Stripped Recruits

Copyright 2010 by the author.

thobyandover@y7mail.com

Many thanks to those who sent in comments and suggestions. Every suggestion is certainly seriously considered. So thanks.

"...MAKE IT HARDER!" -- thanks HPD!

STRIPPED RECRUITS Day 2 part 1

"Give `em their dog-tags," Staff Sergeant Colthorp ordered.

Corporal Smets approached the lined-up trainees with a puzzling grin. Number 1 recruit, Aaryn Locke, wondered at his strange expression. He saw a mystifying instrument in Smets' hand. It looked like a stapler. Very briskly, the device was applied to Locke's left nipple and...

WHACK!

"YAAAAAAH!!!"

In shocked, confused fury, Aaryn cupped his left breast, and looked. His brown nip bulged where the pin had shot home, and now, a tin dog-tag stamped with the number `1' dangled and jingled from its stainless-steel ring.

"FUCK!!!"

The others jumped.

"KEEP STILL YOU FUCK-BAG RECRUITS!!! OR YOU'LL BE RINGED THROUGH YOUR COCKS INSTEAD!!!" came the shattering bellow from Colthorp.

Now, the remaining three knew what was coming. Justin Laycock held still, gritting his teeth.

WHACK!

The sound was a sharp, metallic slide-action crack.

"FUCK!!! JESUS!..."

The number `2' was now affixed to the recruit's pierced nip. Smets had made sure to pin the ring deep -- behind the aureole -- and a drop of blood seeped onto the bare skin.

Bang Vo remained determinedly without expression, at attention.

The machine cracked for a third time and the strong spring drove hard into brown flesh.

"Hoooooooo.......!!!" Vo grunted through blown-out cheeks. His brow creased and his eyes were dark.

Corporal Smets smiled. "How'd yer like that, nip-boy? Like yer new nip-jewellery?"

Vo's eyes went darker still.

Smets moved to Luke Rogers, and the recruit sucked in sharply. He felt the cold metal on his flesh then...

WHACK!

"YEEEEEOW!!! SHIT!!! YOW!!!*" Luke squealed. But once again, it was Sergeant Colthorp's turn to make the noise.

"YOU SQUEAKIN' FAGGOTS ALL YELPED LIKE GIRLS! FUCK-TARD COCKSUCKERS! WELL THIS WEEK I'M GONNA HORSE THAT SHIT OUTTA YOU FUCK-BAGS!!!"

The four recruits stiffened at attention, their fingers down straight by their sides and their chins held up, bared to the waists and their chin-strapped, numbered helmets riding high.

"First thing this morning is a running-kitmuster! You shit-for-brains know what a kitmuster is?"

"SIR! NO! SIR!"

"Well you're about to learn! Handbook of Army Requital Discipline and Correctional Or Rectitudinal Education! Chapter eighty-one! Paragraph three thirty-nine!

"'A Running-Kitmuster will be issued to any man both as a punishment for the neglect of any aspect of his kit, and as a means to verify that the man's kit is in order. Additionally, a man may receive a Running-Kitmuster as a means for his superiors to ensure the man's kit is of Army standard. The man will strip and lay his kit in its entirety for inspection at three separate locations, for inspection by three separate superiors. Any defect or sign of neglect will be met with punishment. Refer Chapter 3, Annex A: Index of Punishments.'

Now, lay your kit! NOW! LAY YOUR FUCKIN' KIT FOR INSPECTION! STRIP!!!"

"GET YOUR FUCKIN' KIT LAYED OUT ON THE GROUND!"

Corporal Childers' piercing shriek split the air in concert with Colthorp's, directing the clumsy movements of the four, stumbling recruits as they stripped. They kicked their boots and webbing and dragged off their baggy army-pants.

"STRIP, YOU FUCKERS!!! STRIP!!!"

As quickly as possible and under a barrage of screamed commands, the four youths resumed attention-posture on the numbered markers, buck-naked and their asses tightly clenched in the cold. Their issued uniforms were arrayed in order before each shivering soldier -- helmet, then pants, then ankle-webbing, then boots. And each soldier wondered upon the same question. How could the Staff Sergeant and the two corporals deign to `inspect' the uniforms which -- in the case of the trousers -- had only just been issued? As for the boots and webbing, no one had had a chance to clean anything since early yesterday! "This is just fucking weird!" Luke Rogers thought to himself. Corporal Smets must have sensed something, because he stepped over and gut-punched the recruit with a closed fist. Luke bent, and coughed, but didn't go down.

So Sergeant Colthorp hit him, knocking his breath away and rendering him unable to make a sound. Rogers went to his knees, one hand on the ground and the other clasping his winded belly.

"GET UP, YOU FUCK-TARD RECRUIT!!! YOUR KIT'S TO BE INSPECTED, BOY!!!"

Luke wheezed and stood up, and the other three recruits remained perfectly still -- and despite the bizarre unreasonableness, their newly issued equipment was inspected, and fault was found.

Locke had a tear in the knee of his trousers. The paint on Laycock's helmet was chipped. The stamped `3' on Vo's left rump-cheek wasn't straight, Rogers' trousers were ripped also, and all four sets of boots were grimy and unshined.

"You limp-wristed band of cocksuckers are accumulating a shitload of Punishment-Citations!" Colthorp said. "Handbook of Army Requital Discipline and Correctional Or Rectitudinal Education -- Chapter Twenty-One -- paragraph one ninety-two -- Punishment Citation:

"'A Punishment Citation will be issued to any man requiring punishment or attitudinal correction. Where immediate punishment is not sufficient for ensuring proper conduct, a Punishment Citation will instigate further disciplinary action.'

"...And this is only part one of your running-kitmuster!"

None of them knew what part two' was to entail. They'd seen the kitmuster.' Now came the `running.' Frantic, screamed orders from three different directions had them gathering their kit in their arms and running, barefoot and in formation, to a three-mile distant guardhouse. The ground was wet and soft, and flecks of mud flew from underfoot onto their pumping bodies and hard-breathing faces. Colthorp and Childers followed in the truck, and the loudspeaker gave their ears no rest.

"BLONDE, PRETTY-BOY, NUMBER ONE! PACE OUT LITTLE SPUNK-BOY!"

"PONY-DONG, NUMBER TWO! SPIN THAT USELESS BIG COCK O' YOURS! GET THAT BIG MEAT-WANG SPINNING! SPIN IT, I SAID!"

"NIP-BOY, NUMBER THREE! THIS IS NOT THE MARDIS-GRAS PARADE! GET YER NIP-ASS MOVIN' AND KEEP UP!"

"BIG BUCK-BOY, NUMBER FOUR! YER BUILT FOR HARNESS-WORK! NOT SOLDIERIN'! NOW GALLOP, YOU BIG BUCK FAGGOT!"

Bang's legs felt like collapsing. The previous day's pack-drilling had left a deep ache which now turned to an agonising tightness. He felt the muscles in his thighs pulsing and protesting as he ran, and previously unknown cords in his buttocks were sore and tense. He thought of the ink-stamped number there and how he had bent over to have it applied, and then of the sharp pain in his left nipple, and how Smets had shoved the spring-loaded ring-piercing through his skin. He wondered also why he didn't just abandon the amateur military camp. There was no law that said he must endure this! But he ran -- in line with the other recruits -- in step and under orders. Spittle formed at his lips as he huffed and puffed.

"HUP HUP HUP HUP HUP HUP!" came Staff Sergeant Colthorp's cheerful cry through the truck-mounted horn. Fuck, but that fucker loved that microphone!

The small, wooden guardhouse was painted white, and the four sweaty, muddy recruits saw the four painted marker-spots on the concrete outside, with their four painted numbers in green. They laid their kit again for inspection, and no sooner had they formed up at attention than an order was barked through the speakers.

"BLONDE PRETTY-BOY SPUNK, REPORT THE SQUAD!"

Aaryn's command-pummelled mind made a guess at what to do. He ran to the door and stumbled through. He saw a shiny, polished floor -- a counter -- and a uniformed clerk. Thinking quickly, he jumped to attention, his toes on a black line.

"Sir! Recruit number one reporting squad for kitmuster inspection! Sir!"

The clerk looked up at the puffing, naked recruit, then looked down again to some paperwork. Aaryn stood still, with wet mud sliding slowly down his tensed muscles.

A clock ticked. The only other sound was his own hard breathing.

He licked a drop of sweat from his lips.

"Clean up your mess," the clerk said.

Now, Aaryn paused, lost. He needed paper towel -- or something -- to wipe the drops of mud on the clean floor, so he spoke.

"Sir. I need paper towel. S..."

"Drawer paper towel from stores, Recruit."

"Sir. Where may I find st..."

"Building A twenty-seven G. You're out of uniform, Recruit. That's a Punishment Citation. What's your number?"

"Sir. Recruit number one. Sir."

The clerk took a new form from under the counter and began scratching with a pencil.

"Sir. Request permission to attend stores for..."

"You'd best hurry, Recruit."

Aaryn leapt out the door. The truck was driving off and the other three trainees were still at attention, their kits laid. He considered their undoubted confusion as he sprinted away down the road to find Building A27G.

Alone, barefoot and naked on the tree-lined track, he felt a sharp pang of insecurity. He had no idea where to go, so he sprinted toward a deserted intersection. He looked in all directions. Nothing. He chose a path, and ran.

He saw someone, so with his very few options, he sprinted towards the distant figure with urgency. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a man in civilian clothes. Who the fuck was this? He instinctively covered his genitals as he approached the bemused, middle-aged fellow. Then he felt his acute silliness and allowed his schlong to flap around in full view, trying to forget his nudity.

"Sir. May I know where Building A twenty-seven G is? Sir."

"You're one of the recruits."

"Sir, yes, Sir."

"Why? I can't understand why guys volunteer for this. I know of that Sergeant Colthorp. He's way over the top. Why do you do it?"

"Sir, I need the... I want the..."

"They always pick the nice-looking boys. Those sons-of-bitches. You look like you're doing it tough, kid."

"Sir, yes, Sir." Aaryn felt the chill on his bare skin. But this guy's voice seemed like a friendly oasis.

"I don't know where that building is," the stranger continued. "But there's a bunch of shacks down there. Turn right. Turn right again. Go down the road."

Aaryn took off, and somehow he felt the pair of eyes on his bare, numbered ass-cheeks. His cock smacked to and fro against his thighs and he timed his athletic lope to account for his swinging balls.

Building A27G was another shack with four painted markers outside. Continually guessing and unknowing, he ran to the door and went inside. Another counter. The clerk was an ugly, fierce-faced gargoyle in uniform.

"Sir. I need to..."

"Get outside, Recruit! Get to your marker! You will wait for the whistle!"

Outside and at attention on marker number `1,' Aaryn wished deeply he wasn't naked. That he wasn't here at all. That he could pull on his jeans and give these stupid army fuckers the finger and be his old, flippant self. The cement was cold under his bare feet. His cock rose and stiffened to a rigid pole. A high-pitched blast from a roof-mounted horn sounded, and he entered the stores hut again, this time with a straining erection.

"Sir. I need to drawer paper-towel from stores, Sir."

"What's your number, Recruit!?"

"Sir, Recruit number..."

"Turn around!!!"

Aaryn swivelled, and again felt the presence of the black-inked number on his backside.

"Turn around!!!"

He turned again to face the counter.

"I've had a call from the guardhouse. You're to present back there. You're up for a Punishment Citation. Now move it!"

He dashed outside and sprinted. The civilian guy "tsk tsked" as he ran by, and back at the guardhouse, numbers 2, 3, and 4 recruits were still at attention at their markers. Aaryn detected their puzzlement as he leapt across the threshold into the hut. This stuff was crazy!

"You didn't address properly as you were dismissed," said the clerk.

"Sir. Yes. Sir."

"Say `Sir, yes, Sir.'"

"Sir. Yes. Sir."

"Say it!"

"Sir! Yes! Sir!"

"Well?"

"Sir! Yes! Sir!"

"You've been told to clean up your mess! You haven't done it yet, Recruit! That's a wilful disobeying of a direct order! I'm filling in a Punishment Citation! In the meantime, you're wanted back at A twenty-seven G. Seems you've fucked-up, Recruit! Better shake that ass and triple-march back there!"

"SIR! YES! SIR!"

"You know what," Aaryn thought to himself as he ran at a sprint over the now-familiar path. "I'd prefer Sergeant Colthorp to this crazy shit!"

The civilian watched him run past for a third time. Their eyes met and Aaryn cupped his balls to stop their hurtful thumping.

He ran on.

"You didn't dismiss properly!" announced Gargoyle-Face angrily.

"SIR!!! YES!!! SIR!!!"

"Outside! Wait for the whistle!"

Leaking tears of anger, the nude, young recruit waited at attention on marker 1 in the blustering cold. Another erection prodded his belly and added to his suppressed rage as he ran to the stores shack at the sound of the whistle.

"Sir. I need some paper-towel, Sir."

"What's the stock-number?"

"Sir. I don't..."

A heavy folder was pushed across the counter, and Aaryn stepped forward.

"Get to the line, Recruit!!!"

He jumped back to the black line on the floor, and the dog-tag at his nipple tinged in response to the movement. With his toes carefully placed, he bent forward raising his heels, ass poised in the air, and lean against the counter. Inside the folder, there was nothing under Paper,' but he found it under Towel.'

`Towel, paper -- sheet, single -- Each -- Stock-code: 0964-01-293-2484 -- Consumable.'

He filled out a form with a carbon pencil, then another version of the same form except green, then again in pink, and a square sheet of toilet paper was grudgingly slid across the bench. He used it to clean the lumps of mud from the floor of Building A27G, and then he carried the valuable, sodden lump in an open palm as he ran back to the guardhouse.

Under the severe eye of the clerk, he repeated the process, carefully scraping the dribbles of dirty wetness from the shiny, linoleum floor.

"You brought that dirt in, Recruit! You take it out!"

Aaryn seethed as he added his spit to the mixture and cleaned the floor.

"Sir. Recruit number one reporting floor cleaned, Sir."

"You're still out of uniform, Recruit."

He remembered the three other recruits formed at attention outside, naked and awaiting a kit inspection.

"Sir. Recruit number one reporting squad for kitmuster inspection, Sir."

"Wait outside."

Four pairs of heels were placed on four numbered markers, and four bowed penises swung gently in the breeze, and four shiny dog-tags glinted at fresh piercings as the clerk inspected four kits. Silently, notes were made on a clipboard, and four butt-stamped, naked soldiers were ordered to the Metal-Workshop in triple-time, carrying their issued equipment in their arms. The running-kitmuster continued.

Where are we going? Where's the Metal-workshop? They each wondered. But the crunch of gravel under truck-tyres was heard from behind the formation of running recruits. Then the loudspeaker.

"HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP!..!!!"

The recruits jumped, and Luke Rogers dropped his number 4 helmet. It clunked and rolled on the road as he peeled away from the line to retrieve it.

"YOU FAGGOT RETARD!!!" barked the speaker.

The truck lurched to an angry halt as the boy scooped his helmet into his arms and made to follow his triple-marching companions as they sped away down the track.

"GET OVER HERE, BOY!!!" Colthorp shouted as he climbed down from the vehicle. "FRONT AND CENTRE, FUCK-BAG!!!"

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

Luke ran to the Staff Sergeant, who let fly with an up-going whack with his palm, sending the naked recruit's kit spilling onto the road. Then came the gut-punch. Luke went down to his hands and knees. Dangling loosely from the Sergeant's hand, he saw a shiny, black, L-shaped truncheon.

"GET THE FUCK UP, YOU BIG BUCK FAGGOT!"

"TURN AROUND! I'LL MAKE A MAN OF YOU, FAGGOT!"

One of Colthorp's hands was enough to grasp Rogers by both his wrists, behind him. Thus, he was twirled, steered, and slammed front-first into the side of the truck. Hard.

"Oooff!!!"

He felt the hooked `L' of the truncheon between his legs from behind. It touched his balls and was held hard up into his crack. Corporal Childers was standing there, holding an open tin of petroleum machine-lube jelly. Then, the truncheon was under his nose.

"Lube it up, boy! This is where I make you a man!" The words were snarled and evil in his ear from behind. His wrists were released.

He dug a handful of the slippery, glistening jelly from the old tin and made sure the black shaft of the baton was generously smothered. His arms were pulled behind him again and he felt the cold, metallic snick of handcuffs in the small of his back. Colthorp's black, shined boots roughly kicked his ankles apart on the road, as he was shoved forward and his arms were jerked, bending him at the waist. Corporal Childers took a handful of his hair.

"He's a big strong buck, Corporal, make sure to hold him still!"

"Aye, aye, Sarge!"

The slippery, hard pole was between his buttocks. It pushed. Luke grunted as his hole tightened instinctively, trying to keep it out. He grunted again. The baton forced his pressed cavity... open.

"Ugh!"

He twisted against the fist in his hair. Bent forward with his hands locked behind him, feet wide apart and on his toes, he felt the next shove going deeper.

"Ugh!"

It drove slowly but solidly into his guts. He hissed and breathed as he was lifted by it, the rigid tool pressing his prostate flat and sliding deeper still.

"Aaaah...!!!"

"His cock's good and hard, Sarge! The faggot wants it harder!"

Luke's eyes watered.

"Ah!... Ah!... Ah!..."

The Sergeant breathed into Luke's ear as he gripped the cuffed wrists and placed the recruit's hands on the upward, external section of the hooked baton.

"Hold on to it, fuck-bag! If that pops out, I'll give you a hiding that will make you wish I'd fucked you with a seventy-six round instead!" Colthorp gave one last upward jerk on the baton, making the recruit dance awkwardly and gasp loudly. "Understand, recruit!?"

"Sir...! Yes... !...Sir...!" Luke whispered. He gripped the outward part of the pole behind him with both hands, wrists twisted and cuffed, while the perpendicular component of the truncheon lay plunged within his distended hole.

When he was released to stand on his own, desperately holding the `L' of the truncheon behind him and inside him, he jerked upright, leaning backwards stiffly, and his pole-hard organ kicked into his belly, slapping against the lower part of a twitching, flexing six-pack of stomach muscle. He jigged from foot to foot on the road, breathing deeply and trying to adjust the rearward penetration. Every movement seemed to drive it deeper.

"...Oh...!"

"Hold still, recruit! And keep silent!!!"

Luke puffed and panted.

"Get on your knees, boy! We haven't finished manning you up yet!"

Carefully, gingerly, Luke knelt on the road. The baton in his anus made his waist stiff, and he held it to try to stop it moving. Colthorp unzipped, and a massive, thick erection sprung from his army-green trousers. The shaft of hard meat was right in Luke's face. A network of veins sprawled around its fleshy circumference, and a big, blue one pulsed visibly. Luke smelt the tangy dick-cheese and sweat.

"Take it, cocksucker!"

He put his mouth around the uncut head and pushed his tongue into the flappy foreskin, tasting the Sergeant's oily meat and licking reluctantly. His own cock was still bent upwards at his belly, pumped by the baton in his ass.

"I said TAKE IT, cocksucker!!!"

Colthorp put a hand behind the kneeling recruit's head, and then thrusted. The rigid meat-shaft drove to the back of Luke's throat -- to his tonsils -- and his jaw was forced wide open. His mouth formed a round `O' with stretched lips, completely filled.

"The big buck faggot got a big fuckin' mouth! Let's see you use it, cocksuckin' faggot!"

Luke felt the gag reflex, and worked to overcome it by breathing through his nose. His nostrils pinched and his eyes widened in panic as he struggled to suck air. Colthorp had a fistful of his hair and starting fucking, thrusting and driving into the recruit's face. There were slurping noises as Luke fought a drowning sensation. He quickly used his tongue to make spit and his body jerked in time with each fuck-thrust and the black pole in his ass went deeper.

The first shot of come-load flooded his throat like thick glue. The next went straight to his gullet. He struggled violently against the hand in his hair and the engorging meat in his mouth. He tasted the salty mixture and swallowed it away. He had to. He needed to breath! But the Sergeant was still shooting. Luke clenched his neck muscles as he swallowed a new surge, feeling the lumpy cream go down to his stomach. He gagged again and a white stream gushed from his nose.

He gulped the stuff down as it spurted, convulsing his neck and belly, until the stream slowed to a dribble.

Slowly, the meat-prong was withdrawn, and Luke retched. He spat a gobful of junk to the ground.

"You'll lick that off the road, fucker!!! Now get down and lick!"

His head was forced down by his hair, and he grunted loudly as the baton jerked in his ass. The Staff Sergeant bent down, holding the recruits face to the surface of the road. Luke licked at the asphalt, working his tongue between the rough little stones.

"Get every last drop off my road, boy! You don't spit on my road!"

He sucked-up a gob of the white gunk like a string of spaghetti. He tasted dirt. His head was hoisted up again and he licked the stuff from around his mouth and under his nose. Then he used his tongue to clean the Sergeant's shaft, up and down, all over.

"Get your end away, Corporal," Colthorp said to Childers. Corporal Childers was grinning, and unzipping.

Bang Vo stood to attention on spot number three. To his left, he could just make out Laycock in his peripheral vision, also at attention. To his right, spot four was vacant. The recruits hadn't seen Rogers since he'd dropped his helmet back there on the road. To Bang's front, his kit was laid for inspection and a young Master Technical Artificer in uniform stood on Bang's trousers. There was another MTA behind him.

"Where's Recruit Number Four?" said the one in front.

"Sir, I don't know, Sir."

Bang felt something cold and metallic between his buttocks. For an instant, he was puzzled...

He saw a white, blinding flash, like lightning. His body swirled in a sea of pain. He heard laughter. He was on the ground, his face hard against the dirt.

"Get up, recruit!"

"Forty kilovolts! Hey recruit? How was that? Forty KV enough of a wallop?"

"These big, fit fuckers need at least forty KV for them to feel anything!"

Bang's body was jelly. At first, he couldn't move, but he slowly struggled through a dizzy, mind-spinning kaleidoscope to get to his feet. He staggered onto his marker spot, swaying.

"Tough fucker."

"Hit him again."

The cold metal pressed to his backside.

"N........!!!"

Bang heard himself wheezing, his slack cheek on the ground. The electrical crack of the prod and his own "ooff!" as the air rushed from his lungs still filled his consciousness.

"I'll get you to stay down, Recruit. Either this time, or the next time. The battery's all charged and this thing is made to kick-over a bull."

Bang moved his arms, his legs, and made to raise his wobbling body.

"Fucker's getting up again!"

"Tough fuck."

"MOVE IT!!! HUT! HUT!" shouted the loudspeaker. The truck's engine turned over with a cough and blew a black puff from the exhaust.

Luke rotated his hips, trying to adjust the thing in his rectum. He gripped the shaft of the baton behind him, holding it as still as he possibly could. The handcuffs kept his wrists twisted and his palms opposed.

"RUN!!!"

He ran like a ballet dancer making stage exit -- upright -- his knees lifting high and his toes pointed.

"BOOGIE-WOOGIE THAT ASS, BIG-BOY! FASTER!"

Breathing hard and with his rudely penetrated rear rotating quickly, he moved like a fast-fleeing whore in high-heels. He really clutched the baton, keeping the shaft of it from bouncing too much. It made him lean back and jig his hips.

"LEFTRIGHTLEFTRIGHTLEFTRIGHTLEFTRIGHT!"

"HUPHUPHUPHUPHUPHUP!"

The pace increased, and Luke concentrated hard on his movements and balance. He tried, with each running pace, to turn and wiggle his ass just so. The hard baton in there pushed and probed.

"GET JIVIN' AN' DANCIN', BIG BUCK-BOY! I WANNA SEE YOU BOOGALOO-LOO-LOO!!!"

He sweated his way down the road absurdly, jumping and high-stepping with his hands at the small of his back. The dog-tag at his nipple ting-tinged. His member lost its hardness and flip-flopped in front. The harder he breathed, the more he tasted the salty mixture of come he'd swallowed. Despite the screeching loudspeaker -- the solid ass-fuck of the sliding baton as he ran -- the concentration and balance -- his mind turned to the strange little card Colthorp had given him in a nightclub.

"Hard discipline for men. "Call the Staff Sergeant."

Why had he phoned that number? Why wasn't he back in the city right now? Enjoying his college break?

"HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP! STEP IT OUT, DISCO-BOY! WE'LL MAKE A FINE FUCKIN' DANCER OF YOU YET!!!"

Luke's friends would be meeting for coffee right now. What would they think if they could see him?

Fuck!

"How'd yer like your running-kitmuster, boys?" said Staff Sergeant Colthorp. "Beautiful way to start the day! Except you fuck-tards have managed to accumulate thirty seven Punishment Citations between you before breakfast! Don't worry. You'll be thankful to know those citations won't be forgotten and you'll be corrected with due punishment, after your duties today.

"Handbook of Army Requital Discipline and Correctional Or Rectitudinal Education.

"Chapter twenty-one. Paragraph three eighty nine.

`The man bearing Punishment Citations will be fully punished and corrected, whereupon his superiors will be satisfied that the man exhibits all the attitudes and behaviours of a thoroughly chastised soldier who is obedient to authority.'"

The recruits stood to attention -- one, two, three, four -- in their soaking-wet, rope-belted army-trousers, webbing, boots, and tightly chin-strapped helmets. Except Luke Rogers. His kit was scattered on the road somewhere, and he stood to his number four marker with his fingers straight down by his thighs, entirely naked and barefoot.

"Number four recruit, big buck-boy. You're such a fuck-up you've misplaced your entire kit! Say `I'm a complete fuck-up!'"

"SIR! I'M A COMPLETE FUCK-UP! SIR!"

"At least you got that right! Number three recruit, nip-boy. You got outstanding little tits like I ain't seen on no nip before. You take steroids, nip?"

"SIR! NO! SIR!"

"Number two, pony-dong. I've seen bigger cocks, but not often! Strip an' show us yer wang!"

Justin stripped. Quickly. His sodden trousers flew and his penis jiggled and swung. In moments, he had jumped back to attention on the spot, his cock still swaying.

"Look at the wang on it, Corporal!" Colthorp said.

"It'd win prizes at the South-Western Ohio Rodeo and Cattle Show!" said Corporal Childers. Then, Childers stepped forward, grinning into the face of Recruit Laycock. With two fingers, he gave the pendulous male-organ a friendly slap, flicking it and setting it swinging again.

"Get dressed, recruit!" Colthorp ordered.

"Number one recruit, pretty spunk-boy! You'll be suckin' my cock some time soon! No way I'm passin' up that pretty mouth! Ask your big buck comrade what it tastes like! Hey, spunk-boy? Got any sisters? They must be the purtiest little slices of cake in seven counties! Never mind. You'll do for me, spunk-boy!"

Aaryn tightened his lips and remained silent. A hard, winding gut-punch caught him unprepared, and sent him to his knees.

"GET THE FUCK UP, RECRUIT!"

The young, bare waisted soldier wheezed, holding his belly.

"MTA!" Colthorp said. "Give me the prod!"

Just as Locke found his feet, the silver wand was placed between his legs from behind. The ugly crackle made Bang Vo wince. He could see blue light from the spark, reflected on the wet concrete, and he shuddered as he heard his fellow recruit slump to the deck.

Aaryn felt too sick to eat the eight army ration-packs of energy biscuits, but a strong fist gripped his neck, forcing him, and he consumed every crumb from the cement. Luke didn't feel right either, the biscuits lying uneasily in his baton-fucked guts. But the four recruits watered eagerly from a copper faucet sticking out from the ground.

"Fuckin' weather's never goin' to let up!" Sergeant Colthorp said. Rain splattered on the windscreen as he reached for the cooler and cracked a Bourbon UDL.

Childers cranked the truck's cabin heater and dragged on his cigarette. Outside, the recruits worked on a rotation dig. Four marker posts were placed in a square, fifty metres apart, each signposted 1' 2' 3' 4'. With crude, flat-bladed wooden spades, they shovelled mud at the foot of their designated post.

Locke filled a canvas backpack with mud and rocks from his number-one hole. Every ten minutes, the truck's hooter blew and he shouldered the heavy pack and dragged his load fifty metres to Laycock's marker, and dumped the sludge into the number two dig. Laycock emptied his backpack into Vo's number three hole, and Vo into Rogers' number four, and so on. Then each recruit trudge-ran through the rain back to his own digging, to spend ten minutes filling his pack with freshly dumped dirt, and the four pack-loads of wet earth were rotated throughout the day.

There were no breaks. Ten minutes was ten minutes, and every ten minutes, each recruit was to have a loaded pack ready for transit. Four by four, the same rocks and stones and shovelfuls of mud were rotated around and around.

Staff Sergeant Colthorp checked his watch and blew the hooter, and sucked on his UDL can.

"Fuck, this is the tedious part," he said. "Every ten minutes I think `shit! Only another ten minutes! We've got to get through a whole day of this!' These punks oughta be fuckin' thankful for us sittin' out here in the rain all day! You know what? Next time, we're going to charge more for this holiday camp. Eighty dollars a day doesn't cut it."

Aaryn tightened the chinstrap on his helmet. The soaking rain was making slide about.

"DIG, YOU LITTLE SPUNK-BOY FUCKER!!!" came the shriek from the loudspeaker through the rain.

Justin hit a large rock with his wooden shovel. He had to use his hands to lift it into the canvas pack.

"WHADY'R THINK YER FUCKIN' DOIN' YER FUCKIN' PUNK-RAG FUCKER?!!! PICK UP THAT SHOVEL AN' FUCKIN DIG!!!"

Bang pissed into his soaked army-pants. The momentary warm flow down his leg was a reminder of the blustering cold and wet felt everywhere else and all over.

Without a stitch, Luke worked naked. The silver nip-ringed dog-tag was the only item he wore, and the rain streamed across his straining muscles and formed gushing rivers through his ass-crack, and made a waterfall from his flip-flopping cock.

The holes filled with water. Up to his chest in brown filth, Aaryn felt his boots squelch in the bog and fill with mud as he scooped underwater with his wooden spade. Groaning with effort and misery, he brought another lump of sludge to the surface and chucked it from the hole.

The hooter blew. They slipped and struggled as they tried to clamber from their respective trenches.

"YOU FUCK-TARD PUNKS ARE THE SLOWEST RAGS IN SEVEN ARMIES!!!" Colthorp growled into the old, Bakelite microphone. He swigged on his can of Bourbon and Coke. "Here," he said to Childers, handing him the mike. "Give those fuckers a hurry-on!"

Rivers of rainwater gushed from the tin roof of the control-hut. Warrant Officer Thurston peered into the brass, tripod-mounted telescope on the desk. Through the window and through the foul weather, he checked the progress of the rotation-dig. He reached for his CB radio.

"Staff Sergeant Colthorp, this is the Warrant. You've got a recruit out of uniform down there."

There was a crackling reply from the radio set's speaker.

"Aye, aye, Warrant. Number four shit-bag couldn't keep his kit."

"Every squad must be uniformly kitted, Staff Sergeant. That's standard. Have them all stripped."

Thurston's eye went back to the scope. In the dismal, rain-blurred lens, he watched as the four distant figures scrambled from their marked trenches again. They went to attention, completely covered from head to toe in mud. In the same instant, three of the indistinct figures began hurriedly shedding their uniforms.

Thurston fingered the thick, Army manual on the desk. The gold letters were stamped into the outside of the black, leather folder.

"Handbook of Army Requital Discipline and Correctional Or Rectitudinal Education."

"On the optimal discipline and punishments for men in the Army."

"Army publications. 1905."

"Signed off: Brigadier Swinburne."

He turned the yellowed, well-thumbed pages and idly scanned the table of contents.

"The Treatise of Army Discipline..."

"Extra Discipline for the Young Recruit..."

"Discipline Shock Value..."

"The Importance of Obedience..."

"Annex A... "The Strop-Whip and Corporal... "The Yoke and other Restraints... "The Army/Navy Compliance and Parnishment-Harness and its Use... "Beating the Recruit... "Shaving and other Psychologically Exotic Punishments..."

Warrant Officer Thurston turned to the telescope again. The rain had stopped and he saw Colthorp and Childers moving toward the working recruits.

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