Date: Sun, 26 Jan 2014 03:11:36 +1100
From: jake wright <sergeantwright338@gmail.com>
Subject: Op Swimmer Hell School

Copyright 2014 by the author

The story is intended for a mature audience.

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All comments are very welcome.
sergeantwright338@gmail.com

*****

OP SWIMMER HELL SCHOOL

1.

Combat Operations Swimmers belong to the fittest, toughest unit in the
Military. Much effort is invested in their training, and only the best and
most determined are chosen. Op Swimmer School – known as "Hell School" –
is staffed by dedicated professionals, men who are fiercely capable of
indoctrinating and moulding the hopeful young Combat Swimmers.

The School is legendary... and infamous. A course is of indeterminate
length, for a Combat Swimmer Trainee will remain on-board until he is
adequately assessed, or quits, or is ejected. The failure-rate is high.

Op Swimmer School lies on the icy peninsula of Coldbath Point, an
inhospitable outcrop populated with windblown scrub, and rocks dashed by a
black, heaving ocean. The school itself is no more welcoming than its
surroundings – a low-lying cluster of weathered concrete bunkers –
all surrounded by a high, iron fence. The arched, painted metal sign over
the gate reads "Coldbath Operations Swimmer School," and underneath -
*Suscipiat ad Inferos* - "Welcome to Hell." The mirthless joke lies in the
suggestion of inferno – there is no heating and the only hot water is in
the small set of staff-quarters.

Here is where they come – volunteers for the hardest Military training
in the toughest outfit. They are warned. There are no modern conventions of
equity or correctness – no moderation or concessions. There are no
weekends, no liberty, no free time. Don't bother bringing your phone or
iPod.

What we are about to see is how training is conducted at Op Swimmer Hell
School.

*****

First Middle Watch – 48-hour Indoc Sector.
Twenty-Three-Fifty-Nine-Hundred Hours – Midnight:

The change of watch was marked by clanging electric-hammer
fire-bells. These were the first official moments for the new intake of
four men – a small class, but low numbers were quite usual. The
screening and weeding for acceptances were efficient processes.

Midnight in the yard under harsh, bright-white floodlights. Most of the
staff were present to greet the new-kids. Tiny, colorful shards of ice
could be seen flying in the light, flicked and tossed by a wind straight
off the sea. The officers, NCO's, and soldiers were muffled tight to their
necks with warm Army woollens, burying their noses in their collars. It was
a Wintertime course-session.

The initial, alarming arrival was completed with megaphones screaming
obscenities and the threat of flying truncheons and bats. The trainees were
roused from the dark innards of a transport-truck after a journey of ten
hours spent on the bouncing metal tray. Into the bright-lit quadrangle of
the yard they were kicked, squinting and yelping. Now, the four new
Swimmers stood in a row, each over a drain at the centre of the yard, four
metres apart. They were all eighteen years-old, and all healthy, prize
bucks. Naked and poised like ballet-dancers, they strained on tip-toes and
made elegant, curved postures with their arms reaching high above their
heads – as high as they could – to where their wrists were shackled
in handcuffs, close together, palms facing outwards, hoisted on
stainless-steel ratchet chains to an iron pipe running over the yard.

Thusly posed, their lat-wings flared expansively from the exposed flanks,
bearing fine belts of muscle laced with the ribcages, which showed in
pockets near the deep, deep hollows of the wide-opened pits. The plates of
breast-muscle were spread widely and flattened, the brown nips as hard as
bubble-gum, pouting and swelling in the biting cold. Each stretched,
expanded torso narrowed dramatically to a set of flicking, super-smooth and
slender hips. Truly, they were swimmers, and the system had chosen well, it
seemed. These youths were big, powerful, and streamlined. The long, lean
fields of belly-muscle swivelled and swerved as each kid tried to find his
ideal stance on extended toes, winched upwards on the chain like a prize
slab of beef on display. The thigh-muscles sprung and popped as they lifted
and shifted the weight, making delicate networks of pleated sinew stand out
on those graceful legs.

As if to prove the condition and vitality of the naked flesh exhibited in
the yard, each male organ was fully erected, curving and flaring like four
aroused cobras, showing their pulsing undersides and thrusting hard to the
navel.

"Which one's got the best cock?" said Corporal Taggard loudly. There was
laughter, and steaming breath at the mouths of the Privates and
Corporals. The freezing air almost hurt the lungs, and had subdued the
usual high-spirits which accompany a new intake – so Taggard's
cheekiness was somewhat welcome.

The administration had been done. The four young bucks had been busted in
rank from Private back to shitkicking Recruit Special – lower even than
the Recruit Regular who has been in the Forces for half an hour – and it
takes a special kind to volunteer for that. It was almost impossible that
one of them would meet the proverbial Recruit Regular anytime soon, but if
he did, the Recruit Regular with half an hour's service under his belt
would have to be called "Sir," and be obeyed quickly with a "Sir, yes Sir!"

That is what these four young Combat Swimmers were here to learn. They had
to be broken hard into Hell School harness, and it was best that they learn
quickly. Their heads had been zip-clipped to a prickling number-one, and
the remaining hair sprayed bright yellow for visibility in the water. They
were numbered `1,' `2,' `3,' and `4' from left to right, the big numerals
stencilled in black ink, six-inches high in the middle of their breasts
between the nipples, and on their backs. Registration numbers were written
in red indelible marker on their bellies, and the doctor had marked their
respective weights in black on each small, hard left buttock.

"Toes together," they were told. "Chins up. Forty-five degrees. Suck in the
guts. Clench the buttocks. Don't move. Don't speak unless spoken to. Use
`Sir' at the beginning and end of every sentence."

There were rules at Op Swimmer School – rules enforced by
punishment. The four boys stopped their chattering teeth. Now, their knees
were tensed and locked, lifting their heels, and pushing upward toward the
pipe overhead. They posed – stretched and secured – with fingers
flowering from the steel, military ratchet-cuffs.

It is time we met them individually. There is no point in knowing their
names, for from now on they are 1, 2, 3, and 4, but we might know them as
`Twinky,' `Ugly,' `Spunky,' and `Goofy.' These were among the repertoire of
monikers used at Op Swimmer School to distinguish its trainees based upon
their facial features. Twinky looked like the serious one – a small
crease of determination between his eyebrows as he raised his chin to a
regulation forty-five degree tilt and stared straight above the roofline of
the quartermaster's building. `Ugly' might be the defiant one – a spark
of fire in his eyes. `Spunky' looked as though he might be harbouring some
doubts at this early stage, his lower lip exhibiting one small quiver. And
Goofy looked doubtful too, his wide, elastic red lips expressing a hint of
confusion.

"You big buck studs are makin' a fine impression already, with yer big
hard-ons. You faggots must be in love with this place. Good for you!"

It was the voice of Captain Damme – a deep, treacly baritone full of
smart-assery and confidence.

"What about you, Twinky? You all cosy for your first night in Hell School?"

"Sir! Yes! Sir!"

Twinky couldn't keep the desperate chatter from his teeth. His lips were
pulled back and his voice was a boyish squeak.

"What, fuckbag?"

"*SIR!* *YES!* *SIR!*"

"Not loud enough, Twinky-boy. Can't hear ya."

The voice of the number `1' trainee made a powerful shout in response, his
youthful lungs ringing against the concrete walls of the surrounding blocks
admirably, even as his body twitched in the freezing wind, suspended in the
steel cuffs.

A big hand gloved in warm brown leather made a hearty sideways *slap,*
twanging the hard-risen man-meat thrusting from Twinky's loin.

"That's the spirit, Twinky-boy! Now you, Ugly? Kid, you got a cute little
button-nose!"

The inspection continued. Cold-swollen nipples were tweaked and rolled
between thumbs and forefingers. There were rude hands and rude comments –
tickling, ill-mannered leather gloves in tight crevices and snarled insults
spat directly. Hard, polished-wood parade-sticks made adjustments –
prodding a belly, lifting a chin, and smacking into tense muscle. One was
fitted into a tight rearward crack, parting the hard-muscled cheeks with
some force, like a sliding rail in a groove, and lifting, pressing at the
anus and making the big shackled buck take tiny forward ballet-steps on
tippy-toes.

"Goofy," said Captain Damme. "You look cold. Your lips are blue an' your
schlong is startin' to droop."

"Sir! I think I'm getting hypothermia, S... S... Sir!..."

"Sergeant McCloud! Get this trainee warmed!"

Number 4's mistake was certainly the last of its kind. The strop-whip was a
flexing, oiled leather blade built specifically for purpose – seven feet
long – riveted to a two-hand wooden grip and stitched on the tail with a
thread-pattern intended to leave its mark. It hummed, burning the air and
whistling toward its sonic crack. Goofy roared its effectiveness at the
first stroke, and was then told he must perform the count.

"*SIR!* *ONE!* *SIR!*" he bellowed with tears in his eyes, learning fast.

"Did that hurt?" asked a smirking, baby-faced Private.

Goofy was cured of his complaints at the first arrival of the flying,
leather strop on his rump, but a further three cuts were administered. The
other three boys elevated themselves diligently on their toes and presented
their armpits, looking straight ahead and raising their chins to forty-five
degrees while Goofy took his cracking licks noisily – timed by the big
Sergeant McCloud with steady, military precision. The number 4 kid's
bellows were deep and manly, delivered with force from the guts. His
counting of the whip-cuts was performed with gusto, and when he announced
"SIR! FOUR! SIR!" he had been transformed from the big-eyed Goofy we knew
moments ago, to a young man who knew his place.

"Right, you fuckers!" bellowed Captain Damme. "Honeymoon time is over!
Here's how it works! You'll obey every order! Instantly! Without question
or complaint! And your pal, young Goof there, just fucked-up in the first
ten minutes! He complained! A dereliction of Standing-Orders! And I don't
have the patience for squealing faggots who shouldn't be here!"

As Captain Damme spoke, a three-inch canvas firehose hissed and snaked on
the concrete as it was charged with one-hundred and eighty pound per square
inch of pressure. The brass nozzle was a half-inch aperture, held by two
men. There was a moment's silence as four sets of wide eyes stared into the
black, half-inch brass throat. Then the nozzle-spigot was opened on Twinky
– number 1. The belting shock was met with a massive hoot from Twinky's
mouth as the air was knocked from his lungs. He danced like a motherfucker,
beaten and spun in his hoisted handcuffs. The dousing lasted one, two,
maybe three minutes, then it moved to the next. Down the line the hose was
trained, lashing the bare skin raw with its hammer-force, ice-needle
jet. Then, back up the line, from 4 back to number 1.

This was no quick bath. It was a prolonged piece of fun. When the hose was
not on him, each naked buck hip-hopped desperately on his toes for warmth,
raising his knees high and swerving his hips actively to the sides in a
fast disco-dance.

"Boogaloo-loo-loo you big buckeroos!" the men shouted to the tangoing
youths. "Yer big schlongs ain't so hard now!" They used their megaphones to
be heard above the rush of the hose-jet and the appalled whoops of the boys
in their sub-zero ordeal.

"*GAH!* *GAH!* *GAH!*" the young swimmers shouted as they bopped and
capered, fighting the freezing wait for their next turn under the
hose. They turned and jumped with their wrists held high overhead.

"Which one's the best boogie-dancer? Fuck a cow-herd backwards! It's Spunky
Number three! He's turnin' his cock like a windmill and shakin' his hips
like a Vegas go-go-girl! Hey Spunky! Where'd you learn to dance? You
shoulda joined Radio City Music Hall with that twirlin' ass o' yours! Get
the hose on Spunky! We wanna see him show his moves!"

Number 3 – Spunky – was a tapered cut of dynamic human muscle working
hard under the battering nozzle of the firehose. He danced like a crazed
slut seeking dollar bills. The high-heels were enforced by the
stainless-steel manacles lifting him to his toes.

"Check out the Spunk-Boy! I'm serious! This guy moves like trained
ballet-dancer! Whadder yer think o' that? Hey Spunk-Boy! Can you shimmy
like they do in "Nuns on the Run"?

Jeremy Johnson had indeed done some professional dancing before joining the
military, but his name and his previous training was of hardly any
consequence now, excepting whereupon it enabled him to twirl his heavy
penis in propeller-swings from his vigorously moving loin, and amuse his
superiors with his skill. He was Number 3 – "Spunk-Boy" – with his
number stencilled on his front and back and his close-clipped hair colored
yellow.

"Spunky's set the boogie-woogie standard! Yer a real fine mover,
Spunky-Boy! Get the hose on `em all until they're twistin' like Spunky! Ha!
Come on boys! Rotate those asses and spin those cocks! Hey Sarge! Wouldn't
it be somethin' if we could get `em all whirlin' their schlongs in unison!
Can we get some music goin'? What about Parker's AC/DC tape?"

The fight against hypothermia under the battering firehose took a great
deal of dynamic vigour – driving, muscular momentum forced onto tip-toe
by the overhead steel restraints. Under the floodlights, it made a spirited
show, and the frantic energy of the dancing-boys in a row was perceived
even at a distance of two kilometres – by eyes pressed to tripod-mounted
binoculars in the window of a local's shack. The silent, white-lighted
stage of the School's concrete yard made a distant theatre for an audience
on the side of Rifle Peak.

Up close, it wasn't silent.

"*GAH!* *GAH!* *GAH!* *GAH!*" The Op Swimmers shrieked. The megaphones
squawked angrily, and the pounding hammer of the firehose continued, making
swirling torrents on the concrete which the drains could hardly swallow.
The soldiers stepped back, careful to avoid the freezing gushes. They
muffled themselves more snuggly in their wool scarves as they watched the
bare, shackled buckstuds battling under the hose in the centre of the yard.

It was getting late. They drifted off to their quarters, but well into the
early morning there was someone willing to take up the brass nozzle and
spigot, and feel the empowering distraction of making a naked stud
dance. Later, during the very silent hours between zero-two and zero-three
hundred hours, the Middle-Watchmen released the chains and unlocked the
steel cuffs. The four trainee Op Swimmers had been racked onto their toes
in the yard for two and a half hours.

The only items of kit allowed from their previous life were their boots –
already worn-in and drill-ready. They had to be polished to Parade Standard
before the inspection-muster at the start of Morning Watch. Small nuggets
of hard, old boot-black were issued, and the four trainees were given four
ten-inch green-painted circles on the concrete upon which to stand. The
circles were numbered 1, 2, 3, and 4. Their feet were not allowed to stray
outside. The boots were not allowed to touch the ground until the
parade-ready mirror-gloss was finished, and the four trainees began their
work.

Spit, fingers, black lumps of polish, and boot-leather were worked
assiduously and economically. They were alone now, under the bright
floodlights on their respective numbered marker-circles, concentrating on
their task. There was no talking. Erections rose hard to their bellies and
fell, ignored, the begging male organs sadly disappointed at the rubbing
employment now occupying their owners as they worked on their boots.

The zero-four-hundred-hour Morning Watch was approaching fast, and the
trainee swimmers knew that their boots had to fucking shine – reflecting
in mirror-finish the faces of the officers and NCO's who would conduct the
inspection. The first four-hour watch of Op Swimmer Hell School was
closing. The sun was getting ready to rise, and the remainder of the
forty-eight hour Indoc-sector remained to be completed.

*****
sergeantwright338@gmail.com