Date: Tue, 3 Sep 2013 09:19:49 +1000
From: Thoby Musgrave <thobymusgrave@gmail.com>
Subject: Full Harde Boot Camp - chapter 2

Copyright 2013 by the author

ADULTS ONLY. Distasteful and offensive material. Not suitable at all for
many people.

Author's note: Comments and ideas very welcome.

Note on the text: At one stage in the narrative, use is made of "Douglas
Firs," and in another, there is a swamp. I'm pretty sure these botanical
and topographical features do not go together. Please feel free to suggest
corrections.

Nifty is a free resource which needs your support. Please consider donating
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thobymusgrave@gmail.com
www.bucksinhand.blogspot.com

*****


Welcome to Drill Sergeant Fullerton Harde's...

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

We hope your stay will be a beneficial one!

*****


Chapter 2.

Ten miles of bitumen road incessantly racking under the precision drill of
twelve boots with hard steel studs. Followed by another ten miles on dirt
track. Then across the public road and into the swamp. Five more miles of
filth and mosquitoes. The mud would fill those boots and make them like
lead weights. Then the thick black mire would rise to waist-height, making
a slow, wrestling struggle for progress. The squad of recruits would sink
to their necks under their loads of twelve bricks in ammunition-boxes each,
stacked in their backpacks.

The back of Fullerton Harde's neck was impassive in the front seat of the
Hummer. Lance Marshall watched from behind. Through the front windscreen,
he could see the rear of those loaded packs dipping and jogging as the six
recruits did hard time. It was still dark. They were still on the bitumen,
and the hard clicking of the studded boots could be heard.

Dammit, they were *tight*! It was a meticulous cadence still at five miles!
With no stumbles or wrong-noted footfalls, never mind a drop-out. Fullerton
Harde was one badass motherfucker, for sure! He'd licked this crew into
shape in merciless time.

But while there was respect and wonder for the big Drill Sergeant with the
frighteningly massive build and the voice like incoming artillery, Lance
felt a guilty pang of admiration for his own steel-hard stud out there on
the road.

At the front left of the squad outside, Lance's boy would be undergoing a
Hellish punishment. Twelve bricks in six ammunition-boxes on his back. A
Lee-Enfield held at high-port. A big, unwieldy helmet strapped on like an
erect dome. Old, heavy combat boots, and a drilling speed set for a journey
straight to Purgatory. Lance knew the deep little crinkle which formed
between Tyrone's eyebrows, and knew it would be there now, set hard and
intense and lighting those dark eyes with determined fire.

The smooth, pitch-black polished skin Lance knew so well would be moving
and sliding over straining muscle, covered in grease and sweat and cut hard
with the straps of that dreadful backpack. Tyrone would be spitting silent
curses through those bright teeth, and maybe... just maybe... in the
blinding concentration required for the drill, he would find an instant to
think of Lance travelling behind in the Humvee.

The vehicle was full of personnel and supplies. Sergeant Harde's staff in
black riot-gear – observers like Lance – Captain Thorpe – the
gofer-boy – and Fullerton Harde himself. The sharp-angled rear of the
Drill Sergeant's head with close-cropped sandy hair sat immobile in the
front seat. The fucker had the mike in his hand. He raised it.

"You're lagging! I said I want noses touching the pack in front! Rifles at
high-high port and close the ranks! *Now* cocksuckers!"

Lance felt the twinge of guilt again. His big black stud, Tyrone, was out
there in the still darkened early morning, naked and sweating like an
animal. In a few hours the sun would be up and the blowers in the Hummer
would be turned from heat to cool. Six miles done. Four to go on the road,
then the dirt.

"Fuck these early mornings!" someone said. "Tomorrow I'm sleeping. I'll
catch the show in the afternoon if I feel like it."

On arrival at Camp Harde, Tyrone had been chosen for a whipping, and Lance
knew that the big, eighteen year-old buck was singled-out for the quality
of his black skin. Black enough to be almost blue, Tyrone shone like a
beacon in the blockhouse yard, his lean musculature rippling like water
under a slick, gleaming film of sweat. It went without saying, but the
conditions of the modern world largely ceased at the gate of Full Harde
Boot Camp. There were no inducements or rewards – only punishment for
failure. There was no such thing as offence taken – only offence given,
and epithets were used freely by the staff. The word "nigger" was not
shocking in the cold, cement confine of the blockhouse yard, and it was
used immediately and without moderation as soon as the fine, handsome youth
arrived.

Tyrone was the first to be handcuffed to the overhead rail in the yard and
belted with the firehose. He danced on his toes under the hammering jet,
swerving and swivelling like a strip-whore, shouting at the flogging
needle-sting and gurgling while his ears, eyes, and throat filled with
water. White ink had to be specially fetched for the number `1' stamp on
his narrow, hard-muscled left butt-cheek, and like the others after him, he
whooped with surprise when the spring-loaded rivet-gun drove the pinned
dog-tag through his hardened, freezing nipple. But only Lance's Tyrone
tasted the whip.

It was a demonstration for everybody's benefit – a twelve-foot
buggy-slash plaited in brown rawhide and tailed with a flying, knotted
cracker. Camcorders were running and laughing mouths were silenced as the
flexing leather was tested against a wooden fencepost. Lance's mouth had
gone dry when he heard the stunning *CRACK* and saw his black-blue buck
with arms raised under the rail assume an expression of hard resolve.

"Lay it on accurate. Don't miss," Fullerton Harde said to the Staff
Sergeant. "I want it laid even across that little backside."

The oaths which emitted from Tyrone's mouth and lungs were expelled in
lusty, manly fashion, and Lance felt proud of the boy's refusal to blubber.

*"Hoooooooooooaaaaaaaaahhh!"* Tyrone called in horrified surprise at the
first landed cut from the whip.

"*Fuck!* *Shit!* *Fuck!* *Shit!* *No!*"

Tyrone's meat was at full mast, as upright and as finely curved as a raised
cutlass as he turned and ratcheted in the stainless-steel manacles over his
head. He danced on elevated twinkle-toes, hoisted with opened pits,
unbelieving that the blazing hellfire in his flicking ass could be
possible. Lance caught the boy's widened eyes in those moments, and knew
that more whip-cuts would be forthcoming.

A total of three evil, whistling cuts were issued, and with each delivery,
the young man's lungs dealt a noisy, bellowing lesson to his five
companions standing by in the concrete yard. Don't, by any means, give
cause to be horsed at Full Harde Boot Camp. Fullerton Harde and his men do
not give instruction in short rations, and the twelve-foot buggy whip of
plaited, oiled leather will be used quickly and meaningfully. It was a
valuable lesson. All of the six had subsequently striven to please, and
that was why they now jack-drilled at top speed with loads of bricks on
their backs through blinding pain.

The sizzling coals at Tyrone's leather-burned black rump would be sweetened
and re-lit by the coating of salty sweat. Lance saw the tall and inhumanely
overloaded pack of his boy at the head of the squad, jogged and hefted
forward with industry and speed. Underneath, the bare, three-striped
hindquarter moved and beat with strenuous activity. No doubt it remembered
too well the shocking whip-crack.

There were five other naked asses out there, all running with laden packs
in time with the fast, military tempo. Ten miles of bitumen road turned
into ten miles of dirt track. Now, the recruits' surface textures became a
whited covering of sweat-stuck dust. Tyrone's slippery, glazed black
varnish was a running mess of greasepaint, oil, and dirt. It clung to them
all. The shine on their boots was ruined – and Lance saw the wretched
tragedy of a meticulous and hard-worked boot-gloss lost in the soiled
misery of a pack-drill.

The Hummer made to overtake the drilling unit and it slowly drew alongside,
edging them to the side of the road. The speakers squawked with fury. The
engine merely idled at this speed – in imbalanced contrast to the
struggling pack of six youths on foot who labored to keep up in their
triple-marching formation. The occupants of the truck shifted to the side
windows. The overwhelmingly tall backpacks of the running unit outside were
hefted to and fro – left and right – and forward.

The sun was just beginning to rise. The AC blowers of the cabin were turned
on, and Lance turned in his seat and held his fingertips to the cool
interior of the glass. Outside, the running squad alongside was a compact
vision of Hell.

Their tall packs wobbled and skewed constantly, sliding on their straps,
gripping hard, slippery flesh. Those packs towered over the high-mounted GI
helmets and slew from side to side as their suffering human steeds toiled
to keep them upright and moving. The greased faces of the boys under the
steel rims were each contorted into a respective rictus of pain – each
exhibiting its own private nightmare. Not a glance was given to the big
vehicle right beside. Every skerrick of effort and concentration was hard
on the rear of the pack in front. Dirt could be seen coating the interiors
of their open, sucking mouths, and their slack, bouncing cheeks were wet
with tears as well as the grease-filth which covered the rest of
them. Rifles were held high, almost overhead, and the pale dust had entered
and adhered in the deep, sticky pits under their arms.

The narrow hips flicked sharply from side to side in the controlled little
tango-dance necessary to keep the packs steady and the stacked loads
stabilized. And it was all done in concerted time. What a team! It was
impossible not to feel a surge of gratification at the job Fullerton had
done with these kids! There they were, hoofing with straining muscle and
swinging little silver dog-tags on nip-rings as if every step were a new
leap, and not a gruelling repetition of the thousand that had gone before.

Fullerton had chosen with an expert eye – Lance could see that now. It
was a matched squad, with an eye-catching similarity in builds. They all
had tight, trim, perky breasts and swimmer-belt bindings of youthful,
developing muscle laced with the ribs at the upper flanks under the
arms. They all had the same slim, disco-dancing hips and the same boyish,
overdeveloped thighs with interlaced, springing criss-crosses of braided
sinew. Obviously those big, graceful legs had been selected as the right
kind for this God-awful speed-drill with loaded packs.

"Right, spunk-asses!" The Drill Sergeant had the mike again. He leaned from
the open window with his elbow on the sill, directing the heaving squad of
muscle and hefted equipment. With the window open, Lance could hear their
gasping, and striven, rasping breath. They were gulping and panting in time
with each other and with their fixed pace, and in each exhalation could be
discerned the unvoiced curse for which there was no breath to spare.

"*Huh!* *Huh!* *Huh!* *Huh!*" they all wheezed together loudly, the poor
fuckers. Lance looked at Tyrone's face at the front of the running unit. It
was a mask of total pain.

"Right, I said," Fullerton continued. The speaker on the roof made a sharp,
attention-getting bark, audible inside the truck with the window open. "Now
we gotta get those dongs spinning in time. Pick it up and get those knees
lifted together. Faster. If you monkeys get your shit in time like I'm
telling you, then your big fucking wangs will be all spinning together like
props. Clockwise. I don't wanna see those cocks just flipping and
smacking. They gotta windmill in circles. That's how I know you're bustin'
your asses properly. Now *GET THOSE KNEES LIFTED AND GET THOSE ASSES
WIGGLING AND GET THOSE FUCKING MEAT-SCHLONGS WINDMILLING!*"

Indeed, six greased cocks were flaying wetly and wildly – the only
undisciplined element of the six-headed, twelve-legged animal of sweating
muscle which moved on the road beside the vehicle. Jesus! Full Harde Boot
Camp was just as demanding as it advertised itself to be!

Somebody in the truck laughed. The procession of the big, green Hummer
beside the triple pack-marching unit crossed the public road, and the steel
studs on their boots raised a sudden metallic clipping as they met the hard
bitumen. Then, on the other side, they were into the swamp. The Humvee's
engine was gunned and the vehicle surged through some vegetation and into
the mud. Its tyres spun, and a massive fan of dirty water was sprayed into
the air behind.

The Hummer lurched ahead, leaving the loaded squad on foot in its swirling
wake of filthy water and tangling reeds. Out the back, the six youths sank
down and struggled, losing their time and stumbling. The wheels spun and
showered them with a solid gush. Now they were brown mud-monsters,
unrecognisable from one to the other, blundering hopelessly. They sank
again, further.

"Hey, faggots!" a Sergeant yelled through a megaphone at the rear
window. "The last two of you to arrive at the training-ground will be
flogged personally by me! Hahahaha! Can't wait! Hahahaha!"

"Shut the fucking window!" someone said. "The mud will get in here!"

"Lookit this nice little paddle," The lewd-talking Sergeant said to his
various companions as the cabin bumped and lurched. He flourished and
fingered a thick blade of heavy black rubber nailed to a strong wooden
handle "Those fucks yelp good when this little baby catches their bare
asses! Hahahaha!"

*****

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