STUDS UNDER DISCIPLINE
By Bill Harde
*** Copyright 2016 by the author. ADULT CONTENT. Do not read if you are a minor, are not legally entitled to do so, or are offended by pornography. Not for distribution except by permission of the author.
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The concrete barrack-room was painted on the floor in a thick layer of dark green. If a boot chipped the surface, punishment would follow. Twenty sturdy specimens were housed here. The oldest was twenty-one, and the youngest; eighteen. Their narrow wooden sleeping pallets were placed in an exact row. Pillows, sheets, and blankets were unknown in the bare chamber, but those pallets were cherished as feather beds. They slept nakedly and soundly until the electric hammer-bell fire-alarm erupted at 4:00am. The precious sleep-sector was used to full advantage. Every second night was a blissful eight-hour slumber, alternating on other nights with four hours, and there were only sixteen pallets. Four men were rostered every night to spend the dark-hours whitewashing the walls and polishing the single, stainless-steel latrine which lay at one end of the room.
Spit-shined boots were presented in parade-pairs, placed in a row, gleaming under the unadorned bulbs. Similarly, twenty pack-loads of kit were arrayed, ready for drill with white-painted webbing belts and polished brass buckles.
The young men slept. They were heaving, snoring, grease-coated slabs of muscle – shining cuts of smooth, lean flesh. The stink in the room was of sharp sweat and the tang of freshly expelled come. This exquisite sleep-sector was the only opportunity for sexual relief, so they pumped unconsciously, too overcome with exhaustion to spare any moment but for the necessity of slumber. With the lights on and four of their number scrubbing desperately on the walls with wire brushes, they lay undisturbed in the land of their dreams. Then the finger was on the switch at 4:00am. The room exploded with the cacophony of the strident electric bell and the surprised shouts of tumbling men as they panicked and hollered.
It was a shocking awakening. For moments there was a confused delirium in each lad's mind as he sprang to the noise, but there were very few moments to spare. A twenty-man muster-stand awaited outside. The allotted time from alarm to boot-inspection was thirty seconds.
Those feverish moments were characterised by shouts and powerful bellows of disbelief and outrage. There were curses and deep hoots of astonishment – and the singing, high notes of shrieking male youth. They leapt to the fore with open-mouthed astonishment and with cocks surging to swivelling bellies. Thirty seconds separated the hot pitching of the night to the floodlit reality of the inspection and firehose. And in the bedlam, there was the screaming clamour of that foul hammer-bell.
Ice-flecks zipped colourfully in the freezing wind. The lights made a stark canopy under the black sky. Boots had been laced and tied in under thirty seconds, and twenty gasping youths presented at inspection-posture – urged by screeching loudspeakers and the threat of the strop-whip.
The inspection-stands were numbered, foot-wide painted circles on a concrete runway, four feet apart in a line. On each mark stood a naked man – chin held high to the piercing white floodlights overhead, palms folded neatly at the rear of the buzzed skull, elbows elevated high, and pits opened wide for the hose.
A boy whimpered and pumped a mighty load from his arched cock. His fist moved to the urgently lurching meat, but a hard beating intervened. The rubber strop-whips ensured a quick compliance as he sucked and licked his own gobbets of come from the asphalt. With his wrists and ankles held behind and a crushing boot at the back of his neck, the boy slurped at the gravel and swallowed as he was told. With a mouthful of dirt and salted white jelly he complied – face squashed to the road and a roaring mouth at his ear. Nineteen men remained fixed at inspection-posture while the subtracted one of their number was hauled under whip and fist to the punishment-slots.
Stencilled to each small, hard-clenched rump was an inked number on the left buttock, corresponding to the numeral on the painted muster-stand. Each man was known by this freshly stamped denomination, repeated on the left breast above the nipple. Those nips were hard now, pert and upstanding in the early-morning freeze.
Also erected was the row of thrusting male poles. Any lad appearing limp would answer with a meted strop-whipping, delivered with a five-foot blade in black, oiled leather. That coiled instrument held in the thick arms of the Master Sergeant ensured diligent attention to every order given, with each young fellow striving for obedience.
The firehose blasted them from their stances in turn, one-by-one. The fearsome, high-powered jet knocked these hefty studs from their feet and made them dance like motherfuckers, shouting and howling. When the hose was trained to the next man, they trotted hard into formation, knees lifting high and arms straight down by the sides. Fingers were extended together and neatly at the thighs with thumbs bearing down. The steel hobnailed studs at the soles of the boots made orange sparks in the night. They also made a clattering racket which had to be kept in strict cadence. A fallout from the timing was heard immediately, and not tolerated. The punishment-slots could take twenty men packed on their feet like crated sides of beef. Punishment was universal no matter who was at fault, and a night spent in that confinement was a possibility not to be endured by any fit young buck in need of his sleep sector.
The hose washed away any remnant of an erection, and the free-swinging schlongs slapped wetly at lifting, pumping thighs in a quick, boogaloo rhythm. It was a cracking triple-march, with shoulders held stiff and veering only slightly at the momentum of the pace, like a troupe of Vegas strippers. A blank space in the formation had been left by the boy consigned to a stone hole. Nineteen studs continued under discipline, canting, trotting, and triple-marching to the electric blip of a truck-mounted speaker.
Next in "Studs Under Discipline": PAINTBALL BUCKHUNT
bill.harde@yahoo.com ***