Date: Fri, 11 May 2012 04:58:24 -0700 (PDT)
From: jdr <daiuyrau@yahoo.com>
Subject: Sergeant Submits, Chapter 5

     The usual disclaimers apply to all chapters in this series.  This is a
work of fiction intended solely for the edification and enjoyment of adults
of legal age.  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely
coincidental.  Mention or description of any institution is only for
background purposes and does not mean or imply any connection with or
disrespect to that institution.  All rights reserved subject to Nifty's
terms of use.  First time readers can learn more about the Colonel by
reading "With a Flip of a Coin" posted in Nifty's Gay Authoritarian and Gay
College sections in March and April 2012.

********************************************************************************

     Laramie is best known as home of the University of Wyoming, the only
four-year college and the only graduate university in the state.  In
certain circles Laramie is even better known for a trade school so highly
considered that it is known simply as "the Institute," or "the I" for
short.  At three thousand dollars a month, its nine month courses are far
from cheap.  Most of its students are recent high school graduates, small
town guys from blue collar families that had done well repairing and
restoring cars and trucks.  Their parents know how much money their sons
can make with the I's education and reputation.

     Still, this large pool of eighteen and nineteen year old rural guys
has no way to blow off steam.  The local bars strictly card, not about to
risk a lucrative Laramie liquor license over a fake ID, so bar hopping is
not an option.  Most of the I students live in a dormitory complex complete
with chaperones and curfews, features that please the parents back home but
make partying impossible.  The one safe way to use up energy is the Boxing
Bouts.

     A local business with a small bar area and a large dance hall finally
figured out how to make money off of all one thousand I students, and that
is to hold a fight event in the dance hall on the second Thursday of every
month.  The spectators have to pay a cover charge and show a picture ID to
get in.  A very large ranch kid turned bouncer guards the door connecting
the dance hall to the bar.  A makeshift fight ring occupies the center of
the dance floor.  Temporary bleachers are raised up on the east and west
sides, leaving the ring's north side for the officials' table and the south
side for boxers to wait with their friends.  The powers that be at the
Institute are so pleased with this arrangement, and the resulting reduction
of dormitory testosterone, that they give any I boxer his Friday classes
off and excusal from staying in the dorm for Thursday, Friday and Saturday
nights.

     Every match follows the same pattern almost without exception.  One
boxer is an I student, a teenager with street brawler instincts but no
training in the sweet science.  The other boxer is a couple of years older,
a U student with a boxing background.  The fans are overwhelmingly
Institute students, chanting "I for me, I for me," as their champions enter
the rings and get their clocks punched by the better-trained college kids.
There usually is an attempt to match boxers of approximately equal weight,
but sometimes one could be as much as twenty pounds heavier than his
opponent.  It was this hunting ground to which the Colonel brought Sergeant
Kevin Knoyle to act as tiger bait.

     At the Wednesday weigh-in the Colonel spotted not one but two
potential targets among the half-naked contenders.  One was an I student
named Rob who matched the sergeant's one hundred forty-five pounds but who
stood three inches taller (at 5-11) and was accordingly slimmer and less
muscled.  He had the straw-colored blond hair, blue eyes and washed out
white skin that belied him as a midwestern farm boy.  Taking him down, both
in the ring and out, should be no problem.

     The other focus would be more of a challenge, a student at UDub named
Nate who had both height and weight on the sergeant.  His one hundred
sixty-five pounds of solid muscle, tanned skin, dark eyes, heavy eyebrows
and furry chest came with a certain swagger and a boastful confidence in
his body language.  He promised to be a challenge to any dominant trying to
make him submit -- and the Colonel loved that kind of challenge.

     The following night the dance hall started filling up an hour before
the opening bell, with a line running down the block despite the snow and
winter wind.  Inside, the big room turned warm and stuffy from the body
heat, the testosterone and the smell of sweat.  The Colonel perused the
first round of matches carefully.  There was Rob the I student, matched in
the second bout against Kevin.  There also was Nate, the cocky U student,
matched in the fourth bout against a beefy I student in his higher weight
class.

     During the fight card's opening match the Colonel made a point of
standing next to Rob.  The nineteen-year-old's friends had finished wishing
him well and had returned to the bleachers, leaving him alone and nervous
about his first public boxing bout.  The Colonel casually placed his hand
on the younger man's bare shoulder, causing him to jump and turn in the
officer's direction with a startled look on his face.  The Colonel spoke
first.

     "How do you think you will do, boy?" deliberately using the demeaning
name.

     Rob was too apprehensive about the fight to protest.  With false
bravado he replied, "Against that guy?  No problem!"

     "He's under my command," the officer stated, without explanation.
"Care to make a bet on the fight?"

     "Sorry, old man, but I don't have any money for that."

     "I was thinking more about a dare.  Are you the type who refuses a
dare, boy?"

     This time the epithet stung, just as the Colonel intended.  Rob
snapped back, "Hell, no, I don't never turn down a dare.  What you got in
mind, old man?"

     "Well," said the officer, "I ordered Kevin, your opponent, to mop the
floor with you."

     "Shit," spat the farm boy, "there ain't no way that wimp is gonna beat
me."

     "Are you positive about that?"

     "Hell, yeah!"

     "In that case, you will enjoy my dare.  I dare you to make this a
submission fight, winner take all, loser comes to my house and has to do
whatever the winner says until Sunday night.  Of course," he pretended to
hesitate, "if you're not certain you'll win, or if you're too weak to live
up to that dare, I'll just go tell him for you."

     The Colonel made as if to turn away but the boxer, covering nerves
with boastfulness, grabbed his arm and said, "Tell that little shrimp that
I'm going to enjoy beating the crap out of him in the ring and then using
him the rest of the weekend!"

     "Deal?" said the officer, extending his hand.

     "Deal!" said the farm boy, shaking it firmly.

     Meanwhile, the sergeant was pumped, physically and mentally.  He had
worked through his warm up routine.  He had punched himself in his gut one
hundred and fifty times (double that if you count both fists).  He had
knocked out fifty quick pushups.  He had "ridden the bicycle" to tighten
his abs and awaken his leg circulation.  He had focused his mind, walking
himself through the fight step by step, concluding with laying his opponent
out on the mat.  The young noncom was ready for combat.

     This being amateur and unsanctioned, the bar management was careful to
keep things as safe as possible.  Both fighters wore padded headgear and
mouth pieces.  The referee hovered around the fighters, quick to stop the
match the moment a victor was clear.  Even so, Kevin was too fast for the
ref.  When, as expected, Rob came roaring out of his corner windmilling his
arms, Kevin took a step back and to the side, then jabbed the farm boy with
a series of lefts to his exposed right ribs.  Rob crouched over, bringing
his elbows in to protect his hurting side and exposing his chin.  With a
vicious right hook, Kevin lifted Rob off his feet and crashing to the mat.
Rob went out like a light, the crew stepped into the ring to revive him,
and the ref hoisted Kevin's right gloved arm into the air in the classic
victory sign.

     While Rob recovered with his friends, the Colonel congratulated the
sergeant.  The two of them stood at ringside together, one fully clothed,
the other shirtless and in shorts, looking ready to box again.  Two matches
later, Nate dispatched his I opponent effortlessly as expected.  The
officer leaned down to talk into the NCO's ear.

     "Sergeant, are you brave enough to fight that big guy?"

     "Sir, you know I am.  Do you want me to take him in the ring?"

     "Yes," replied the Colonel, "show him how Army tough you are."

     The sergeant agreed.  The officer waited until the cocky college kid's
friends had completed their congratulations and drifted back to the
bleachers.  He walked up directly facing Nate, extended his hand and said,
"You did well, young man.  Do you always win your fights?"

     Nate didn't bother to conceal his sneer.  "Yes, old man, I always
win."

     "Really?" said the Colonel, feinting surprise.  "And what happens to
you when you lose?"

     The college student's body language radiated defiance as he
straightened up and hunched his shoulders towards this old geezer who
obviously did not appreciate just how awesome Nate was.  "I never lose," he
growled.

     "Really?" the Colonel repeated.  "And what happens to the losers?"

     Nate lowered his guard and replied, "The smart ones leave in a hurry,
old man, the dumb ones become my bitch."

     "Well," said the officer, acting as though he did not quite believe
that statement, "my young friend over there is no dummy, but if you beat
him he will be your bitch."  Nate listened with interest while the Colonel
continued.  "Starting tonight."  Nate's face showed he was hooked.  The
officer continued.  "For the whole weekend, to Sunday night."  Nate's face
could not conceal his delight.  "At my house," the Colonel concluded.

     "I don't have anything better to do," Nate replied in a bored voice,
acting as though he were stifling a yawn.  "Just don't come crying when I
turn your boy into hamburger meat."

     The Colonel laughed and extended his hand.  They shook on the deal,
agreeing to a submission bout between Nate and Kevin, winner takes the
loser from immediately after the boxing matches until six o'clock Sunday
evening.  The officer then left the college stud to go set upthe match with
the fight judges.

     There were eight matches in the first round that night, sixteen
pugilists in all.  After the last match, most of the crowd left to get
ready for Friday classes at the I or the U.  So did most of the boxers.
Only a few diehard fans and fighters stayed for the three rematches.  Last
of all was the pairing that the Colonel had arranged.  Only a handful of
aficionados remained to appreciate what promised to be the best exhibition
of the night.

     This was the only bout between fighters who actually knew how to box.
When the bell rang to start the first round, both young men moved warily
from their respective corners and started circling one another, fists held
in the proper position to protect their faces.  They both bobbed and weaved
with a jab here, a jab there, none of the short swings connecting with the
opponent's skin.  At one point the sergeant managed to work his way inside
and pounded the college stud with three left jabs and a hard straight
right.  Surprised and pissed, the larger man shoved the noncom away, then
went back to carefully testing the buck's defenses.

     Twenty seconds before the bell, Kevin penetrated Nate's perimeter
again, once more getting in jab after jab.  This time, however, when the
sergeant swung a mandropping right hook the stud ducked to his left.
Before the buck could retrieve his extended arm, the college kid let loose
a strong right punch that hit the soldier in his right eyebrow.  Blood
started oozing but the bell rang to end the round.

     In the corner the Colonel repaired the cut with astringent and a
bandage while coaching the pumped and sweating NCO.  The bell rang to start
the second round.  Both boxers again came cautiously out of their corners
to circle the center of the ring.  They needed all they knew about the
sweet science to keep from being hurt by the other guy.  Kevin was forced
to defend his cut forehead, thereby exposing his abs and ribs to onslaught
after onslaught from Nate.  By the end of the round, the difference in
weight class and arm length was beginning to take its toll on the sergeant.

     When the third and final round began, Nate clearly was leading in
points.  All he had to do to win was cruise until the bell.  That, however,
was not the cocky college stud's style.  He never wanted to just win, he
wanted to dominate.  Deep in his soul, he was a scared little kid, afraid
that someone might someday see him for what he really was: a submissive
waiting for a real man to take control and use him as a slave.  He
overcompensated by concealing his true nature with bravado that was just a
little too forced.  Most folks took Nate's confident air at face value, as
he intended them to, but the Colonel was an experienced dominant always on
the outlook for other men's weaknesses.  The officer knew that, once he got
the student into his house, the stud would be another addition to the older
man's slave harem.

     In the ring, the only thing that mattered was the contest of muscle
and will.  The sergeant predictably fought without caution, looking for the
takedown that was his only path to a win.  The college kid exploited that,
in the same way that a basketball team leading with a minute to go exploits
its opponent's usually vain hope to catch up by fouling.  Every time Kevin
opened his fists to strike, Nate was there to deflect and counterpunch.
More than once the sergeant connected with blows that did damage, but the
long-armed stud focused relentlessly on the bleeding eyebrow cut, opening
it up wider and wider.  When the bell finally rang, blood was flowing down
the young buck's face.  Dejectedly Kevin stood to one side of the referee
as the official raised the college kid's arm in victory.

     Throughout the evening's final match, the Colonel had stood with Rob,
now left behind by all his Institute buddies.  In a low seductive voice the
officer had described what was to come, reinforcing the voctech student's
sense of despair.  By the time Nate sauntered over to claim his spoils, Rob
was mentally as helpless as a lamb.

     "Congratulations," said the Colonel to Nate, "you just won my boy for
the weekend.  And he won this boy for me."

     The college stud arched an eyebrow, digesting all this.  "Hey," he
said, "if I won Kevin and Kevin won this dude then by rights I should have
both of them now."

     "No, boy," said the officer, deliberately using the putdown, "our deal
only covers Kevin.  So either walk away or follow me to my house."

     At this point Nate was thinking only with his cock, which is to say
not really thinking at all.  He threw his street clothes over his sweaty
chest, went to his vehicle and joined the caravan to the Colonel's den.
Kevin rode with the officer in his pickup truck, where the older man clued
him in on what would take place.  Rob followed, his souped up ride proving
the truth of the local joke that the Institute taught its students
everything about vehicle mechanics except how to install a muffler.  Third
in line was Nate in his Toyota FJ Cruiser.

     During the drive, the Colonel made a telephone call from his cell
phone.

     "Hello, Jeff?  How're you doing?  Still having fun with Sam?  Good to
hear.  Are you guys up for a party at my place tonight?  Oh, too bad.  Well
what about tomorrow after that exam?  And the rest of the weekend too?
Excellent!  I'll see both of you then."

     When the convoy arrived at the Colonel's house, the officer parked his
truck in his garage while the sergeant directed the I student to park in
the driveway and the U student to park on the street.  As the older man
opened his front door for the three former fighters to enter, only one
thought went through his head: "Come into my parlor, said the spider to the
fly."