Date: Wed, 12 Jan 2011 12:23:01 -0800 (PST)
From: Dark Entries <dark_entries01@yahoo.com>
Subject: Hellfire Bootcamp part 1

Copyright by the author 2010

The story is fiction.  It contains gay sex and bondage scenes.  Illegal for
minors.

***HELLFIRE BOOTCAMP*** part 1

dark_entries01@yahoo.com

Comments welcome.

Brett Buckfield knelt on the hard, linoleum floor of the barracks boxroom,
arching backwards, his breast and his long, rutted torso stretched and
facing the ceiling.  If he flopped his head back, his upside-down nose
could touch the wall behind him and the crown of his head made contact with
the floor.  Under him, his wrists were cross-cuffed to his ankles, his
folded legs supporting him with knees spread wide.  It took effort, to
remain like this, the cramps coming and going and the aching alternating
with numbness.  There would be no sleep, just constant straining and
tension.  The big Sergeant had secured the four-way iron hog-cuffs in the
small of Brett's back while the recruit had lain face-down, and then
flipped him over.  The Sergeant's angry curses thundered in the small room
as Brett shifted and spread on the floor, finding his position with his
four limbs under him.

"Tough it out here, fucker, and tomorrow you'll jump to orders!  How's
that, fuck-boy?"

"Sir!  Aye aye Sir!"  Brett gargled, his neck curving back and his torso
twisting this way and that.  He'd been half a second late hopping to the
inspection point by his bunk, and the nineteen other men in the division
had remained at attention while Recruit Buckfield had been ordered stripped
for punishment.

"Too late to bunk down – don't deserve a bed and blanket!" the Sergeant
had bellowed in the long, bare dormitory, and Brett had been manhandled
down between the two rows of men by their bunks, his cock jiggling and his
bare feet slapping on the polished floor.

In the dark boxroom he heard himself breathing sharply and felt the rising
and falling of his belly, his nudity stark in the cool air and low light.
His cock twitched and hardened and probed solidly at his navel.  Since
arriving at the bootcamp he'd barely had time to touch it – except to
piss hurriedly in the latrines before running to the next muster – and
now, it made its neglect known.  It strained uselessly for attention while
its shackled owner cursed and waited for the morning.

Fuck it, this had almost been a *bet*!  Dennis had threatened to send Brett
down to Hellfire Bootcamp – the punishment division – and Brett had
*dared* him to!  He remembered Dennis's hesitant hand at the paperwork.
Dennis – that's *Sergeant* Dennis Judd – had said "you're sure, hard
man?  Or do you wanna stop fuckin' around now?"

Brett had been defiant.  Stupidly defiant.  The illicit relationship with
Sergeant Dennis Judd had come to this – a wavering pen over the green
assignment form – a ticked box – and the young soldier had awaited
his orders.  Over the next couple of days at Camp Helga, Brett had been
unable or unwilling to regret his tough-guy stance.  Fuck it!  Dennis and
others had mentioned Hellfire Bootcamp as if no one wanted to go there.
But by this time Brett had decided; what-the-fuck?  They said guys come out
of Hellfire pretty hardened.  During those few days, whenever Brett thought
of it, a hot little wire of fear and excitement was set off in the pit of
his belly.  Fuck Dennis!  No!  Fuck *Sergeant* Dennis Judd.  Then the
transport arrived.

Brett struggled briefly on the floor of the boxroom, twisting hard with the
cuffs biting his wrists and ankles behind him.  He lifted his buttocks and
strained at the waist.  Twenty men had crammed into the back of the truck
for Hellfire.  It had been the last time any of them had been allowed to
chatter freely, and they were silenced when they saw the collection of low,
concrete buildings on the cold, windswept peninsular.  "Welcome to Hellfire
Camp – Enjoy your stay!" was the cheery sign daubed in rough strokes on
the big rock at the gate.

"Twenty slabs of meat on the hoof for conditioning!" said the Quartermaster
as he peered through the canvas flaps into the back of the truck.  "Oh ho!
There's a young one!"  The twinkling eye was directly on Brett.

Recruit Buckfield was not known or called by that name at Camp Hellfire.
Rather, his name was 66925 – and that number was told to him once.
Then, he had to remember it.  "Six six nine two five!"  "Yes, *Sir*!"  The
words drilled his ears even as he lay bent backwards on the boxroom floor.
He would jump in Pavlovian response if he even *thought* he heard it.  "Six
six nine two five!"  The yelped "Sir!" had been a word Brett had used more
in the past two days than...  *Two days!* That's all the time he had been
here!  It felt like two years!

Dennis's big hands were a memory on his bare flanks, sliding and holding.
He had squirmed, whimpering in the store-room among the sacks of flour.
Hot breaths had passed between the big Sergeant and the raw recruit, and
the boy had gasped with need during the stolen minutes.  The tang of Dennis
and sweaty man-sex made his nostrils flare.  He thought he could still
smell it.  But no.  Just the cold air of the boxroom at night.  His nipples
hardened into stones and his swollen male organ heaved and pulsed.

For his part, Dennis Judd had had grave second thoughts.  Sergeant to
Sergeant, he phoned the Hellfire division commander with the message; go
easy on Buckfield.  Only afterward did he realise that he had singled out
his smooth young recruit for God knows what.  He thought of those whip-slim
hips struggling with a loaded pack and regretted the call.  It was well
circulated that Captain Catchcrowe of Hellfire Bootcamp kept an oiled
buggy-lash and an antique Alabama man-harness stored in a Civil-War period
wardrobe.

As Sergeant Dennis Judd was contemplating the leather tactility of Captain
Catchcrowe's buggy-whip and antique Alabama man-harness, the new intake at
Camp Hellfire was being emptied from the truck.  Twenty men were stripped,
shaved, and hosed on the parade-ground with all the staff standing by,
trying to discern which would be hardest to break.  The young slim one
would go down first.  He'd be crying for Mommy in under two days... unless
he was particularly tough.  The rest were hardened defaulters, well due for
a stretch in the punishment division.  One could check the records if one
wanted to.  This one would be in for slugging an officer, that one for
recalcitrant behaviour.  There was Private Stubb, known for stealing
eighty-six dollars from the Camp Helga canteen-fund.  What was the kid in
for though?  Didn't he punk his little ass sufficiently at the Helga
Wardroom?  Har, har!

The Supply Officer and his assistants stencilled each man's number on the
respective man's chest in white ink – five numerals between the nipples
in a clear font.  If a soldier was non-negro, he received black ink
instead.  Then, a big red marker-pen was used to designate three men only.
Private Stubb had "SA" written on his belly, for "Special Attention."
Private Rickman groaned in misery as the "SA" was applied to his gut too,
although neither of these soldiers would be known by the names `Stubb' or
`Rickman' while their bodily inscriptions were in force.  The third man due
for the unfortunate "SA" in red was Recruit Buckfield.  The grinning
Corporal with the marker-pen dotted his "SA" artfully and then drew a thick
line over the top of Brett's penis.

"Nice cock," the Corporal said.  "Better in red!"

Brett knew not to say anything.  Someone else did, and was gut-punched to
the parade-ground and flogged with a razor-strop.  After that, twenty men
knew to only open their mouths when they were ready to shriek "*Sir!*"

Medical staff stencilled the weight to each soldier's left butt-cheek and
the age to the right.  "Eighteen!" said the corpsman with satisfaction as
he lifted the stencil from the firmly rounded flesh.  "And just wide
enough!  Lucky you're not 118, spunk-boy!  That ass is narrower than the
span of my hand!"  With a hearty *slap*, the stripped young recruit was
sent scurrying to his muster-point.

Dennis took the call with a sharp intake of breath.  The voice said "just
to let you know, Sergeant.  Your boy's been marked `Special Attention.'"
He didn't remember whether he said "thanks" or what tone he used.  He
hung-up with a thoughtful drop of the receiver and thought of Brett –
big, dumb Brett – with the enquiring wide brown eyes and the sensitive
dry lips.  Why did that stupid kid have to big-man himself in the barracks
– yammering like a giggle-box about his screwing with the Sergeant.
Next thing you know, Dennis had to shut him up – or do something.  Was
Hellfire Bootcamp the answer?  Well, at least the dumb punk would learn to
keep his mouth closed.

Brett learnt as many things that he imagined his brain could hold, and he
learnt them very quickly.  He learnt the meaning of his red `Special
Attention' status, even if Dennis wasn't sure.  Firstly, it meant a
beating.  Chained arms-above to a crane-post, he was flogged with hard
rubber blades until the *Sirs* came in gasping sobs.  Three big men
surrounded the naked, kneeling youth, all armed with rubber truncheons and
spitting with violence.  When the thick blades had found their mark with
tuned effect, he made gloss-coat of sweat despite the biting cold wind on
the parade-ground.  It streamed from his open armpits and oiled his body in
a slick sheen as he struggled with his wrists shackled high.  His loose
penis felt the wet parade-ground as it flopped between his spread thighs.

"Want more, boy?" one of the NCOs said.

He didn't know what to say and so was punished for saying nothing... or
anything, the rubber tools knowing no difference.

Twenty men were issued with twenty pairs of old, old, second-hand boots,
and that was all.  The boots would have to be run-in before any more
uniform was given.  And run they did.  Two ranks of seven and one of six
kept a tight formation within a painted track until those steel-soles made
a single, sharp *clack clack* on the bitumen.  They ran at attention, arms
straight down by their sides, striding desperately with
steel-and-leather-shod feet.  Fast.

For Brett, this was something of a relief.  Lean, streamlined, and smooth,
he took the forced sprint easier than the bigger, heavier men.  All around
him was gutted heaves and splutter, and naked, sweating, hairy bodies.
Like a trained horse he moved his booted feet in a graceful pace and timed
the weight of his steel-nail soles on the hard surface.

"Lookit the spunk-boy go!" someone in uniformed warmth yelled.  Then
another voice: "Move him to the left-front.  He sets the pace."

As Brett felt his cock slapping from left to right he snatched a quick
thought of Dennis.  No.  He needed to concentrate on his tempo and rhythm.
But Dennis kept coming back.  The prickly bristles of the square-jawed,
just-shaved face... The strong hands...

Shackled on the floor of the boxroom, Brett hooted in anger, calling the
name in a guttural cry.  Dennis!  You fuck-bag!  Come get me out of
Hellfire Bootcamp!


End of part 1
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