Date: Fri, 15 Jun 2012 10:17:22 -0700 (PDT)
From: jdr <daiuyrau@yahoo.com>
Subject: Sergeant Submits, chapter 8

     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, Jeff and Sam by
reading "With a Flip of a Coin" posted in Nifty's Gay Authoritarian and Gay
College sections as of April 8, 2012.

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

     Sam had learned to accept.  Before losing the coin toss, he was
drifting through life, just happy to do whatever was going on.  He worked
out daily, but only out of habit.  He went to class, but only out of duty.
He dated occasionally, but only for appearances.  He hung out with his best
friend Jeff, but only because he always had.  He could have kept up his
drifting indefinitely, perhaps permanently, if not for losing the coin
toss.

     But he did lose, and for that he silently gave daily thanks.  He would
never admit it out loud, and maybe not even to himself, but in losing the
coin toss, his freedom and all his possessions Sam found his life's
purpose.  Jeff had always been the most important person in Sam's life, but
Sam was not gay nor was he in love with Jeff.  Rather, he was straight and
devoted, devoted to making Jeff's life the best it could be.  For that
reason Sam learned to suck cock and take cock.  For that reason Sam learned
to endure humiliation and pain, drink piss and eat cum, undergo shaving and
sleep deprivation.  For that reason Sam learned every small and great
detail that increased Jeff's contentment.  In serving, Sam found freedom.

     Now he was nervous.  Jeff had used him exclusively, never sharing him
with another man.  Yet here he was, riding in Sergeant Knoyle's Jeep
Wrangler, headed for Sergeant Knoyle's apartment, about to spend two full
days and nights serving this shorter and (he had thought) submissive combat
veteran.  All he could do was drift again, hoping that Kevin would lead the
way.

     Behind the wheel, the sergeant was thinking along the same paths.  The
Colonel had shown him his submissive side and trained him well to serve
both sexually and otherwise.  The officer also had encouraged the noncom to
explore his leadership potential and work on dominating other men.  He knew
that the older man had set this up for him, giving him his chance to work
with an experienced slave in preparation for owning and using Rob later on.

     So what exactly did the sergeant really want for the next two days?
Then it came to him.  He wanted pleasure.  He wanted competition.  He
wanted companionship.  He wanted to control.

     "So, Sam," he said to start the conversation, "how many men have you
served?"

     "Sir, I have only served Master Jeff, sir."

     "Then I will be your second?"

     "Sir, yes, sir."

     "Well, to start with, don't call me sir, I work for a living."  (That
lame joke has to date back to Caesar's legions.)  "Call me sergeant,
understand?  And only once a sentence."

     "Yes, sergeant."

     "What do you wear at home?"

     "Si ... Uh, nothing sergeant."

     "This weekend you will wear what I tell you, boy.  And I think I will
call you boy instead of slave."

     "Yes, sergeant, you can call me anything or do anything with me, you
are in charge."

     "Here we are, boy, Hop out."

     Laramie is pockmarked with student housing.  An ordinary looking
house, built for a small family, may have six or seven different units
crammed inside its four walls.  The sergeant's place was one of the
smallest.  It was a studio apartment, no bigger than ten feet by ten feet
square, with a bed, a table that doubled as a desk, two chairs, a stove, a
refridgerator, a toilet behind a screen, a sink that doubled as a wash
basin and a shower stall.  It was utilitarian and no more than what the
noncom needed.  Most importantly, it was cheap.

     Sam was ready for anything.  Or at least he thought he was.  What
Kevin told him was the last thing he expected and took a moment for him to
absorb.

     "Boy, for the rest of the afternoon I want you to give me pleasure.  I
want you to make out with me, kiss me, caress me, then I want you to
massage me, every inch of my body, and I want you to lick me all over and
suck me off.  Take as long as you can and go as slow as you can.  Do you
understand this order, boy?"

     Sam was startled and took a few seconds to respond.  When he did, a
smile broke out on his face.  "Yes, sergeant!"  And with that Sam stepped
forward, brought his left hand behind the noncom's regulation haircut head,
pulled their faces together and invaded the veteran's mouth with his cowboy
slave tongue.

     Kevin had never felt anything like this, and he loved it.  He
responded with some tongue action of his own, letting his thoughts sink
into the pure sensation of touch and smell.  Sam's hands starting moving up
and down the sergeant's back, rubbing his shirt up and down then up again,
reaching under the shirt bottom and up to the noncom's bare skin.  Kevin
shivered with delight.  Sam responded to the response.  Up and up the hands
went, lifting the sergeant's shirt with them until hands and shirt reached
the back of the neck.  The lip lock took a momentary intermission to let
the shirt come up and off, then the tongues went back to work.

     Sam kept up the kissing while manuevering his hands around to the
shorter guy's chest, built up by baseball practice and thousands of Army
pushups.  The college slave's fingers groped the hard pectorals, found the
stiff nipples, plied them back and forth, sending more shivers up Kevin's
spine.  Sam broke the French kiss and pulled his mouth down the side of the
noncom's throat, nuzzling it and rubbing it with his beard's five o'clock
shadow.

     All this was new to the young soldier.  He had served the Colonel and
surrendered his body to pain but not to pleasure.  He thought he would
enjoy it, but was quickly finding out that male on male making out exceeded
all his expectations.  He was beginning to learn what he really wanted.

     "Boots, boy, take off my boots."  Sam slipped down to his knees,
keeping one hand busy on Kevin's chest while the other unlaced first one
boot and then the other.  He guided Kevin's hands to his shirted shoulders
to support the sergeant's weight.  Then he used his own hands to lift first
one leg and then the other while pulling each boot off and setting it to
one side.  The socks came next.  Then Sam moved back up to a standing
position and resumed sucking the spit out of Kevin's willing mouth.

     Next the college student brought his hands to the sergeant's belt
buckle, which he expertly unclapsed, opening up the belt, then opening up
the jeans and pulling them down and off.  Finally he took hold of the
noncom's brown boxerbriefs and pulled them down the legs, under the lifted
feet and off to one side.  The soldier's hardened body was completely nude
(except, of course, for his dog tags) with his soldier cock standing at
attention.  The slaveboy guided his temporary master over to the bed,
lowered him down on his stomach and, still fully clothed, started a full
body massage.

     Back at the basement that once was Sam's home but now was where he
lived with and served Jeff, Nate was getting a different kind of full body
massage.  His rival in the gym had him strung up, hands taped together at
the wrists and secured to a chain dangling from the living room ceiling,
legs spread apart, his body stretched tight and straining to stay still,
his eyes and mouth taped shut, a five pound weight disc hanging from his
balls.  Where once his body was covered in a luxuriant pelt of manly hair,
now it was marred with angry red marks all over, front and back, arms,
torso and legs.  To one side (not that the new slaveboy could see) the
college kid master was sweating hard from swinging the flogger so many
hundreds of times.  There was nothing sophisticated in his approach.  All
he intended to do was inflict pain, pain and more pain.

     By contrast, the Colonel's treatment of young Rob was the quintessence
of sophisticated slave training, hand honed to fit the individual
submissive in question.  The officer started by playing upon the vocational
technical school student's self image as a boxer.  He ordered the voctechie
to insert the mouthpiece from the previous night's boxing bout.  Next he
fully secured the student's arms in black leather arm binder straps, with a
pair of straps draped over the naked shoulders and other pairs cinched
together behind his back at the upper biceps, lower biceps, upper forearms
and wrists.  Then he pulled a black leather hood in place, covering up
eyes, ears and mouth, leaving only a pair of nostril holes open.  Lastly,
he pulled down a steel chain hooked to the ceiling, looped it around the
would-be boxer's throat and secured it to itself behind the victim's neck,
stretched taut and forcing the slave to rise up a tad on his toes.

     Unseen by the human punching bag, the Colonel took his time covering
each of his hands in a Mexican wrap, using the silent waiting to increase
apprehension in the waiting slave's head.  The officer pulled on his boxing
gloves, warmed up his punching muscles and then pummeled Rob methodically
with his fists.  The gloves started on the young slave's lower torso, side
to side, back and forth, jab after jab, thrust after thrust.  The abs
turned pink, then red, then inevitably started softening under the
onslaught.  The student's head tried to pull down to protect his midrift
but that only tightened the chain around his neck.

     Then the Colonel hit Rob in the head, again and again, upper hooks to
the chin, roundhouse swings from either side, pounding the boxer's face,
blackening his eyes, opening cuts above both eyebrows, finally making him
go limp.  The officer wasted no time, yanking off the gloves, grabbing the
boy by the armpits with one hand, using the other to unhook the chain
noose, then lowered the semiconscious sub and dragged him into the next
room.

     In the middle of the second room there sat a chair.  It was an
old-fashioned captain's chair, used in the steamboat days, made entirely of
wood with the arms curved ninety degrees from the bow back down to the
front of the seat.  Nine sprockets connected the arms and the back to the
seat border, providing eleven tie-off points in all for arms and torso.
Seven more sprockets connected the four legs, providing tie-off points for
human legs and feet.  In the middle of the seat a butt plug thrust up,
waiting to impale Rob's ass.

     Which it did.  The Colonel held the student over the butt plug, let
gravity take its course and watched as the boy's ass swallowed the hard
rubber penis.  The unpleasant sensation woke Rob from his head fog, causing
him to thrash about only making it easier for the plug to insert itself to
the hilt.  Once the slave was stuck, the officer lashed both lower legs and
ankles to the outside of the chair, parallel to the floor.  Then he
disentangled one arm from the binder straps and secured it at several
points to the top of the matching chair arm.  He did the same with the
other arm, removing the binder straps in full.  Finally he took off the
hood and took out the mouthpiece.

     "Look at me, boy!" he commanded.  Blinking against the light, Rob
slowly focused his eyes on the dominating man standing in front of him.  "I
am going to ask questions and you will answer them all, immediately,
completely and truthfully, understand, slaveboy?"

     With defiance Rob spat out, "I ain't no slave!"  WHAP!  A hard hand
slapped against his face, already bruised and bloodied from the boxing
gloves.

     "Wrong answer, slave, so try it again."  The Colonel repeated his
demand.  Rob repeated his defiance.  The officer slapped him hard again.
For several rounds this happened until finally the hopelessness of his
situation and the pain to his face got the better of the voctechie and he
relented.

     "Yes, sir," he said sullenly, "I understand."

     Thereafter began a slow interrogation, as painful as it was thorough.
For hours the Colonel asked Rob about every detail in the young man's life,
the name of every person among his family and friends, every secret of his
sex life and thoughts, every shameful act he had ever done, all the details
of his finances, all the passwords for his online accounts.  Throughout the
questioning the older man added clothespins to the student's exposed skin,
on his nipples, forming a U around his pecs, encircling his armpits,
marching in a line down the bottom of each arm, outlining the six-pack,
lining the inner thighs and (most painful of all) encasing the ballsac and
the obstinately hard cock.

     By the time it finished Rob looked like a porcupine, his spirit was
drained, his head was slumped and his secrets were secret no more.  Once
again the Colonel had taken raw male material and reduced it into a slave.