Date: Wed, 16 Jun 2010 23:58:49 -0700 (PDT) From: Thoby Andover <thobyandover@y7mail.com> Subject: Stripped Recruits 3 STRIPPED RECRUITS DAY 2 PART 2 "Out of yer foxhole, number four! FRONT AND CENTRE!!!" Luke thought of the butt-stamped number `4' on his left rump-cheek. The Staff Sergeant stood over the hole where Luke was up to his neck in brown water. He climbed out, slipping in the wet. Not fast enough. The Sergeant grabbed his hair and hauled, and the naked recruit's limbs scrabbled in the mud. The black baton caught him hard in the guts and the air rushed from his lungs with an "ooff!" He was down, trying to suck oxygen from the rain-soaked air. Head bowed, he saw the Sergeant's black boots in the mud. The hooked `L' of the baton was between his legs. He felt the hard club at his balls as it lifted him, and he remembered the solid fucking it had given him. He stood to attention, cock erect. "You're the major fuck-up who's lost your kit on the road!" said Staff Sergeant Colthorp. "SIR! YES! SIR!" "I've had a call from the Warrant. He's not happy, boy!" "SIR! YES! SIR!" "And your fellow recruits have had to ditch their own uniforms because of you!" Luke gulped. The Sergeant was fast. Luke was twirled, and again he felt the steel handcuffs at the small of his back. They *clicked* and his wrists were locked together, palms outward. He stumbled, bent over at the waist and head down, as the Sergeant dragged him to the truck by his hair. The rain had stopped, but Luke's bare feet squelched in thick mud as he strained with the big Sergeant's fist in his hair. Bent over, he was amazed to see his fully pumped cock throbbing at his belly. It was too fucking cold! "Oooff!" He was thrown hard across the truck's hood. His cheek rested on the cold, wet metal. "Hold him tight, Corporal. I'm getting the strop." Bent over frontwards and with his wrists locked behind him, Luke felt his ears twisted. He turned his head upwards. Corporal Childers was grinning. "Hold still, big buck-boy! Yer goin' ter get a whippin'" Luke felt his hard cock against the truck. The Corporal pulled on his hair. Then, a folded strap of thick, brown leather was shoved under his nose. "Smell it, recruit!" ordered the Sergeant. Luke sniffed, and smelt the dark, oily leather. "I said SMELL IT!" He sniffed harder. Close up, he saw the stamped pattern in the surface of the razor-strop. "Here's how it works, recruit. I give you three cuts. Then you get to decide whether you need three more, or six more. Understand, recruit?" Luke was confused. "UNDERSTAND, RECRUIT!?" "SIR! YES! SIR!" Fifty metres away, Justin heard the yelling. The water level in his filthy foxhole had receded to his thighs, and the naked recruit's cock was thick and erect. The Sergeant and the Corporal were occupied. He saw his chance. He gripped his penis and slid his hand urgently up and down the mud-slick shaft. Faster. There was a rhythmic squelch as he jerked his throbbing organ. "...Ahh..." he groaned as a white ribbon shot into the air. Back at the truck, Sergeant Colthorp swung the leather strop about. It swished in the air. He snapped it back, making it *crack*. "Your butt's nice and wet," Childers said, holding the big recruit across the hood. "That's gonna make this punishment extra effective, huh?" "Count `em out, Recruit," said Colthorp. The broad, flat blade of leather raised. The tail flew. There was a whistle of wind. The **CRACK!** on the recruit's bare rump was shocking. "FUCK!!! JESUS!!! SHIT!!!" "Did that hurt?" said Childers. Luke nearly laughed. He thought of the baton-fucking he'd had earlier. "My poor butt!" he thought desperately. "Count it, Recruit!" "SIR! ONE! SIR!" The strop was raised again. Luke shut his eyes as he heard the leather whistle. **CRACK!!!** "*FUCK*!!! *FUCK*!!! *SHIT*!!! *FUCK*!!! The Sergeant was big and strong, and his meaty fist grasped the leather handle firmly. "SIR! TWO! SIR! SIR! THAT'S ENOUGH! *FUCK*!!!" The strop whistled. **CRACK!!!** "***FUUUUUUUUCK***...!!!" "I told you we'd man you up, You big buck-cocksucker!" Colthorp growled. That's what you're here for, isn't it?! Now shut the fuck up and take it like a man!" "Fuck it!!! SIR! THREE! SIR!" "This is where you get to decide on the future of your punishment," said the Sergeant. "Three more cuts, or six?" "No more!!! Please!!! Fuck!!! My ass feels like it's on fire!!!" "THREE OR SIX?! Pick a number or I'll flog your ass `till it's jelly!!!" "Fuck it!!! Three!!! THREE!!!" The other recruits shuddered in their foxholes, and worked. Justin heard the *cracks* and the howls fifty metres away, and quickly shovelled mud with renewed vigour after his jerk-off. "Fuck! If I'd known I was risking a whippin'..." he thought. Luke didn't know how he was going to take three more cuts. But somehow he did. The flexing blade of leather caught him expertly and evenly across his burned hide, and he yowled and cursed at each stroke, calling the count with plenty of "SIRs!" He stood up, jumping. He hopped up and down with his wrists locked behind him. "Fuck! Shit! Fuck! That fucking hurt!!!" "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" said Corporal Childers. Colthorp's voice boomed across the muddy field. "RECRUIT TWO! FRONT AND CENTRE! GET YOUR ASS TO ME, PONY-DONG BOY!!!" The strop-whip still flexed in his hand. Justin climbed quickly from his hole, naked and covered in mud, and he ran fast to the Sergeant. The handcuffs were removed from Luke's wrists. He stood to attention. "Turn around, Pony-Dong," the Sergeant ordered, and now, Justin's wrists were locked. "Get across the hood, boy!" "Since you didn't want the full nine cuts, the last three will be administered to your fellow recruit," Colthorp said to Rogers. "Handbook of Army Requital Discipline and Correctional Or Rectitudinal Education... "Chapter Nine... "Paragraph Seven Nineteen... "*Wrongdoing or negligence are not necessary for the administering of punishment. Nor is it necessary for a soldier to know the reason for his discipline. It is necessary, however, for discipline to be administered firmly and frequently.*" ***CRACK!!!*** Justin couldn't quite believe the intensity of the red-hot cut. "HOOOOOOOO!!!" he howled in loud surprise. "Count it, Recruit!" "SIR! SEVEN! SIR!" "A smart one! If you'd started at `one,' we'd go all the way to nine from there. But since you're a clever little toe-rag, I'll make sure these three count!" The Sergeant made sure to use all his strength. The flying strap of leather met with wet, hard rump-cheeks, and the resounding *CRACK* spoke of much practice and experience. "OH SHIT!!! AAAARGH!!! SIR!!! EIGHT!!! SIR!!! "You fuck-bag punks oughta thank me for bringin' you into line!" **CRACK!!!** "*SIR!!!* *NINE!!!* *SIR*!!!" Justin was desperate. "SIR!!! THANK YOU!!! SIR!!!" **CRACK!!!** "FUUUUUCK...!!!" "That's an extra one for luck!" "*SIR*! *THANK YOU*! *SIR*!" **CRACK!!!** At attention, Luke flinched, feeling his own own raw, fiery backside. "***FUUUUUCK***!!!" shrieked his fellow recruit, bent over the hood. "...And that one's just out of the kindness of my own heart! You got a nice ass for stripes, kid!" Now, it was Justin's turn to hop around, wincing and grimacing at the red-hot pain across his tail. "You two soldiers will need your butt-stamps re-inked. Form up! Number two in behind. You can't close-fit in front with handcuffs on. Four in front. Hut! Hut! I want you back here on the double with fresh stamps! Hup! Hup! Jiggle those cocks and *MOVE*!" Colthorp climbed into the truck and blew the hooter. "NUMBER ONE! NUMBER THREE! CYCLE THE DIG! DUMP YOUR PACK-LOADS INTO TWO AND FOUR HOLES AND THEN DIG IT STRAIGHT OUT AGAIN! YOUR PALS ARE SHAKIN' THEIR SCHLONGS TO THE CONTROL HUT!" Luke ran in front, at attention, arms straight down by his sides. Behind, Justin pressed in close, his wrists cuffed behind him. It was a timed, athletic lope. They knew the drill. "Get off my ass!" Luke hissed. "It fucking kills!" "Sorry." Their legs pumped in unison and mud slid from their bodies as they smartly triple-marched, very fast. "The stamp's going to hurt on our butts!" "I *know*." The wet ground squelched under their quick-moving bare feet. They wore one set of handcuffs and two nip-ring dog-tags between them. "So far, what do you think?" Justin puffed from behind. "About what?" "The camp." "Fucking crazy! We've been naked most of the time and now we've been ass-whipped!" "Fuck, it hurts!" "I managed to jerk-off in the foxhole." "Lucky you! I've been butt-fucked with the Sergeant's club and given him head!" The control hut was quiet, so they went to attention on markers `2' and `4.' "This is bad," Justin thought. "The Sergeant's gonna want us back and there's no one here to stamp us." Luke moved and wiggled his fingers down by his thighs, thinking of the searing pain in his rump. Justin shifted his shoulders, feeling the metal of the cuffs in the small of his back. There was a noise. A clerk came out from the wooden hut. "What're you doing here?" "Sir!" Luke barked immediately. "We're to have our recruit stamps renewed, Sir!" "How come you're completely naked?" "Sir!" Luke continued. "The Staff Sergeant ordered us stripped, Sir!" "Wash off under that hose, then come inside." "Sir, yes, Sir!" Rather than cooling and soothing, the cold water hurt their leather-burned ass-cheeks. "Say," said the clerk. "You two have been whipped. The Staff Sergeant do that, too?" "Sir, yes, Sir!" "Get over the trestle," the clerk said, inside the hut. "Number two first." He shuffled a collection of numbered stencils. Bent over double on a wooden horse, Justin hissed in pain as the sheet touched his backside. The spray can fizzed. "Aaaaaaaah!!!" "Hurts, does it?" Luke was next, and he yelped as the stinging ink made contact with his red-striped ass. The phone rang. "Yes, this is the control hut," the clerk answered. "Yes." "Yes." "Yes, they're here. Numbers two and four." Both Justin and Luke felt an unsettling foreboding. "Hang on," the clerk said into the receiver. "One of them's handcuffed. He won't be able to..." "Okay." He hung up. "That was Warrant Officer Thurston. Your squad was seen triple-marching incorrectly. Out of order. And not closely formed. You're to report to the guardhouse for punishment." "You've got a hundred push-ups to do," he said to Luke. "And you," he turned to Justin. "You're in handcuffs so you'll take six tawse-cuts instead." "No...!!!" Justin leaked tears of anger and hurt as he swiftly triple-marched -- in front of Luke this time -- toward the guardhouse. There were forms to complete in triplicate. They stood to attention for forty-five minutes. Several personnel passed by, and each officer or NCO asked them the same questions. Why were they here? "Sir, Recruits Two and Four are reporting for punishment, Sir!" What did they do? "Sir, the recruits marched in poor formation, Sir!" Why is this recruit not standing properly to attention? "Sir, Recruit Two is handcuffed, Sir!" Why? "Sir, Recruit Two was restrained for a strop-whipping in the field, Sir!" Why? "Sir, Recruit Two took cuts for Recruit Four, Sir!" What did Four do to receive punishment? "Sir, Recruit Four misplaced his kit, Sir!" "What a pair of dumb-ass fuck-ups you two recruits are!" "Sir, yes, Sir!" The punishment was given by Corporal Smets, who seemed pleased to be wielding the whip this time, but disappointed nonetheless that only one of the trainees was to receive the tawse. "Down! Up! Down! Up!" he ordered as Luke performed push-ups on the cement. By this time, a few interested parties had gathered to ensure that the punishment proceeded correctly. "Your schlong has to touch the ground each time." The naked soldier with a freshly stamped `4' on his left rump-cheek went down, and up, and after the labour with the shovel in the foxhole, Luke was grunting with effort when the count got to forty. At sixty he was spitting and hissing. He wouldn't make it! His arms were in incredible pain. At eighty he was crying. The next fifteen were a blur of strain and ache, with angry, shouted orders. At ninety-five, a black boot kicked his wrist out from under him, and he collapsed, shaking. He would have to start again. He tried, but there was no way. When he was a shivering, naked lump on the concrete, an NCO said "six cuts with the tawse instead." Luke went first. Four men carried a wooden-horse to the concrete square, and the recruit was tied over it hand and foot, bent over double with limbs spread very wide. The tawse was a flat length of rubber nailed to a wooden handle, and it felt like a flaying lick of fire. Six times. On an ass already freshly whipped by Sergeant Colthorp's strop. One. "Give the next one harder, Corporal," someone said. Two. "Good." Three. "By fuck, he's making some noise!" Four. "Teach that young punk a lesson!" ... "Getting tired Corporal?" Five. "He's a big lad, isn't he?" "A big lad who could do with some good discipline." ... Six. When Justin's turn came, his cuffed hands couldn't be tied, so with his ankles fixed to the horse, he bent with his wrists locked behind him to have his nip-ring tied off. "Look at the size of the cock on the boy!" "Land it good and hard on his ass, Corporal." "Make every stroke count." One... **** The two recruits were marched in triple-time back to the control hut to have their butt-stamps re-applied. They didn't speak as they ran, and they took very special care to keep a close, well-timed formation. Then, with freshly stamped and freshly cut rear-ends, they tripled in perfect time back to the field, very swiftly, very diligently. Luke saw his boots and webbing and helmet on the road. Briefly, he wondered whether he should stop and collect them. No way! There was no way he was diverting from any order given! His ass stung with hellfire from two whippings, and he wasn't going to risk another. He continued to run -- arms straight down -- looking directly ahead. "WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU TWO FUCK-TARDS BEEN!?" Colthorp yelled as numbers two and four strutted into view, lifting their knees. "Sir, we..." "TURN AROUND, YOU PAIR OF SHIT-FOR-BRAINS!!!" They reversed and snapped to attention as the Staff Sergeant checked their numbers. "You, big buck-boy! Into your foxhole! Commence shovelling! You, pony-dong! Get over here front and centre! I've got a job for you, pony-dong!" Luke ran, and jumped into the filthy water of his dig. Fuck! The water stung his whipped ass! Get on your knees, boy!" the Sergeant ordered Justin. With his hands still cuffed behind him, Justin knelt. The Sergeant's big, sweaty meat poured from his zip. "You wanna suck on this, recruit?" "Sir, no, Sir!" Justin's world reeled as he was slapped on the side of the head with an open palm. His ears rang with the persisting "thuunnnnggggg." "Wrong answer, fuck-tard!" "Sir, yes, Sir!" "You wanna lick the Sergeant's balls, faggot?" "SIR! YES! SIR!" "Your cocksuckin' pal left some crust and dick-cheese earlier. You lick up nice an' clean, boy!" "SIR! YES! SIR!" "Now get under there and lick my balls! Use your tongue! Under! Further up behind!" Justin twisted his neck and slurped at the big, hairy testicles, jiggling them with his tongue and tasting stale come and sweat. "Now get on the shaft! Wet it up and lick that sucker clean!" He worked over the big, meaty penis. He lifted it, and sucked over its length, the sides, the end, and it slowly erected. He worked under it, slobbering, tasting salt and tangy flakes of dried man-spunk. "Wonder which of these four faggots is the best cocksucker," Colthorp said to Childers. "This one's pretty good. The big buck's got a bigger mouth, though, and slurpier lips!" Justin was careful to keep his heels away from his badly rawed backside. He wouldn't be sitting for a week! Well, there would be no sitting at this camp anyway. That was obvious by now. He licked sweat from the hard, purple prong. "If you can get me to unload, boy, I'll reward you by not givin' you a strop-whippin'!" Justin suddenly began to suck harder. He got his mouth over the end and worked his tongue sharply and adroitly. "Ah, shit! This one's got a quick little tongue! Nice work, punk-boy! You're a little punk-ass sucker from way back! You punk for a livin', boy?" "Mmm... Mmmf..." said Justin. Suck it harder, boy! That's right! Get onto the underside! Now suck out the top!" **** It was midnight. The recruits were nearly dead. They'd dug trenches well into the night and could hardly stand. But stand they did. At attention. Their army-trousers were sodden with wet mud and more of it leaked down their faces from under their numbered helmets. Their boots were full of it, too. "I want to go home," Aaryn Locke thought. "The prod nearly made me crap." "Two ass-whippings and then I sucked-off the Staff Sergeant!" thought Justin Laycock. "Why the fuck am I here?" He winced as his wet trousers clung to his rear. "Now I know what a cattle-prod feels like," Bang Vo thought to himself. "I've been truncheon-fucked and whipped twice," Luke Rogers thought. "That's enough. I'm out of here *tonight*!" "You shit-ass soldiers can't even keep your kits on most of the time!" said Sergeant Colthorp. "Five minutes at the most! What sort of fucking faggot-ass pussy soldier gets around in the raw like you do?! Fuck-tards! Tomorrow you better shape-up! And I mean shape-up! The barracks hut beckoned in the glare of the truck's spotlight, and each was thinking of four hours of sleep. Any wooden bench, any pallet, would appear as a feather bed. They were going to be asleep before their heads touched the bunks. "Now you, Nip-Boy!" Colthorp continued. "You had a limp cock this morning and we got to make sure you don't pull it again tonight! Stay kitted in your Boots! Shuck your pants and headgear!" Bang felt an odd sensation of determination as he dragged off his wet clothes. Corporal Childers grinned. "The boy's got the tightest ass of the lot! How do you shit out of that, boy?" Vo was big and strong, but the Sergeant was bigger, and the young soldier was whipped around by meaty fists gripping his arms. His wrists were cuffed behind his shoulder-blades -- one arm up and twisted over at a raised elbow, baring a deep armpit -- and the other bend round from below. He stood in his boots, stretching his hard-muscled torso with the strain of his fully-flexed limbs. He grunted. "You fuck-ups have forty-one Punishment Citations!" said the Sergeant. "That's four strop-cuts between you! Plus one! Number Three Recruit's already restrained, so he'll take all five! Number Three Recruit! Prepare for punishment!" "SIR! YES! SIR" Childers' white teeth showed in the bright light of the spot. The first *WHACK!* of leather on Vo's bare rump brought forth a rush of air from his lungs. He jumped, jiggling his penis, but no outraged cry was forthcoming. Childers' grin disappeared "SIR! ONE! SIR!" The second was harder -- a two-handed swing -- and the Staff Sergeant gritted his teeth as he delivered the flying stroke. Vo roared a deep, guttural, angry response. Corporal Childers was smiling again. "SIR! TWO! SIR!" Colthorp laid-in for a third time. The leather whistled in the cold, night air, and landed with a stunning crack which set dogs barking. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!" "*SIR*!!! *THREE*!!! *SIR*!!!" "Want the last two, Recruit?" Sergeant Colthorp asked. "SIR! YES! SIR!" "Ask for it." "SIR! MAY I HAVE THE NEXT STROKE, PLEASE, SIR!" The other three recruits winced as the strop burned the air. Vo took two steps forward when it hit. "YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAARGH!!!" He started jumping. "FUCK!!! YYYYYYYYYAARGH!!! FUCK!!!" "Sets you dancin', don't it, boy?" "FUCK!!! SIR!!! FOUR!!! SIR!!! FUCK!!! FOUR!!! FUCK!!!" "Ask for the next one." "SIR! MAY I HAVE THE NEXT STROKE, SIR!" "Say `please.'" "SIR! PLEASE MAY I HAVE THE NEXT STROKE, PLEASE SIR!" "I'm gonna swing it hard." "SHIT!!!" The leather tail curled in the air, and landed with flat, even accuracy. The sound was of a rifle-shot, astonishing in the cool, night air. "***YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAAARGH!!!***" This time it was a shriek. "*SIR*!!! *FIVE*!!! *SIR*!!!" "Bad news, boy. You fucked the count. That was cut number one. Four plus one, remember? Not five." "*NO*!!!" "Yes. You'll have to take that one again." "***NO***!!!" Bang twisted with his arms bent behind him, one up and over, the other under and up. He jumped furiously, trying to cool his burning backside. "You like jiggin' your cock up an' down, big boy?" said Childers, smiling. "That's why you got dancer's legs? Thighs like bags packed with snakes! Keep jiggin', big boy! Nice moves! An' keep yer cock slappin'!" Colthorp coiled the leather, and swung. **** As three recruits, filthy and exhausted, climbed into their bunks, they heard the blast of the truck's hooter and the obnoxious honk of Sergeant Colthorp's amplified voice receding into the night. They were too tired to care. Bang ran under the spotlight with his arms cuffed behind his shoulder-blades. He twisted in a rhythm as his boots clopped on the road. With one arm raised and bent down behind, and the other twisted up, he turned his upper-body back and forth to maintain speed. "SHAKE YOUR ASS, MONKEY-BOY!" The horn loudspeaker split the cold night air in a vulgar shriek. Bang could feel the truck right behind, right up his ass as he ran. Faster. His cock spun like a windmill with his twisting. In the sharp light, he saw his breath as he panted. He could hear the faint ringing of the dog-tag at his nipple. His strop-whipped ass burned like fire as the muscles there firmed and pounded. At some three miles distance, the truck and the running recruit came to a stop in a clearing in the forest. By a short length of chain, his ankle was cuffed to a rusty engine-block lying there. "This'll see you don't pull yer cock tonight, monkey-boy!" said Colthorp, giving Vo's male member a swinging slap. "Sweet dreams." Colthorp and Childer's departed in the truck, and Bang watched the headlights disappear through the trees. He had to hop and dance to stay warm. The chain at his ankle clanked. The handcuffs at his shoulder-blades bit his wrists severely unless he maintained a full-backwards stretch with his chest and arms. It was too cold! He was going to get hypothermia! He shook and jumped, twisting down to his haunches and then leaping at the end of his ankle-chain. The only sound was his own puffing, the thump of his boots on the ground, and the clinking of the chain. Unable to move his arms, he really had to dance and bop vigorously for blood to flow. Finally, a thin gloss of sweat shone on his naked body in the moonlight, stinging his stropped ass. But now, on his knees, he could sleep - for a minute. The razor-sharp cold had him on his feet again, swivelling and jiving furiously as light snowflakes fluttered in the air. He could take about one minute's sleep from every twenty, and once he'd raised a covering of sweat, utter exhaustion saw him drop-off easily, resting on his knees and leaning back into his handcuffs. But a minute later, his nipples were pinching tight again and the freezing bite of the air had him boogie-dancing desperately. The moon tracked along its overhead passage. Hours passed. Then, Bang saw headlights. The vehicle approached, and he knew it wasn't the Sergeant's truck. With its engine running, the car lit up a wide area brightly, illuminating the chained soldier. Loud music cranked from the sound-system. It was Metallica. Bang stood, facing the headlights, waiting. Nothing happened. The engine just kept grumbling and the lights continued to shine their white arc. Bang tried to keep still, but the cold was too much and he felt tiny flecks of snow on his body, so he started moving vigorously again, jumping and hopping. Then, they came. The Music's volume increased as the doors opened. "There's a nip in the air!" joked a boy with a beer-can in his hand. They were dressed in warm coats and boots, and fur hats. One had an air-pistol and another had a coiled horsewhip. Bang didn't know which presented the most menace. "He's chained-up. Pity we can't take him home!" "Yer gonna wear a hole in the ground, boy, dancin' like that!" "Look at his cock!" They circled around him. He was splattered with beer. "He's got a `3' on his ass! That means he wants fucking three times!" "There's more of us than that!" There was a pop, and the stripped, chained recruit felt the sharp sting of an air-pellet on his backside. Fuck! Fuck Colthorp and his strop! He strained against the handcuffs at his shoulder blades and hopped, tightening the chain securing him to the engine-block. They edged closer to him. He could make out their faces -- their snarling grins and booze-soaked eyeballs. Curious fingers were at his nipple-ring. It was jerked. Another hand worked at his other nipple, tweaking and pinching. More fingers were at his backside. Fuck! It hurt where the strop had landed! He twisted, trying to avoid the rude groping, but the hand slipped between his butt-cheeks and someone else handled his penis. "That's a good cock!" "Tight ass." Bang grunted angrily and shifted as a finger found his rear hole. "Hold him!" There was sudden wrestling, and the handcuffs behind his shoulder-blades were gripped, dragging him backwards. He heard the *zip* as a pair of trousers were opened. "Hold him still!" There was hard, probing flesh poking at his backside. It pushed between his cheeks and nuzzled accurately at his sphincter. "Fuck!" Bang complained. His rump was flayed and sore from the earlier whipping, and he realised he'd have to co-operate with these fuckers to minimise the hurt. He arched backwards on his toes, held by his handcuffs. A thrusting meat-head pushed, and entered. The guy gurgled in his ear from behind. "It's tight, all right! Nice an' snug! Hold still, monkey-boy, while I give yer a good fuckin'!" Bang grunted quietly and hoisted himself higher on his toes rhythmically as he was driven from behind. Thankfully, the plunging shaft was slippery, and there were wet sucking sounds as it thrust. He could feel it going deep, jabbing upwards inside him. It became faster, and he hissed in pain as the guy's haunches slapped against his raw rump-cheeks. There was a warm, wet gush, and the driving shaft was sloppily withdrawn. "Next!" Bang parted his legs and strained backwards, opening his canal, as four more come-loads were inserted. His own cock curled upwards, hard to his navel, as the thrusting poles penetrated him, kicking and lunging, and he barked angrily in time with the thrusts. Then he knelt and licked. Five cocks were cleaned as they took turns holding his cuffs tightly from behind and forcing his head into the next, sweaty groin. Then, it seemed, they were on their way. "Give `im some stripes to wear!" one said, and the horsewhip curled through the air. It wrapped around his torso and he yelled in outrage. The next one hissed about his waist and encircled one leg, around and around, and he realised, with desolate satisfaction, that it wasn't as bad as the Staff Sergeant's strop. Still, he howled. On the third stroke, the leather coiled around him again and the very tail-end of the whip caught the meat of his penis with a cruel, cracking *flick*, and he shrieked in surprise and anger. Then, they were gone, their laughing still ringing in the air and the fumes of the car's exhaust lingering. There were a few beer-cans strewn around. "Didn't play with yer crank, did yer, boy?" said Sergeant Colthorp when he arrived before dawn. "Not too cold, was it?" said Childers as he released the ankle-cuff. "Get marchin', boy!" Colthorp shouted. "HUP! HUP! HUP! MOVE!!!" Bang sprang into a running action, once again turning and twisting his upper body to account for his arm-up, arm-down restraint. "HUP! HUP! HUP!" came the yell from the loudspeaker as the truck caught up with the fast-running recruit clip-clopping on the road. "GET THOSE KNEES UP, BOY! AN' SWING YER COCK!" Every recruit made sure to exhibit a full erection on parade as the sun came up, for none wanted to bear the consequences of a male-organ not at attention. They were hosed down and ordered into their army-pants -- three of them wincing as the fabric came into contact with their whipped tails. "Lots of fun planned for today, recruits! For you, an army training exercise called `Evade.' For your hard-workin' instructors, a dull duty called `Paintball Buck-Hunt!' We've a thousand rounds of Paintball ammo to expend -- you lucky fuckers!" Aaryn Locke felt his tummy muscles twitching as he stood to attention on the number `1' marker. Justin Laycock bit his lip. Bang Vo thought of the fresh sting of the horsewhip stripe encircling his torso and legs. Luke Rogers winced again, remembering -- and acutely feeling -- the previous day's two whippings. "Well? Whader yer think of that? You lucky fuck-tards!" growled the Sergeant. "Some real army trainin'! Told yer yer'd get yer money's worth this week!"