Date: Fri, 21 May 2010 15:46:54 -0700 (PDT)
From: Thoby Andover <thobyandover@y7mail.com>
Subject: Stripped Recruits part 1

Copyright 2010 by the author

thobyandover@y7mail.com

Comments, suggestions most welcome.

*STRIPPED RECRUITS*

The freezing night air clutched at the bare skin of four muscular youths.
A dark night, surely, but the darkness existed only beyond the blinding arc
of the powerful spotlight mounted on the truck's roll bar.  The hard, cold
surface of the private road almost glittered under its day-bright sweep and
four sets of boots clopped neatly on the asphalt in a timed clip as the
recruits ran.  Inside the warm cabin behind them, Sergeant Colthorp
bellowed into the screechy loudspeaker.

"PACE UP, FUCKERS!  KEEP THE CENTRE OF THE SPOT!  YOU HAVEN'T EVEN BROUGHT
UP A SWEAT, FUCK-BOYS!  NOW *MOVE*!"

Last in the close-fitting line of four, Luke Rogers felt the hot blow from
the truck's radiator on his ass as it cycled to a higher gear.  Trying to
keep warm, the recruits stretched their stride in fine-timed unison and
faced the dark envelope in front, beyond the light's cold, bright reach.

They ran naked, except for the boots and the white-painted webbing at their
ankles, and they ran at attention -- that is -- with arms and hands
straight down by their sides and their knees lifting high.  Formed in close
ranks and almost touching, Sing-Sing style, they *had* to keep a timed
pace.  Leftrightleftrightleftright.  Fast.  As the white circle of
artificial light traced a moving position on the road, they raced to keep
up with the brightest centre of the spot, their bare rump-cheeks rolling in
its hard glare.  Staff Sergeant Colthorp and Corporal Childers were behind
in that dark cabin, and Justin Laycock -- second in the running squad,
cursed to himself soundlessly as the cold air burnt his lungs and he felt
his nipples turning to icy stones.  It was the second night at Discipline
Camp.

The ancient, disposal-store boots and whited webbing which weighed the
recruits' feet and ankles had been provided on their arrival twenty-four
hours earlier.  Those boots, which had seen much use in the past and little
maintenance, had to be polished overnight to a high gleam, and the buckled
army webbing had to be freshly painted.  The four young men had performed
furiously to complete these tasks throughout the night and had entered
their training on the first day having obtained no sleep.  Now, on the
second evening, rest seemed a long way off.

The hard-hoofing rank of fit young muscle was driven by the centre of the
spotlight along the centre of the frost-patched road, sprinting awkwardly
and with shoulders aching from the unnatural, ordered attention-posture of
their arms.  Ten miles had been done, running hard, and still the sweat
dried instantly on their solidly pumping bodies in the chill.  Tiny,
metallic particles of ice cut into their nipples and their flapping cocks,
and the miniscule coloured shards could be seen in the night air, and were
sucked into four sets of bursting lungs.

Mustered as raw recruits that morning after the night spent polishing, each
of them had been butt-stamped with his black-inked number on his left
rump-cheek.  `1' -- Aaryn Locke at the front of the line, the
fresh-stencilled numeral denoting him from behind as the first in need of
military adjustment.  `2' -- Justin Laycock running close behind, and
bearing that denomination on his fast-moving hide.  `3' -- Bang Vo.
Third in line, with the number turning and moving on his hard, narrow
backside.  Finally, `4' -- the stencil and spray-paint applied to the
finely-tuned rear bands of muscle in Luke Rogers' ass.

The four recruits thought only of the orders ricocheting into the night
from the loudspeaker, the timing of their quad-marched formation, and the
cold.  Staff Sergeant Colthorp and Corporal Childers warmed their hands
against the truck's heater airflow.  There was serious work to be done.
Four punk-ass recruits needed whipping into shape!

*

"You punks will be getting a shape-up, good and proper!" Colthorp had
lectured at their arrival.  "You'll work hard at being soldiers at this
camp!  You'll be under orders every moment of the day!  There'll be no
free-time!  Myself and the other staff will see that your little butts are
worked off!  Understand!?"

"M... Yes, Sir..." came the hesitant reply from four petulantly pouting
mouths.

"THAT'S *SIR!!!  YES!!!  SIR*!!!"  bellowed Corporal Childers.

"SIR!!!  YES!!!  SIR!!!"  was the shout from youthful, energetic lungs.

"*WHAT*?"

"***SIR*** ***YES*** ***SIR***!"  It was a loud-as-possible shriek.

"I WILL KICK YOUR BUTTS FROM HERE TO CHRISTMAS, YOU FUCK-TARDS!!!  SO GET
READY, COCKSUCKERS!!!  YOU'RE GOING TO HELL!!!"

And that's exactly where they went.

Naked and shivering, they had lined up on four army-green painted circles
on a cement square.  Aaryn Locke on position `1,' Justin Laycock on `2,'
each circle's worn, painted numeral corresponding with the butt-stamp of
its attention-placed trainee.  It rained.  Ice-cold driving sheets of
wind-swept blizzard lashed them in the open while Colthorp and Childers
waited in a wooden hut for the storm to dissipate.

Chin up and fingers together straight down by his thighs, Aaryn felt his
schlong swinging in the wind.  His balls climbed up, trying to escape the
stinging cold.  He closed his eyes to the dark clouds and tensed every
muscle, willing the flow of warm blood into his veins.

One metre away, Justin felt his boots fill with water.  "Well, I knew this
was going to be tough," he thought.  "I wonder when we eat!"  He felt a
familiar stirring, and his cock slowly arose, erecting itself at attention
at his belly.  But the cold rain drove it down again.

"This is fucking shit!" Bang thought.  "I can't fucking believe this!"  He
almost laughed out loud in perverse despair as rain streamed through his
hair and down his face.  "I can't fucking believe how shit this is!"

Despite the whipping rain, Luke Rogers maintained a full erection.  It
swayed upright in the wind, vibrating like a flagpole in a gale, thrumming
and straining like a bass-string.  He wanted to touch it.  The underside of
his shaft presented itself proudly to the dark windows of the wooden hut,
like the full-chested soldier who owned it.

"Wiggle your toes in your boots to try to keep warm!"  Aaryn called
helpfully to his companions, his words being beaten away by the gale.
Colthorp appeared at the hut door and splashed across the cement in his
black boots.  He ignored the foul weather.

He gut-punched Aaryn to his knees, and the big recruit "Ooophed!" his
blonde hair splayed in straggled strands across his forehead.

"GET THE FUCK UP, RECRUIT!  GET THE FUCK UP!"

Aaryn climbed to his feet and resumed attention-posture, guts quivering.
He didn't know whether to be angry or scared.

"Leave them on the marker-circles for another hour-and-a-half." Colthorp
said, back in the hut.  "Then -- pack-drill on the runway.  It doesn't
look like this weather's letting up.  We may as well make the most of the
week and they need a proper indoctrination on the first day, otherwise the
pussies will whine the whole time.  Teach `em we mean business!"

Outside, Aaryn Locke and the other recruits remained formed at attention,
chins held high to the rain and fingers together and straight by their
sides.

*

Pack-drill was hell.  Each stout young recruit was equipped with a heavy
load.  Aaryn Locke carried two army-packs -- one on his back and the
other reversed at his front -- each laden with fifty-year old .303
ammunition in sodden cardboard boxes.  Justin Laycock bore an un-working
1945 Mk 10 Mod 1 valve radio on his back.  The twenty-foot whip-aerial
waved in the air with a small, red flag at its tip.  Bang Vo and Luke
Rogers -- the biggest lads -- each hefted a wooden crate strapped to
their backs and loaded with stones.

In a line they ran.  Green U.S. Army helmets were numbered 1 to 4 and
balanced high on their nodding, bobbing noggins, strapped on tight with
webbing chinstraps.  Boltless, rusty .303 Lee-Enfields were carried out in
front.  Their boots splashed on the ground and their rippling, hard-tensed
six-pack bellies undulated in time with the weight of their respective
loads, and the streaming cold rain ran through their `V' waists to their
pubes.

Number 1 Aaryn Locke, in front, couldn't see.  The forward army-pack kept
his head to the side, so he followed the white, painted line to his side,
watching and concentrating.  If he tripped, the pack would carry his fall,
but the other recruits would come crashing on top.  He thought to himself;
he'd easily prefer two shake-ups in a row under his wrestling coach to this
punishment-drill!

The twenty-foot whip aerial of Laycock's radio-set, with its red flag,
could be seen across the treetops by anyone foolish enough to venture into
this rotten weather within a mile of where the militarised formation of
naked, disciplined young men performed their grim quadrille.  It lashed to
and fro, swinging with every pace.  "Fuck!" Laycock thought, unable to form
a curse with his breath.  "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" thought Bang Vo.  Every other power of his intellect was devoted to
the hefting of the load on his back.  He could think of nothing else.  Each
step required as much mental stamina as physical, and he fixed his narrowed
eyes on the thumping, wagging backside of Laycock in front.  "Fuck...!"

When Luke Rogers had first crouched to shoulder the crate full of stones,
he had little believed he'd be able to lift it.  What was the Staff
Sergeant thinking?  What were they thinking?  No one could run with this
load!  But he did.  Vo's sharply-rippling number `3' moved before him and
he refused to fall behind!

The loudspeaker honked.

"KEEP MOVING, RECRUITS!  KEEP THOSE SCHLONGS PROPELLORING!  BACKS STRAIGHT!
NOW MOVE UP TO A GALLOP!  LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT!
STAY IN CLOSE FORMATION OR I'LL COME OUT THERE AND HORSE YOUR SORRY ASSES
WITH THE FANBELT FROM THIS TRUCK!!!"

"Not sure that the number one should have been loaded with two packs,
Sarge," said Corporal Childers to Colthorp in the cabin of the Truck.
"He's skinnier than the others."

"They're all big-buck lads!" said the Sergeant.  "And number one'll be
hitched with two packs if I say so!  Plenty of punk-ass pussies have shaped
up under my old army training!"  He reached for the Bakelite microphone and
shouted more orders.

"HUP!  HUP!  HUP!  HUP!  HUP!  HUP!  MOVE ALONG LADS!  WE'RE TAKING YOU
THROUGH THE GATES AND INTO THE TOWN!  STRAIGHT THROUGH THE QUAGMIRE!  STEP
IT OUT, BOYS!  HUP!  HUP! HUP!"

"The truck'll be filthy!" said Childers.

"They'll wash it," the Sergeant replied.  "As soon as they've finishes
hucking out the latrines!"

"In any case, there'll be no mosquitoes about in the bog.  Not with this
pouring rain."

*

The main street was entirely deserted, and for this, the driving rain could
be thanked.  But the four pack-drilled recruits could hardly be less
inclined to thank anyone, and they felt anything but gratitude.  With their
packs, their .303 Lee-Enfields and their bodies covered in mud from the
local quagmire, they hip-hopped in cadence down the middle of the street,
closely followed by the army-truck.

With his head turned to the left by the imposing, loaded pack carried in
front, and with his American Army helmet riding high and inscribed with the
white numeral `1,' Aaryn glimpsed a parted lace curtain -- a momentary
flutter of movement in a shopfront as he passed -- he saw a bystander
taking shelter at a bus-stop -- and he angrily lifted his knees with
renewed gusto, twirling his slippery penis.

"LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT!!!  HUP!  HUP!  HUP!  GALLOP-PACE NOW,
PUNKS!!!  ***MOVE***!!!" came the amplified voice of the Staff Sergeant,
echoing even in the rain from the shingle roofs and sandstone clock-tower.
They moved fast to the end of the main street.

The town receded into to the rear for the running recruits, their wagging
backsides waving the rain-soaked townlet bye-bye.  The merry troupe was
tripled marched around a back-road, past a crumbling gas-plant and several
disused quarries, and back toward the camp.

The rain ceased but the air was still wet and the wind blustered.  The
breathless, voiceless recruits were fed six ration-packs each of dry army
biscuits on the wet concrete outside the wooden control-hut.  They drank
greedily from a single bucket, taking turns.  That had been the first
morning of Discipline Camp.

"You fuckers are here to learn discipline and respect!" Colthorp said as
the men were lined-up once again on the green markers.

"Are we going to get any *clothes*?" Luke thought to himself.

"But this afternoon you're getting it easy!" continued the Sergeant.
"Lucky punks!  You'll be out of the rain!  Inside the barracks!  Strip,
seal, and polish the floor!  Now *MOVE*!"

They took off in a jumble.

"GET IN LINE!  TRIPLE-MARCH AT ATTENTION!  IN LINE, COCKSUCKERS!  ARMS
DOWN!  FORM UP!  NOW TRIPLE!  HUP!  HUP!  HUP!  HUP!"

"Get the scrubbing pads from the cleaning-locker!" said Luke to the others,
teeth chattering, as they entered the old barracks building.  "*Hurry!* I
know how to do this!  We've got to scrape the old sealant off the floor!"

There was an old, thick layer of varnish on the linoleum, and the four
young soldiers had to scrub on their knees, their bare asses wiggling in
the air.

"This is going to take ages!" Justin puffed.

"Move it!  Keep scrubbing!" said Luke.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Corporal Childers shrieked.  "And get in line!!!
You're out of order!  You fuck-tards can't even count to four!"

In a row, the busy recruits arranged themselves on their knees, their
wobbling, numbered asses now consecutively placed.  1.  2.  3.  4.  They
scoured the floor alongside each other, breaking the old polish into
scattering shards.

The dilapidated old barracks was windswept even on the inside, with missing
doors and rows of broken-down cots.  Filthy mattresses were piled here and
there, and if it wasn't for the whistling wind, it was obvious the place
would have stunk.  The cracked flooring was impossible to shine properly,
and Colthorp and Childers screamed and kicked at the recruits' failure.
The sole of Colthorp's shiny boot was placed on Laycock's bare backside,
and it *shoved*.  Justin went sprawling across the floor, his helmet
clunking and his own, heavy old boots scrabbling.

"GET BACK IN LINE YOU USELESS FAGGOT!!!"  came the noisy shriek.

Hours were spent.  They shivered.  They mopped.  They laid new polish.  And
then they hand-rubbed the new surface, trying to make it shine.  At six
p.m. they were fed more biscuits, and then the four dispirited soldiers
were ordered to clean the latrines.

Unlike the barracks, the brick toilet-block *did* stink.  A row of
stainless-steel commodes, without cubicles, overflowed and gurgled with
brown, rusty stains and filthy water and the floor was streaked with green
growth.  Their equipment consisted of one brush and one leaky bucket,
filled from an outside faucet.

"YOU'LL LICK THIS FUCKING PLACE CLEAN, YOU SHIT-EATING MAGGOT!" the angry
Staff-Sergeant bellowed as he shoved Luke Rogers' face against the steel
rim of one of the bowls.

"LICK, FUCKER!!!"

As Childers held the recruit's arms and Colthorp yanked and pushed his
head, Rogers licked.  Meanwhile, Laycock scrubbed furiously on the tiles
with the single brush.  Vo and Locke cupped their hands with water from the
bucket and rubbed the inside of the bowls with their bare palms.

Again, it was impossible to do a proper job.  Nevertheless, the
latrine-block benefited immeasurably from the cleaning performed by the
four frantic recruits.  They were amazed at themselves.

Next, the truck was washed under flashlights, and four bare, black-numbered
asses wiggled about it as the day's mud came off and rags were applied.
When the job was complete, it was midnight.  Their arms and legs ached and
their knees were sore from kneeling -- and Staff Sergeant Colthorp and
Corporal Childers did not seem in the least bit satisfied with the work
they'd done.  Colthorp, particularly, had a voice seemingly unaffected by
fatigue.  It boxed their eardrums without respite.  It made them jump and
perform, and formed them into their line again -- Locke -- Laycock --
Vo -- Rogers.  They obeyed.

So they were placed in line and triple-marched out into the freezing night,
in the beam of the truck's spotlight.

"You fuckers won't be sleeping in a barracks you can't even clean properly!
First day at Boot-Camp and you prove you're a bunch of useless
jackasses!!!"

They ran ten miles in the night to a small tin shack, and this is where
their first day came to an end.  Bundled inside, they shucked off the boots
and helmets -- the only clothing they'd been issued -- and collapsed
exhausted into a double bunk.  Numbers 1 and 2 fell together onto the lower
shelf, huddling under a threadbare blanket on bare wooden slats.  3 and 4
on top.  There were no pillows.  Aaryn and Justin wrapped themselves
tightly in their meagre covering as Bang and Luke climbed to the upper
section.  The bed creaked as the four big lads shuffled and squirmed.  It
was 2 a.m. and very quickly they found slumber -- their first sleep in
two days.

*****

Asleep, Aaryn huddled into Laycock's shivering body.  They'd never met
prior to their arrival at the military camp, and even now had barely
exchanged two words.  There hadn't been time.  Now, sleep seemed far more
important than pleasantries.  The two boys encircled each other with their
arms, far too exhausted for words and their limbs aching.  They were intent
on not being dislodged from the narrow bunk.  Aaryn felt a hardness in his
dreams, rubbing in his belly.  Unconsciously he returned the rhythmic
motions, feeling a warm, oncoming flood.  There was soft breathing in his
ear -- and light, tickling fingers playing on the stiffness in his loins.
His dream was of Staff Sergeant Colthorp.  The big soldier he'd known for
only one day had a blonde buzz-cut and piercing blue eyes.  He radiated
authority and menace -- not completely because of the massive,
outstanding chest and tree-branch arms -- and it wasn't totally the
foghorn voice, either.  The man just possessed something else, too.  It was
power.

Like the others, Aaryn had obeyed instinctively, automatically.  When
Colthorp had ordered `run,' -- they'd run.  The sleeping recruit stirred
when his unconscious, head-bound imagery turned to the events of the day
spent under Colthorp's orders, naked and wet, and slogging it out shod in
boots he'd spit-shined himself.  And the other boys.  They were big healthy
buck-studs like himself -- and even though they were all quite
unacquainted, Aaryn was pleased they were there with him.  Their muscles
had strained with pain, like his, and the veins on their limbs had stood
out, pumping.

Now, in the rudimentary bunk, he felt a rush and a surge and he was
momentarily half-awake, whimpering softly and pumping a full, hot load into
the dark between the two enveloping bodies.  In the next moment he was
asleep again.

Then he dreamt of the strange, no-nonsense little advert.  "Military
Discipline Camp.  17-24 Feb.  Punishment discipline for punks and studs.
Be very fit.  Phone the Staff Sergeant.  No slackers."

The black ink of the cheap box-ad loomed in his reveries.  His sleepy head
returned to it again and again, just as he had in reality during the week
he'd spent deciding.  The eventual phone-call buzzed sharply in his dreams
also.  "Yes, Sir!" he had barked at the distaining voice on the line --
the same voice which had screeched and yowled at him all day through the
loudspeaker.

He'd been told to call again at an exact time for an "interview."  There
had been more "Yes, Sirs!" and he had to practically plead -- insisting
that he was fit enough.  Everything was "Sir!"  "Nineteen, Sir!"  "A
hundred & fifteen kilos, Sir!"  "Not fat.  Muscle, Sir!"  "Wrestling,
swimming, weights, Sir!"

"Turn up here..." he was told.  Then `*click*.'

He turned up and had come to regret it.  There had been nineteen others
during the elimination process, all big, strong men, but somehow, Aaryn had
been unable to allow himself to be disqualified.  One had departed when
they had all been ordered to strip in the basement of the city townhouse,
and five others soon after, angrily dragging their clothes back on, fed up
with the Staff Sergeant's furious bawling.

One by one, the remaining fourteen had presented -- on a painted spot, of
course -- in a side-room before a panel at a wooden bench.  Some emerged
from that ordeal and quit voluntarily and some were simply kicked out.  The
others were told to line up against the wall and wait.  Aaryn had stood to
attention before the bench not really believing what he was doing.  Staff
Sergeant Colthorp, Corporal Childers and others, all uniformed, had grilled
him and examined him, testing him to evaluate whether he could last out the
week.  Questions were asked abruptly.  He'd answered with "Sir!" and choked
back irate comments of his own.  Colthorp was a bastard!  But quitting
would be... *losing!*

It would have seemed corny -- uniformed, dime-store soldiers in
half-baked military costume pretending authority -- but you had to be
there.  Some of them were puffed-up little Generals acting-out a false
gravity, but Colthorp, he was the real deal.  Aaryn's male organ had risen
to his belly as he justified his attendance before the panel.  Colthorp had
wounded him with distain and Aaryn had clenched his butt in humiliation.

These ordeals and visions swished in his dreams.  The old rug under the
wooden bench.  The scraping chairs.  And the cool, painted cement under his
own bare feet.  His clothes were in a cardboard box outside the room where
the others waited, dumped hurriedly in the crowded chamber of naked men.

As he stood on the spot, he'd written an essay on two sides of a piece of
slate with a lump of chalk.  They watched him do it and Aaryn had felt
their eyes on his swinging cock.  He hadn't remembered what he'd scribbled
and he assumed -- hoped -- no one had read it.  "Why I need Military
Discipline," he scrawled at the top of the rough board.  "Sir, I need
Military Discipline because..."  How fucking corny!

In the end, four had remained.  All young and fit, and confident.  They'd
been driven off in the back of the truck, forbidden to talk and their
clothes remaining behind in the cardboard boxes.

In his dream he heard again the Staff Sergeant's voice... then... it wasn't
a dream.

*****

"UP!  YOU FAGGOTS!  UP & AT `EM!  WAKEY WAKEY, HANDS OFF SNAKEY!"

It *was* still a dream.  It had to be!  He'd only just closed his eyes that
very second after laying his head on the narrow, wooden pallet.

"I SAID GET UP!  GET IN LINE!  **MOVE!!**"

... No way... Aaryn struggled with his crusty eyes.  There was the
ear-splitting crash of a baton on a shit-tin lid.

"MOVE IT!"

*CRASH!*

As fast as fast could be, the naked recruits got into their boots, their
ankle webbing, and their numbered US Army helmets.  Outside it was still
pitch-dark night.  Then the truck's spot lit up.

*Oh no!  Please!*

They formed up in line at attention, their helmets riding high and the
chinstraps buckled.

"COCKS TO ATTENTION, BOYS!  I WANT EVERY MAN ERECT!  THERE'LL BE NO
MASTURBATORS AT BOOT-CAMP!!!  YOU HEAR THAT, THREE!?  YOU'RE LIMP, BOY!
YOU BEEN FUCKIN' PULLIN' YOUR PUD' IN BED!"

Three of the four exhibited fully-grown erections, but Bang Vo had failed.

"YOU'LL FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS TO DONG-PULLERS TONIGHT, FAGGOT!!!"

Now, Corporal Childer's voice came screaming from the loudspeaker.

"LEFT TURN!  TRIPLE MARCH!  LEFT.. LEFT..LEFT..!"

"HUP! HUP! HUP! HUP!"

Aaryn's legs ached with leaden weight as he tripled at attention, arms
straight down.  His erection was soon gone and, at the front of the line,
his schlong flipped and flopped as he lifted his knees.  Behind him, he
felt Justin pressing into him, trying to stay close.  If any man fell
behind or separated only slightly, the offensive voice barked more
obscenities from the speaker.

It was another ten-mile run in the dark.  What time was it?  Fucking
*early*!

"HUP!  HUP!  HUP!  HUP!"  came Corporal Childer's insufferable voice,
baying like a banshee from the truck.  Those two fuckers in their army
uniforms!  Clothed and warm, riding in the cabin and yelling orders!  Aaryn
thought of his shocking mistake.  Informing his city friends he was "going
away," mysteriously, for a week.  His nipples pouted and hardened and he
felt the freezing morning air at the end of his flapping cock, turning it
blue.  The only thing to do was run.  Run hard.  With his three new
companions pushing from behind.

On arrival back at the barracks-block and control-hut, the shivering
recruits were formed up once again on the painted markers.  By now, they
knew not to mess-up their order.  1.  2.  3.  4.  At attention.  Then Aaryn
saw Staff Sergeant Colthorp dragging on something.  His blood curdled.  It
was a firehose.

Oh Jesus, *no*!

Childers charged the hose from a hydrant and Colthorp opened the brass
nozzle.  The jet knocked Aaryn's breath away.

"YAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!"

The recruits shrieked and danced on their numbered spots as the stinging
fountain played across their jigging, freezing, naked bodies.

"YEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOWW!!!"  "HOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

"STAND STILL YOU SORRY FUCK-TARDS!  SCARED OF A BATH, FILTHY FAGGOTS!!!
THIS'LL MAKE YER BALLS RUN OFF A MILE!  EH, PUNK-BOYS!?"

Aaryn nearly cried, and Colthorp took his leisurely time aiming and teasing
the jet.  "Reckon these dirty fuckers are clean yet, Corporal Childers!?"
"Not yet, Sarge!  They still stink!"

While the cold, solid stream jetted into one writhing young soldier, the
others wrapped themselves in their arms and bent double, stamping and
cursing.  Then the torrent moved across to the next shivering lad.  Back
and forth.  Back and forth.

"FUCK!"  "JESUS!"  "SHIT!!!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, MAGGOTS!  YOU!  NUMBER ONE!  BLONDE PRETTY BOY!  STAND
STILL YOU GIRLY FAGGOT!  NUMBER TWO!  QUIT JIGGLING YER BIG SCHLONG,
PUNK-BOY!!!"

The loud chattering of four sets of teeth could clearly be heard as the
hydrant was shut off, and four dripping, blue recruits were formed in line
and triple-marched to the ramshackle stores-shed.  They strutted at top
speed gladly, shaking the icy water from themselves and pressing together
for warmth.  They were becoming practiced now, at their close, Sing-Sing
style formation, moving in unison in a co-ordinated, eight legged clip with
their arms straight down by their sides.

The stores-hut was another old weatherboard shack, and more numbered
circles were painted on the concrete outside.  They knew what to do.  They
shivered involuntarily, trying to keep still and properly at attention.

"Say hello to corporal Smets, girls!" said Colthorp.  "Corporal Smets will
issue you with your uniforms!  Say `thanks' to Corporal Smets, you lucky
punk-rags!"

The young, wiry Corporal Smets leered delightedly at the four naked lads at
attention.  He carried a tin bucket as he emerged from the hut -- in it;
their uniforms.  A pair of old, worn-out army-green pants was thrown to
each recruit, and a length of rope to belt them.

"GET `EM ON YOU BUNCH OF FUCK-BAGS!" Colthorp bellowed.  "NO ONE WANTS TER
SEE YER DINGLE-DANGLIN' COCKS WAGGIN' ANYMORE!!!"

As the first glimmer of sun peeked through the surrounding treetops, a
second day at the military camp began.

************************
Got any good ideas for the Stripped Recruits?
thobyandover@y7mail.com