right-hand pair pacing oppositely to the left, and to achieve this it was necessary to train them with the whip.
Few words of explanation were given -- just shouts of "In! Out! In! Out" and the whip provided instruction until they got it. With the long, long flex-tailed buggy-lash, Catchcrowe could choose one of the four pumping sets of bare cheeks and make the application where it was needed.
CRACK!!!
"Hooves up! Get in time!"
Around they went in a circle, tethered by a long belt to the centre where the Captain with leash in one hand and whip in the other, turned with his running team.
CRACK!!!
"Knees up! Trot! Get in time!"
There was no breath for muffled curses and no concentration to spare. The four closely packed asses began firming in belts of muscle as their driven owners realised they must work as a fused unit, clip-clopping on the cobblestones and contemplating straight ahead.
CRACK!!!
"Outside! Faster! And keep yer knees up!"
The whip was used hard. It was no friendly flick nor a simple stinging reminder. It was a stunning belt of fire, and when Brett felt it, he knew immediately that he would focus with upmost diligence on his timing and effort and there would be no wandering minds in the unhappy crew.
"Now we're picking up the pace! Time you fuckers got a sweat up!"
CRACK!!!
Sweat they did. The warm stink of the men beside him joined with the sharp smell of oiled leather in Brett's flaring nostrils. He heard their heaving breaths as he gasped himself, biting down hard on the rubber. Fleetingly there was an image of Dennis in his mind and...
CRACK!!!
The sound of flying leather tested on rawhide echoed from the stone stable buildings. The wicked flame returned his mind to the pace and to the horrid circle the harness scribed.
"Lift yer knees fuck-boy! I want you trotting like a prize-pony. Trot!!!
There was the noise of blood pumping in his ears, and the clinking of buckles and snaps... and every so often, the sharp whip-crack which made him blink and renew his attentiveness. When Captain Catchcrowe said "trot" -- he really meant trot. They lifted their knees absurdly and with thorough effort, such was the effectiveness of the whip.
"Hey boys! Yer cocks are all a-flip-flop-flappin! Keep goin' boys! Nice work!"
And so the soldiers standing around offered their encouraging remarks to the team under training.
"Yer a handsome pick o' fine young studs. Yer'll be a cinch when yer harnessed to the tray. Nicest little team o' pacer-boys the Captain's ever put together!"
"Move them asses! Will yer check out the tight little tush on the young one!"
"That's enough bullshit!" the Captain said. "Sergeant Phillips, take over. I want to hear a perfectly timed hoof-strike from my office within one half hour. You'll need to use the whip, and you'll need to use it hard and often. I'm going to have a trained team ready to pull the buggy today. That means no letups."
"Aye aye Sir."
Over the next half an hour, the four men-in-harness strived for the perfection Captain Catchcrowe required -- and so did Sergeant Phillips. He handled the whip firstly with a quick backward thrash to give the tail more speed, and then brought the fast-flexing leather home, expertly whisking the team around and around. Brett yelled through his mouth-bit when he felt the lash and his single blinding thought was that it can't be allowed to happen again. He lifted his knees into his chest and drove each leg down onto the stones to keep time with the others. The clack clacking of their steel-soled boots needed to be a single cadence -- or the whip was employed again.
The pressure of the ball in his ass was constant, and a further incentive to keep in time. When the harness-team fell out of rhythm the probe jerked and twisted offensively, making Brett yelp in quavering squeaks, higher than the others and distinctive in its shrill vibrations.
In the Sergeants' mess at Camp Helga, Dennis Judd tossed his newspaper to the low table. Brett was on his mind. By way of certain channels, he had determined that only four men remained of the punishment intake at Camp Hellfire. Surely, these men would be allowed back into the Army. Chastened, newly obedient, and certainly less prone to squawk, Brett would return to Helga... to Dennis...
dark_entries01@yahoo.com