Date: Sun, 25 Aug 2013 08:18:57 +1000
From: Thoby Musgrave <thobymusgrave@gmail.com>
Subject: Full Harde Boot Camp chapter 1

Copyright 2013 by the author.

ADULTS ONLY!

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thobymusgrave@gmail.com
www.bucksinhand.blogspot.com

*****


Drill Sergeant Fullerton Harde invites you to...

***FULL HARDE BOOT CAMP!!!***

Hard men broken. Not for Pussies. No liberal or "correct" expectations. No
down-time. No questions.

*****


A white-painted boulder half immersed in the dirt, about the size of four
sandbags, marks the gate-entrance to Full Harde Boot Camp. Upon the white
rock's rough surface, the black lettered words *"FULL HARDE"* appear in
capitals, facing the roadway. It's a normal farm-gate, like any other in
this district, and the dirt-road which leads away in a straight line
between ranks of Douglas Firs, looks like the approach to any one of the
many ranches in these parts. But the white rock nestled in the bushes
signals something different.

Ten miles on, past the gate on the dirt track, there lies Full Harde Boot
Camp – the destination which has been named in whispers by those who
know. Fullerton Harde runs his camp only for the right kind of subjects.

So, in the tradition of exclusive hotels and select vacation-spots, let as
advertise firstly the accommodation provided at this elite and private
place.

It is exclusive indeed, for only six young men are taken at any one
time. They sleep in a concrete slot wide enough only for two columns of
three narrow wooden shelves, bolted and hinged to the cement walls and
slung outward on diagonal chains. The recruits are stacked up-down
two-by-three on these rough pallets, and the routine at Full Harde Boot
Camp ensures they are in no need of pillows, blankets, or sheets to exploit
the four hours per night of their allotted sleep-sector. They slumber
fitfully, nakedly, and closely, breathing the sweat and vapours of their
companions and the hot, tangy smell of fresh spunk – the clotted fluid
emissions of very young men under hard duress. No inducement is needed for
sleep, and the wooden boards of the triple-stacked ledges appear as
feather-beds at the end of the day – twelve o'clock midnight for the
lucky ones.

The bare, white-hot arc-light on the ceiling of the small cell is
extinguished and the grunting, whimpering men lose no time in attaining
their individual dreamlands. Their big, naked bodies make enough warmth in
the tiny space, along with the residual heat from the light, and any
nocturnal disturbances they make generally pass by ignored in the
close-packed closet of sleep-desperate recruits. They are coated with
grease and warm, dripping juices. Limbs and the meat of unashamed male
parts dangle in the slats and between the shelves, and the narrow cubicle
is filled with the stink of hard-worked men.

Above each reclining body, a pair of spit-lustred black boots is suspended
by its laces, either from the slats of the pallet above or from a nail in
the ceiling. The treasured shine is worked with tongue and precious crusts
of scattered polish which might be found, and one recruit or more might
choose to forego their sleep sector for a few hours of spit-shining in the
dark. Drill Sergeant Fullerton Harde wants to see his own reflection in the
toes of those boots every morning, and the prospect of punishment ensures a
mirror finish.

The boots are more than twice the age of the wearers – well-worn and
used – but the hours of burnish-work must achieve a pass at the
inspection-muster nonetheless. Nailed into the soles are big steel studs
which make a sharp *clackety-clackety-clack* on the parade-runway during
drill.

The bare concrete compartment solidly packed with sleeping, heaving muscle
is shuttered and triple-bolted with a heavy iron door. There is a small,
noisy swing-hinged window in the iron, making an aperture to the warmly
textured atmosphere of the closed sleeping-box within. Also, there is an
electric hammer fire-bell fixed to the inner side, which resonates on the
iron structure with an ear-shattering clarity. It is activated at four AM
from a switch on the outside.

The sudden, brutal awakening is met with howls and shrieks of shocked
confusion and outrage from inside the cement box, and limbs and bodies
tumble and senses spin. The strong lights come on. The big iron door is
flung viciously open, outwards against the external concrete wall of the
miniature, free-standing bunker, and the interior is blasted with a
firehose charged with one hundred and eighty pounds per square-inch of
ice-needle terror. They are literally washed bodily from their bunks by the
one-inch mouth of the brass nozzle, and the interior of their tight barrack
is blasted clean in seconds. Shitting and pissing is done into a single
stainless-steel bucket under the freezing jet, and with the wet, panicked
ablutions completed, the bucket is scattered by the powerful, stinging
spray.

Every morning is like this. The obscene, fast-clanging bell is the moment's
warning before the battering attack of the firehose. Before the minds of
the six lads are clear – before their wakefulness is complete – they
are required to muster at inspection-posture on the row of outdoor stands
in front of the blockhouse accommodation barrack. Within thirty seconds of
the foul, dream-splitting initiation of the electric fire-bell, they are to
be booted and fully laced, and spread for review. The black, mirror-surface
boots will be sloshing with water and their erections will be fully risen –
pole-hard and at their bellies – demonstrating the vitality necessary
for the new day at Full Harde Boot Camp. No night-time masturbation is
countered. A limp cock signals the depletion of a man's energy in nocturnal
activities – energy that would be better spent in more work and more
drill.

Immaculate boots are planted a regulation three feet apart, toes directly
on green-painted square brackets on the concrete, labelled `L' and `R' and
reserved with letters and numbers in a single line of six
inspection-stands. Hands are clasped and fingers are laced behind erect
necks. Elbows are pushed back. Guts are sucked in and buttocks are clenched
and lifted. Laxity will be corrected sharply with a poke and a flick from a
flexing cane.

The overhead floodlights on slender metallic poles show the jewelled
droplets decorating the smooth, bare muscle on display. Their chins are
raised very high, diligently, and their sharpened eyes are fixed on some
point in the darkened sky beyond the lights. Their armpits are spread and
opened, hands clasped behind zip-clippered skulls. Fullerton Harde's staff
have arrived in an army-green Humvee. They are dressed in warm, woollen
uniforms with flak-armor and black-visor riot-gear, and they shout through
a battery of hand-held megaphones.

The four AM night-time hour is assaulted with screeching orders and
insults. One black-gloved hand hard-slaps an erect cock sideways with a
well-swung arm. Another swishes a long, disciplinary cane, and one bears
the hard baton of a big steel flashlight firmly between tight buttocks from
behind, lifting and shifting the recruit onto his toes and parting the
crack with the cold, knurled truncheon. It all happens so quickly. A hard
gut-punch lays one recruit to the concrete, and the amplified shrieks
babble anew in the night, clamoring for the downed man to return to
inspection-posture.

At a barked command, kits are donned. The equipment is stored in the
open. They frantically grease themselves from two big cans – one of
green and one of brown – all over, from skull to tippy toe and every
crevice in between. Bodily camouflaged with artistically slapped-on wet
greasepaint, the six young recruits charge around under the stark lights,
frantic to be dressed and ready.

They are formed-up into their squad of two-by-three, and without delay they
are triple-marching, *clackety-clack-clacking* on the tarmac road with
their studded boots in concert-tempo. Fullerton Harde knows how to train a
team of young male muscle so that they will not fall out of step. In fact,
they abhor a momentary lapse as much as he does. At Full Harde Boot Camp,
everyone is trained to the same intent, and that is of iron, unflinching
discipline.

The six recruits are warming under their greasepaint at triple-march speed,
at a wintery four AM and followed closely by the Humvee with lights blazing
and speakers howling. It is a noisy procession of mind-blanking fury, for
at Full Harde Boot Camp everything is focussed one-hundred percent on the
task at hand. Six mouths are blowing fast steamy breath into the cold
air. Six tight-muscled bare backsides are bouncing, flinching, and running
in close formation, painted in green and brown with the colored grease
slathered into the six snug, fast-moving, fast-pulsing crevices. Under the
paint, the numbers `1,' `2,' `3,' `4,' `5,' and `6' are stencilled onto the
six left buttocks – in black on the Caucasian boys and the Asian, and in
white ink onto the single negro buck. The black boy is number `1,' and
positioned at the front left of the triple-marching squad.

Green, WWII GI helmets are mounted high on shaved skulls, strapped on hard
with webbing belts around the ears and cheeks. Numbers on the helmet-fronts
correspond to the numbered butt-stamps. `1,' `2,' `3,' `4,' `5,' and `6.'
The task of balancing the heavy headgear on top keeps necks erect and
concentration focussed on the drill. Packs are loaded with six steel
ammunition boxes each, and each box contains two bricks. It's a frightful
weight to tolerate, borne on the canvas shoulder-straps and the
tight-cinched webbing belt at the belly, but the Humvee rolling behind
dictates a crackingly severe pace.

*Clack!* *Clack!* *Clack!* *Clack!* go the steel-shod feet of six big,
strong younkers working strenuously under load and at speed.

In front, boltless Lee-Enfield rifles are held at high-port. The arms of
the young recruits will ache with fire at half a mile. Their limbs will be
marked with outstanding, pulsing veins under the greasepaint and their
brows will be creased with effort and distress as their mouths and cheeks
work to forcefully suck and blow from the chilled air.

*`1'*: Tyrone Baycliffe. Front left. High cheekbones and a noble face, with
a wide mouth and full lips which turn delicately at the corners. His skin
is a shining jet-black, highlighting the miniature silver dog-tag pinned to
his left nipple with a stud. Like the others, he was pierced with a
spring-loaded gun on arrival at Camp Harde. *Clack* *Clack* *Clack* go his
boots in the formation.

The loudspeaker on the Humvee screeches with an angry voice making foul
exhortations. *Faster!*

*`2'*: Ky Lang. Front right. A wide, squishy nose and prominent brows
making dark slits of his eyes. His hair is glossy black. *Clack* *Clack*
*Clack.* He grips the rifle out in front and makes strained, open-mouthed
"hah" noises in time with his breathing and his pace.

The big tyres of the vehicle crunch on the road behind, pushing closer to
the close-formed, hard-running squad of six.

*`3'*: Dylan Dale. Middle left. Big, feminine eyes with sweeping lashes,
and an angular face. He swivels his pumping backside in tight rotations as
he balances the tall pack-load of bricks in ammo-boxes on his back.

The air-horn blasts, adding more offensive noise to the pool of white light
isolated in the darkness.

*`4'*: Dane Daniels. Middle right. A sweet-faced twink-boy with sharp eyes
and narrow lips – a twink in face only, contrasting with the body of
big, hard muscle. The grease on him is mixing with running sweat and making
lurid streaks of brown and green, trickling in his sharp-etched contours
and in the hot wetness of his rear crack.

The powerful lights are close behind, making long, jiggling shadows of the
drilling squad on the road ahead.

*`5'*: Brett Damme. Rear left. Rounded features. Full, red lips and rosy
cheeks of sensitive skin. His thigh muscles are working and flaring like
springs and burning with effort. He can feel his flying male-meat thumping
and reaching alternately sideways to each hip with his rhythm.

The noise of the speakers and the horn will be heard for miles around. The
headlights illuminate the indecent scene starkly and blatantly.

*`6'*: Bang Hung. Rear right. A wide nose with flaring nostrils. Eyes
pulled into almond-shape by golden skin. The steel-pinned dog-tag at his
left nipple makes a faint "ting" "ting" "ting" as it rattles along with the
sharp *Clack* *Clack* of his boots. Keep up. Keep in time. That is the only
thought for each of them.

Their names don't matter now. They are "One," "Two," "Three," "Four,"
"Five," or "Six." Or "boy" or "faggot" or "cocksucker." Nor do their
respective features or skin-tones matter, slathered under slippery
greasepaint as they are and working like bullocks. Pack-drill will be ten
miles before a breakfast of water, bread, and cold gruel, wolfed directly
from their helmets in the field.

Pack-drill. Field manoeuvres. Bivouac. Classroom work. Cleaning-stations.
Work-party. Kit-muster. And after dinner – punishments and surprises.
Somewhere, time has to be found for keeping those boots up to standard. And
somewhere else far-off, there remains some abstract necessity for sleep.

Sergeant Fullerton Harde is ferociously efficient, and licks his team into
tippety-top drilling shape good and fast. He takes coffee from a thermos in
the front seat of the Hummer and scrutinizes through the windscreen with
some measure of satisfaction. The Bakelite microphone is in his hand and he
is listening for the slightest mistiming in the *clack-clack* step of the
six hustling recruits belting the road with their big, steel-stud boots.
The only uncontrolled element of the unit is the set of six swinging
penises as the naked young men jostle for speed.

Harde's voice is an unmistakeable thunder in the roof-mounted loudspeaker.

"*Closer!* Noses touching the pack in front! Don't lag! *Faster!* Step it
up and boogaloo-loo-loo! Knees up! Chins up! Swing those schlongs and waltz
those asses! Or I'll drill you fuckers back for another ten miles! *Move
it, fuckbags!*"

Sleep-sector at the boot-camp is over, and now, the recruits are revived
from their torpor and fully focussed on the new day. They must be. There is
not a second of free time to be had at Full Harde Boot Camp.

*****

thobymusgrave@gmail.com
www.bucksinhand.blogspot.com