Date: Sun, 30 Jan 2011 23:39:39 -0800 (PST)
From: Dark Entries <dark_entries01@yahoo.com>
Subject: Hellfire Bootcamp part 2

Copyright 2011 by the author.

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

Author's note: Very many thanks to those who wrote in. I love to receive
responses to the story.

The story is fairly hardcore and far-out, and obviously isn't suited to all
tastes.

dark_entries01@yahoo.com


***HELLFIRE BOOTCAMP*** part 2

"Hellfire Bootcamp's the worst punishment division in the Army!" said Jake.
"Shit!  What did the kid do?  Bite your cock off and then eat it?"

Dennis winced and placed his beer with a *clonk* on the Sergeants' Mess
table.  "Don't remind me, Jake!  Do you know anyone who can get him out of
there?"

"No.  But there's Bill Hillop over at General HQ.  He should know someone.
Do you want me to get in touch with him?"

"Yeah.  Do it, Jake.  I sent that kid to Hell and now I've got to get him
out.  Why didn't I think what I was doing?"

"Yeah, well," Jake said.  "All a man's emotions go kind of out the window
when a fresh young recruit stumps up.  Say, he was a pretty thing.
Buckfield, wasn't it?  Jesus!  He'll be mincemeat by now.  Do you know they
only get three hours sleep a night at Hellfire Bootcamp?  How's that for
hardcore?  Pity the fuckers."

*

Three hours of sleep would have seemed heaven, but boots needed to be
polished, and the soldier who presented a below-standard shine received a
sound whipping with rubber strops at the crane-post – along with the
`SA' marked men.  Brett felt like blubbering for his Mommy indeed as the
whip-stings caught him hard and flat.  But he didn't.  He roared "*Sir!*"
and "*Sir!*" again as the blades landed.  I'll be fucked, he thought, if
Dennis can make me blub.  So he knelt on the parade-ground with
up-stretched arms and took the clubbing.

"That kid's had enough," Warrant Officer Hardcastle said.

"Keep going," said Captain Catchcrowe, standing legs apart with a poised
riding-crop under his arm.

"How'd he get labelled `Special Attention' anyway?" someone else asked as
the whistling rubber landed.  Brett retched and bent his body forward,
arching his arms back to the chain and leaning his forehead to the ground.

Pants were issued by the Supply Officer from a filthy bucket, and strips of
rope to belt them with.  There weren't enough to around, and Brett remained
naked except for the heavy boots.  His cock swung in time with the
sledgehammer as twenty men broke rocks in a drum-beat cadence.  They had to
strike in time, their hammers falling on the count.  If one man fell out
from the rhythm, the whole squad was pack-drilled around the parade-ground
loaded with stones.  Each man thought he would die, and wanted to.  Brett
forgot the name `Dennis' and forgot that he was anything but a loaded
pack-mule, running in time with his steel-shod soles striking the
parade-ground with orange sparks.

*"Hellfire Bootcamp,"* Sergeant Dennis Judd read in the historical
literature.  *"Was established in 1910 for the correction and reform of the
Army's criminal persuasions.  Since then, it has gained a reputation within
the Army of being the most effective model for attitudinal adjustment.  Its
traditional operating procedures and dedicated staff have proved the
fastest method of producing highly motivated soldiers."*

"I only hope it's fast," Dennis thought.  He continued to read.

*"Hellfire continues to train men to the highest level of obedience."*

There was an old photograph of an unhappy lad restrained by the balls in a
single-hole yoke.  His wrists were strapped behind him.

*"Soldier loaded to the Man-Pillory for punishment at Hellfire Bootcamp
– circa. 1915"* said the caption.  Dennis looked into the boy's pleading
eyes on the page.  He seemed to be expecting – hoping – for something
beyond the humiliation of an ancient, wood-box camera and a dazzling flash
held by a photographer's assistant.  The meaty schlong was hanging through
the locked pillory, tightly gripped and sharply in focus.  Dennis could see
the veins in the black & white image – more clearly than those piercing,
accusing eyes which shone like overexposed sparks under a mop of blonde
hair.

"Guess the hair regulations weren't as stringent back in them days!" Jake
said as he slapped Dennis on the shoulder from behind.  The Sergeant with
the old newsletter started in his seat.

"That's what we need!  A few cock-yokes at every base, and the authority at
NCO-level to apply it..."

"Shut-up, Jake!" Dennis angrily threw the paper to the table in the
Sergeants' mess.

"Hear they still got one operating... at Hellfire Bootcamp..." Jake
sheepishly continued.

*

Brett had seen it.  A big, muddy soldier with a powerful ass had been
loaded by the balls after having stumbled on a pack-drill.  The man had
roared in protest as the old wooden piece folded onto his organ, holding
him by his male parts.  He twisted and writhed in the open field, cursing
the wooden device and cursing the Army which sent him to it.  Brett noted
with involuntary interest, his own cock rising as he stood to attention on
the muster point.

They rose at four am with the dreadful clanging of bin-lids, and they had
to muster naked and erect for inspection.  Any man failing to produce an
erection was a night-time masturbator and spent the following night
hog-cuffed on the boxroom floor.

Two hours before sunrise was spent pack-drilling on the parade-ground,
still naked except for the wrenching canvas straps and steel-leather boots.
Then they were hosed.  Firehosed.  At stinging velocity.  The freezing
stream knocked the breath clean away, and before the thing had been shut
off to a trickle, they were busy polishing the barracks floor by hand.

Breakfast was biscuits and water.  The messing routine lasted one half
minute, during which time the biscuits were dunked and demolished and steel
bowls upended hurriedly.  Somewhere in that maelstrom of shouted orders and
zero time, they pissed and shat in buckets, and ran to the next muster.

*

Dennis remembered his first tryst with Brett in the Camp Helga
training-ground bunker.  He had poured a shot of liquor and swigged
nervously while the boy stood to attention.  Under his uniform of
army-green, the Sergeant's skin prickled and cooled.  The concrete chamber
was still.

With each movement amplified by the solid walls of the room, Dennis had
turned slowly and peered in the dimness.  The young man could be seen in
the shadows, waiting, stripped to his jocks.

Dennis paused for a moment, tasting the heat of the liquor on the walls of
his mouth.  The kid stood improperly at attention, with his weight on one
leg, the other pushed to the side with only the toes to the floor, like a
faggot ballet-dancer.  The weak glow from the bare lightbulb showed
gleaming muscle and smooth limbs poised in an expectant stance.

The Sergeant's boots clapped on the cement floor as he approached.  Brown,
wet, mud-pie eyes opened at him, radiating somehow in the gloom from the
sincere, hopeful face like tragic beacons.  A silver chain with clinking
dog-tag touched the soft skin around the long, swan-neck, and the silly big
flop-haired noggin leant to one side questioningly, angled with the bare,
graceful, sweat-glossed legs.

"Halfway through Indoc', son.  When you're a proper soldier we can meet in
my cabin.  Lucky no one saw us today at the end of the mud-run."  Dennis's
light tone reflected the relief he felt.  Beneath his heavy green army
britches he felt the awakenings of his male power.  Emotionally and
physically drained of his combat skills, he now sensed the stirrings of
different urges.

"I think Corporal Heathcote nearly saw us, nearly," the recruit said.
Dennis saw that the kid's skin was spattered with spots of mud.  The young
soldier heaved with excitement, his fine little upstanding breasts rising
and falling with each heated breath.  There was a marksman's Badge of Honor
stamped on his left arm and a tin demerit-point register hanging from the
silver ring punched through his left nipple.  You had to fuck-up once to
earn that, and below it, a narrow field of polished, fluttering tummy
muscles under soft skin writhed its way down to whip-thin elastic hips.
All that bare skin shone with the lustre of fresh sweat under dim light.

As the boy shifted on the spot, transferring his weight, he hooked a thumb
into the twisted cord of his small, small cheesecloth bikini briefs and
unconsciously ran a finger through the stretched material to the back,
unfolding the binded thong and drawing it out from the tight crack so that
the laced fabric of the rear section spread to (barely) cover the neatly
muscled buttocks.  Hard pumped and smooth, those cheeks presented as
tightly pressed twins, finely-tuned and subtly rippled.

The moving cuts of overdeveloped and hard-trained thighs ticked, rising and
falling in overlapping bands – and notches just above the knees appeared
and disappeared as the soldier-boy flexed in nervous anticipation.

"Tired, punk?" Dennis asked, finding a suitably appropriate name for the
latest recruit he seemed destined to bed.  He liked the protection from
reality it seemed to give from the kid's upward, questioning glance.  A
highly apparent man-organ in the young recruit's loaded front-pouch was
quickly unfolding and snaking, straightening to the side and pushing to the
hip.  Its ridged underside was pressed outwards against the cheesecloth as
it lurched into position.

"Leave it alone, boy," Dennis said as he saw a hand move to the distended
muscle, and there was a wide-eyed glance from the young soldier, along with
the hint of a whimper from the big, expressive mouth.  Moments later, those
lips were pouting and pressing desperately, and passing hot air as if
pumped from a furnace as the punk lay backwards across the hood of the
ammunition-rack where he had been thrown.  He arched and strained as the
small cheesecloth brief was peeled and thrown from his writhing loins, and
Sergeant Dennis Judd surged with barely controlled fire.

A probe of glistening meat found a warm home, and slid slickly, smoothly,
and slowly.  Then the young animal's fingers started their adroit tickling
and Dennis's breath came in ragged, guttural rasps.  The lively creature
under him squirmed and writhed, and two heads were thrown back in primal
need.

The energetic congress moved to a fast, flesh-slapping pace, and Dennis's
heart pitched with painful tenderness as he heard the choirboy quavers of
the soldier-boy's trilling cries.  Brett went *"Ah!  Ah!  Ah!"* in sweet,
birdlike calls as he slid on the brass shells.  Dennis thrust with abandon,
holding the boy by the waist with strong hands.

The passion of real men will play-out recklessly, so Brett was lifted,
still impaled on the mighty pole, and hefted forcefully against the wall
with a *thud.* The Sergeant's hips moved like a single-piston engine,
bouncing the fucked boy in a fast rhythm.  And in the throes of fever,
Dennis delicately savoured the twisting, flexing bare muscle of the boy's
narrow waist.  His lips met with the punk's, silencing the shrill squeaks
and sucking - *sucking* - until blood was tasted in the pounding maelstrom.

Dennis's mind went blank as his life-force was ejected in multiple hot
gushes, and at the same time he saw the shooting ropes of the kid's own
jism, looping and curling powerfully in the air as white flashes.  The
grinding beat subsided as the sweat-lathered mountain of man and prime
youth sank to the floor.

In the horrid shadows of the Sergeants' Mess bar, Dennis Judd thought of
the boy he had sent to Hellfire Bootcamp.

dark_entries01@yahoo.com