Date: Fri, 2 Sep 2011 02:01:21 -0700 (PDT) From: Rod Storme <rod.storme@yahoo.com> Subject: Hard Trainin' the Kid - episode 2 Copyright 2011 by the author rod.storme@yahoo.com *HARD TRAININ' THE KID* PART 2 Chapter 1 Thanks for the messages you cats. It's a real kick to know some guys are reading this. **Adults only. Gay sex and bondage.** Alright, the kid has passed the interview, I thought to myself. Now it looked as though I had to take him two and a half hours South to Mike's old farm. Twenty four hours of admittance testing for my Boot-Camp idea. I wondered what our young Mr. Bang Hyu expected to expect. The entrance test would be to see if a guy could firstly; maintain obedience and strict compliance regardless of the order given, and secondly; stand up to the physical requirements. After this, he would move on to full-on punishment-level drill instruction. But that was later. First, we had to get the kid through the entrance test. Don't think I wanted him to pass. I was going to go hard on the boy. After going through twenty-four interviews, I was really starting to think this whole thing was more trouble than it was worth. Nevertheless, I did feel some obligation to take the kid to the farm. He was the clear winner from the interviews, with his serious approach to the business and his fine physical form. Cute little fucker too, and I'm not only talking about his mud-pie brown eyes and refined cheekbones. The intensity with which he attacked the interview and the washing of my Ford I found to be exhilarating – and endearing. No really. Maybe ol' Sergeant Storme was going soft, and sure enough I was thinking of the kid over and over again during the following days. Remember how I told him to phone me at 5:00pm? Well, the phone rang at precisely that time. Nice goin' kid! But really, could I be bothered carting the little punk-rat all the way down South? The whole thing could turn out to be a disaster. But one thing was for sure. He was going to hate it. Rotten old me, I tried one more thing to put him off the idea. "Better tell you the rates at the boot-camp site, kid," I said casually on the phone. "It's eighty bucks a night." There was an almost imperceptible pause, then; "Yes, Sir." What he really should have said was; "Fuck that shit, you clapped-out old fuckbag. You think I'm paying you eighty bucks? I already washed your car. You owe *me* eighty bucks. Douche!" But he would never say that. Not my kid. But I had other stuff to arrange too. I put him off for a couple of days, saying I had to organise the site, which was true, and I told him to call me again at the same time in forty-eight hours. "You'll get eighty bucks out of this," I said to Mike over a beer at Clem's club. "There's nothing down there worth eighty bucks," Mike said. "You've been there. The place is run down. It's a dump." "Well I'm not keeping the money," I said. "How's the house? I'm sure I won't need a key to get in. Last time I was there the floors were sloping." "It's a hundred year-old house," Mike reminded me, taking a sip from the froth. "Keep this kid away from the second bedroom, will you? My collection of vinyl is in there." "Oh, the kid won't be going into the house at all," I said. "Where, then?" "Well, I was thinking the milking shed. In one of those cubicles. And anyway, he won't be sleeping this trip, and not much on the next – if there is a next trip. I intend to spend twenty-four hours making sure he'll never want to go back." By the way, guys. Mike's collection of vinyl is a record collection – not some weird clothing fetish thing. Just so you know. "Shit, Rod," he said. "You're a hard-ass son-of-a-bitch. I remember you trainin' that great big pony-guy one night at the equestrian track at Centennial Park. Fuck, that guy was big. And hot." "He lasted about twenty minutes," I said. "Twenty minutes hauling a horse-buggy. I thought that was pretty good goin'. Did you ever get his number?" "Pissweak," I snorted. "I kicked his ass back to Oxford Street. Look, Mike, I need to know the state of your place down there. What am I gonna find?" "Well, the hayshed will be a bit of a wreck. That's where I thought you'd want to keep this kid o' yours. All that old wood, the dark, the smell of stock-feed, you know, the whole S&M atmosphere thing." This is one area where I hoped a problem wouldn't develop. The tone of this enterprise had so far been of a top-notch military exercise. I didn't want it to turn into a corny, half-rate `leather-daddy' show. But – and I always say this – when ol' Sgt. Storme kicks in, things become very grim. There were other things to think about too, like what gear to take and so on. The kid phoned again, bang on time of course – no use thinking he wouldn't – all full of `Sirs' and yipped sentences. I told him where I'd pick him up in the truck, what time, and to bring nothing but the clothes on his back. It was on. I spent some time deliberating what I'd pack to wear myself, and finally decided the kid would like to see me in camos and boots (Christ, but Sgt. Storme has become a softy!), and really, I thought that uniform would set the right mood – pressed khakis would be too formal and silly – and civs wouldn't carry the right authority. Food, beer, and other shit too. We'd head down South at nine on Saturday morning, start the whole business at the farm at around twelve, and aim to head back at midday on Sunday. He was wearing jeans and a tight t-shirt and was all bright-eyed and exited to see me in my camo gear. "We have a two – two and a half hour ride," I said. "Just relax for the trip, boy. You'll know when the discipline kicks in." "Eye eye, Sir!" he piped as he jumped up onto the cracked brown leather in the cab of my trusty old F100. I thought maybe the drive was going to be awkward but really, it was okay. He seemed nervous to say anything, so I asked questions. "Well rested, boy? Get a good night's sleep last night?" "Yes, Sir." "Good. So you weren't out partying with your little pals, dancin' to that doof-doof music?" "No, Sir." What'd you have for beakfast?" "Um, Weet-Bix." "How many?" "Um, twelve." "Shit! You're gonna wear your Sergeant out, makin' him make you burn off all that energy!" There were periods of silence and the kid beside me seemed to relax. He rested a bare brown arm on the sill and idly watched the scenery as it turned from suburban traffic to Freeway, then to low, green dairy land. He certainly seemed oblivious to what was in store. His black, glossy hair fluttered in the breeze from the open window and stuck-up in a tuft like a bird's crest. "Hey kid, you got a boyfriend?" "Um, yes, Sir. Mark." "Does he know you're comin' on this expedition?" "Yes, Sir. But he thinks it's a trip with the cycling team." "How're your Ballet lessons going?" "I don't do lessons. I'm in the (*name removed*) Dance Company." "*Shit!* That sounds like it's major-league! Don't tell me I'm gonna destroy one of their prime Ballet dancers!" "No need to go soft," he told me, eyes narrowed and with a resolute whiff of determination. Oh jeez! I thought. The last thing Sgt. Storme needs at a time like this is to go all fluffy over a pup under training!... Ha! Fuck that! After an hour and a bit on the freeway and a further journey on local thoroughfares, a hard-to-find dirt road turned off from a rural byway. "Open the gate, boy." The door to the truck was open instantly and the kid was running. Time to turn on Sergeant Storme. While he was fussing around with the gate, I fetched a pair of old, old combat boots from the back. They were cracked, worn, with no laces, and they looked like they dated back to the Korean War. I threw them at him and they landed in the dry dust of the road. "STRIP!!! GET `EM ON!!!" He was virtually instantaneous. T-shirt, jeans, sneakers flew. "GET `EM ON!!! ***MOVE!!!***" He shoved his feet into the long-ruined boots and for an instant he looked at me, eyes wild. "CHUCK YER CLOTHES IN THE BACK OF THE TRUCK!" The tongues of those old boots flip-flopped as he ran to collect his shit from the road. Then I was in the cab with the engine running and the PA mike in my hand. My voice on the 12 volt amp and the electric horn-speaker sounded like a banshee, if I may say so myself. ***"RUN!!!"*** He jumped at the sound, and was running. As the tires crunched slowly behind, I watched that neat, pumpin' little ass hustle its way down the middle of the road. It was nine miles to the farm. "MOVE IT, PUNK-ASS! MOVE! HUP! HUP! HUP!" Faster. The crapped-out old horn mounted to the roll-bar screeched in the surrounding trees. "HUP! HUP! HUP! COME ON, PUNK-BOY! *MOVE!!!*" It was hot. The fast-moving brown body in front quickly became a gleaming, sweat-slick machine. I could see the thigh muscles flaring outwards from behind. The tightly-controlled arms swung with efficient swipes, the hands cutting and the fingers held together. He didn't lope. There was no clumsy flopping. Damn! I thought. I'm gonna hafta see into getting holda Ballet dancers all the time from now on! "GET THAT FUCKIN' ASS MOVIN' AND THAT SCHLONG PROPELLORIN', FAGGOT-BOY! LIFT THOSE KNEES! HUPHUPHUPHUPHUP!!!" I moved him up to a sprint. The glistening, rippled skin on his back ran with wet streaks of dirt and I could see the rivulets streaming through the contours and trickling into the slippery crack where the driving buttocks pulsed with tense vibrations. I gunned the motor and brought the bulbar up close, where he could feel the heat through the radiator. He ran harder. "GET TO THE CENTRE OF THE ROAD, FUCKBAG!!!" the speaker shrieked as the runner drifted to one of the wheel-ruts. It was midday and the sun beat straight down through the gap in the trees. I let the AC run on full for a bit to evacuate the stifling air from the cabin, then flicked the windows up and felt the cool blow from the vents. As the truck dropped back, the athletic little fucker slowed his stride minutely, but a fresh blast from the PA had him dashing at top-pace in a jiffy. Good boy! Those rotten old boots were the only awkward component of the gracefully flowing form as I watched through the windscreen. They slogged and plonked on the hard dirt in a rough cadence, swung forward and forward by long, gracefully muscled legs. I directed him into the right-hand rut and brought the truck up beside him on the left. I zipped the window down and spoke without the mike. "We gettin' those dancin' toes worn-in to your new boots, soldier-boy, so don't waste time! And KEEP YER FUCKIN' EYES TO THE FRONT!" "SIR!... YES!... SIR!..." he yelled through panted breaths as he snapped his head straight ahead, chin up. Smart-ass little punker! The arms swung like oiled piston-cams and I could see the heavy cock slapping side-to-side, smacking into the upper thighs smartly with wet slaps. All down the front of him, the pale dirt stuck to the clinging sweat – on his face, neck, torso, and legs, and those boots continued to slip-slop like oversize clown-shoes. As I dropped the truck back again, I reached behind the seat to the cooler and swung a six-pack onto the seat beside me. Fuck it! This was the weekend! Folks, I pretty well knew that a nine-mile run on hard dirt wouldn't be quittin' territory for this kid, and sure enough, he maintained a rigid pace and a firm sprint. The road was straight, receding ahead to the trees-sky-trees gap, and that tautly rolling rump and those steady striding legs kept diligently on, working hard. The trees opened to overgrown paddocks each side and there was another gate. As he opened it, I drove straight on, making him race like a motherfucker to overtake the truck. In the rear-view mirror I admired those alternately-springing leg muscles covered with sweat-stuck grit from my tires. The road ahead went up a hill to Mike's farmhouse and sheds, and another to the right went around one of the fields to a special little clearing and a small river. We went up to the house. The weatherboard dwelling was indeed old, contained within a traditional – if dilapidated – garden enclosure including an orchard. The old hay-barn and the brick milking-shed stood each side of a raised concrete square. I threw the green linoleum circle onto the cement. "MUSTER! FRONT AND CENTRE!" Vertical lines of wet grime on the boy made stripes from neck to knees. His perky, rotund tits heaved and his belly moved in and out, fast. The muscles there quivered with sharp exercise and the big, overlapping bands in the thighs were prominent and tensed. The boy stood to attention on the green spot, sucking air. "Your cock's limp, boy! Get that meat in the air at attention!" I tweaked a dark brown nipple, making it harden and pout and feeling the wetness and heat from his body. Half-heartedly, the thick prong raised and swelled. "Get yer head under that faucet an' get yerself watered, punk. You got ten seconds." He leapt, and on hands and knees, he turned his head into the spluttering gush, plastering his hair and drinking greedily. "Five. Four. Three. Two..." He wanted to cool off his whole body under the tap, I could tell, but he needed to drink. "...One." A slippery lithe body sprang athletically and the worn, dirty soles of the boots slapped onto the linoleum. "THOSE BOOTS ARE A FUCKING DISGRACE, SHITBAG!" Bam! I slapped a crusty old half-used tin of Parade Gloss into the kid's hard belly with a thump, making him flinch. "GET UNSHOD, FUCKER! GET YER BARE FEET ON THE MUSTER-SPOT! AND GET THOSE FUCKIN' BOOTS UP TO SCRATCH!!!" He stood, looking confused at the little tin of polish in his palm, and with a few more hearty bellows from your good friend Sergeant Storme, the big, clunky boots dangled like brick-weights from the other hand. It takes some mighty voice-power to get some action from a big, dumb-ass punkin' buck-recruit. "Listen punk-boy, and listen carefully. I'll give these instructions once. Take this spoon. Take this Bic lighter. Get some polish onto the spoon. Heat it up. Melt it. Here's a rag. Now GET SPIT-SHININ'!" Any of you guys reading this know how to spit polish? You gotta get the polish nice and soft and runny so it goes into the leather. Then you ad spit and you rub and rub and rub. It takes many hours, but you wind up with a hard, glossed surface which can serve as a mirror. That is; if you start with a decently preserved boot in the first place. Now, that old pair of clogs I gave the kid – there was no way anyone would be able to get those up to parade standard. They hadn't seen polish or spit for more than twice his lifetime. But he was going to work on it anyway. After twenty-minutes, he'd realised the protracted and gradual progress of the job. At one hour he was stifling little sobs at its impossibility. I sat on the old wooden veranda of the house, cracking the odd beer and watching at twenty yards across the fence. He stood on the spot, naked and barefoot in the open with the spoon and the lighter on the concrete at his feet, working with boot and rag. At four in the afternoon I went over to him. His cock bowed toward the ground in a consistent arc, wobbling gently to-and-from with the rhythm of his movement as he furiously massaged the boot. I slapped the things from his hands, sending them scattering. "GET TO WORK YOU LITTLE SHITBAG!!!" In moments he'd collected the gear from the concrete and was at the task again, spitting, rubbing, holding, spitting, rubbing, spitting, rubbing... "I want to see my face in that footwear by sunrise tomorrow!" As the shitty dirt dried on him in a crusty film and his elbows jerked furiously at the hopeless undertaking, his cock fattened and rose to his belly, showing a throbbing, curved underside. There was none of the solidified old polish remained in the rusty little tin. It was all used up, and there were still deep, furry gashes in the toes of the boots. "Lick it out of the can, boy! Use your fuckin' initiative!" He dug his tongue into the little round tin, turning it with his hand, getting the last hardened crumbs from the bottom. Then he put that mouth and tongue to work on the surface of the boot, trying – trying to raise a shine. The sun went down. I watched Mike's old TV in the wonky-floored living-room of the farmhouse. The ancient hut was so old that the foundation pylons had sunk in an uneven pattern, not that your ol' Sgt Storme cared much. All he needed was some NASCAR and some beers to suck on. It's quiet in the country, and it's good to get out of the city on a weekend, and healthy too. "What better for mind and body," I thought to myself as I sat on Mike's saggy old couch. "Than for man and boy to partake in some wholesome pursuits on the farm?" I checked on the lad at about 11:00pm, sneaking up from behind in the chilly dark. He had stopped working and stood unhappily on the lino mark with the boots worn like gloves on his dejectedly drooping arms. POW! My own size-ten landed on the lazy little fuck's bare ass, lifting him and sending him sprawling with crazily flailing limbs. "Yaaaaaaaaaaah!!!" he squealed in surprise. "GET UP YOU SLACKER!!!" I grabbed both the twink's wrists from behind with one hand, his girly hair in the other, and propelled him sharply across the concrete square and the knotted, clumpy grass of the yard. He twisted and danced in front with his head bent back hard, and he went "Ooof!" as I charged him front first against the steel-pole fence. He was bent over forward, his torso between the middle and top horizontal rung, with the middle one in his guts. I fished for the handcuffs in my pocket and locked his wrists over the top rung. Roughly, I kicked his ankles apart. His arms were twisted behind him in the cuffs, one over and one under the head-high steel cross-beam of the fence. Under that, he doubled over the middle beam, leaning forward and writhing to see behind him. He looked like he was doing a stretching exercise for his sissy dance-class – feet apart, bent forward at the waist, ass high in the air, and wrists together behind, pulled up with hands flapping and arm-sockets straining. I went to get a Dolphin flashlight from the truck, breathing heavily in the unfamiliar country air. I knew where to look in Mike's hayshed, and selected a three-metre buggy-whip. It was weathered and unoiled, but it had a flex and suppleness which swished in the air with a satisfying whistle. I tested it against a leather saddle lying across a stall-fence and it made a shocking *CRACK*. With the Dolphin in one hand and the plaited brown-leather cracker in the other, I stalked across the yard, unable to resist the agile, reactive action of the whip. I flicked, forced, and drove, feeling the solid response and hearing the evil, heavy *SNAP* as the tail coiled and hit the sound-barrier. I can distinctly remember the play of the flashlight on the grass in the night, the metallic clink of the handcuffs against the steel-pole fence, and the wild eyes of the boy shining in the battery-powered light as he twisted to see behind him. The narrow little ass wiggled and gyrated as best it could, the loins bent hard over the middle rung of the fence, shining smoothly in the light. The stiff-but-mobile end of the whip was shoved through the fence bars and against that prettily snorting face, turning it toward me. "Boy, you wish you'd never come to Sergeant Storme's bootcamp?" There was a sniffing intake of breath, then; "SIR! NO! SIR!" Afraid I'd made a slightly confusing syntax for the valiant young English-as-a-second-language city-boy, I rephrased. "You still wanna play `Hard Trainin'' with the Marine Sergeant?" "SIR! YES! SIR" Guys, you ever passed your hand through the leather loop and gripped the wood-backed handle of a quality buggy-slash or horsewhip? Ever felt the play of the flailing end snapping in the air? Perhaps many of you have. If so, you have felt the attainable power of an extra limb. I rested the flashlight on the ground where the light gave me the vision to move, and the boy snorted again, clenching his ass muscles and gritting his teeth. End of Part 2 Chapter 1. rod.storme@yahoo.com