Date: Fri, 16 Dec 2016 11:41:35 +0000 (GMT)
From: "rampage938@btinternet.com" <rampage938@btinternet.com>
Subject: RAMPANT RANDY RECRUITS - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 : Making Decisions

The early 1960's saw Dayton Cunningham (known as DC to his mates)
developing into a rebellious, randy sixteen year old who had not long left
college. He was a big lad for his age and most of the kids he had grown up
with thought twice - or even thrice - before attempting to mix it with
him. He had an average life in an average town somewhere in rural England
and had got himself a job in a local timber yard. It was noisy, messy and
bloody hard work hauling baulks of timber around all day, six days a week,
but he was rapidly putting on muscle which, combined with his dark
Saturnine looks, made him a formidable guy for even adult men to throw down
a challenge to. He was in the Air Cadets and a former Royal Air Force
boxing champion was coaching him and a few other teenage boys in the
sport. He was also 'champion' at coaching the horny teens in other
'strictly man to man' activities, but that is another story! DC knew he
could look after himself alright.

Yes, DC had certain feelings, certain fantasies, but don't we all get those
from time to time? He had tried dating girls but without much success, went
through the agony and bewilderment of puberty in the parochial
narrow-minded environment which surrounded him. College was an opportunity
for a young, healthy boy to have fun, nothing more, nothing less, and DC
had his share. He'd had his first piece of pussy at 15, his first
experience of oral sex and his first taste of another guy's dick, all in
that one year. He had more than he expected that year, but probably no more
than he needed. He and his mate Butch got drunk after an unsuccessful
double date and experienced the ultimate adolescent 'sexperiment' as they
went down on each other. Butch was sleeping over at DC's place and a
blending of bewilderment over the lack of response from their girls and the
emancipating effect of the alcohol they had drunk worked their magic on
their hormones. They lay naked and horny on DC's bed facing each other,
their eager mouths having no trouble in finding each other's willing
willies, working each other in the classic 69 position into a feverish
pinnacle of combustible teenage lust. However, being novices at these games
they did not take it to its normal conclusion, content that they had done
enough to justify a private pact between them. They did not talk about it
the next morning nor the next week for that matter, but as sure as eggs is
eggs they found an opportunity to do it again the very next weekend. While
they both thought of themselves as straight, they both agreed that what
they were doing was different - but it was FUN; they found every chance
they could to do it regularly. It was strange: they knew what they were
doing and they enjoyed it. DC thought about it often, convincing himself as
Butch had convinced himself - or so he said - that it was just a natural
thing for two developing horny teenagers to be doing. They had never heard
of bisexuality and probably would not have known what it meant if they
had. They only knew that sucking cock was 'queer sex' but as neither of
them thought they were queer - they both screwed girls, right? - they
shrugged off any thought that what they were doing was anything other than
standard exploratory and pleasurable boy fun. They did know enough,
however, to keep shtum about it, both of them well aware that if that
secret got out... well, let's just say they did not want it to. DC was not
a star student in college and university was out of the question with the
grades he got in his exams, so he looked around for something to do which
might offer him a chance to leave that stultifying small town and see
something of the world beyond his front door - and that is where the Air
Cadets came in.

DC had kept one secret of his burgeoning sex life to himself, not even
hinting about it to Butch. He had only recently lost his virginity to a
young man who was serving in the Army. DC was entering his mature teen
years with a dense bush of pubic hair and a rapidly expanding dick,
dropping balls encased in a hairy ultra sensitive sac and a sore
arse. Within a mile or so from where he lived with his Mum and Dad was a
moderately good cinema, the Regal. It had nothing pretentious about it but
definitely was not in the flea-pit class. The seats were reasonably
comfortable after the Spartan discomforts left over from the War; there was
even carpet on the floor. As provincial cinemas went in those far off days
it was not too bad. If you wanted to take a girl you were keen on to
something grander, more 'posh', then you had to endure an hour's bus ride
there and back. For something really exceptional - like Star Wars - you had
to slog up to London and back by train: that was expensive, usually beyond
the means of even a working, over-sexed sixteen year old. When DC began
frequenting the place the new seating had not long been installed and had
yet to be ravaged by wild youths rockin' around the clock to Bill Haley and
The Comets! If anyone had told him that one Saturday afternoon he was about
to embark on a life-changing visit to the Regal Cinema, he would have told
them they were pissing crazy and to fuck off.

When DC had begun going to the Regal on his own on Saturday afternoons, he
always sat in one of the three back rows, as far from the centre aisle as
he could get. If his luck was in he would have his developing cock and
balls fondled by a 'mature male' sitting in the seat next to him. DC always
made it a strict rule never to allow himself to fill his underwear with his
goo, just in case his Mum noticed it next washday! However, he had no
hang-ups about tossing off the guy sitting next to him until he made the
guy shoot his load, usually all down the inside of his trousers or
jeans. The guy would get up and go to the Gents, where he would remove his
trousers and attempt to clean himself up. If he was youngish and a good
looker, DC would go along as well and offer to help! Later on, when he was
doing his bit for Queen and Country, he was reminded of those Saturday
afternoons at the Regal when he saw lines of horny American or British
servicemen waiting patiently outside a brothel. On more than one occasion,
the waiting was too much for some of them and DC witnessed sexual activity
between young males in the alleyway or up against the wall of a run-down
tenement building which would have made Old Nick himself blush to the roots
of his hair! It was not too long before DC was taking part in these
activities - but he never, ever went into a brothel or sleazy club, he
serviced his pick ups out of doors, which offered him a quick exit if the
military police vice patrol was about - but all that was far into the
future and to get there, DC must begin at the beginning.

One Saturday morning he marched himself off, smartly dressed and
presentable, to catch the bus into the nearest big town, Deepdean, where he
knew there was a Recruiting Office jointly staffed by the Army, the Royal
Navy and the Royal Air Force. When he approached the glass doors of the
building he had a momentary feeling of panic. Was he doing the right thing?
Dad had been very enthusiastic and pleased that his son had at last found
something worthwhile to work for, but Mum was not so sure and kept banging
on about "You do realise you might be shot at, or bombed, or blown up by a
mine, Dayton?" He replied to her fretting for the thousandth time: "Yeah,
yeah, Mum but I won't be near any of that stuff. That's only for the
Army. I'll be getting a proper education and a trade which I can use to get
a decent job when my time is up, thanks to the RAF. Nothing's going to
happen to me, don't you fret. I tell you, Mum, this seems to be the
solution to my problem. Life in the RAF will be just what I need." He did
not tell her he would also be able to indulge his other growing 'need' -
sucking on hard boners or taking a fat, juicy cock up his arse!

In the course of the next couple of weeks he received notification of where
and when his first medical examination would take place. He had been
advised at the Recruiting Office this would be on a Saturday, wherever
premises could be found - a church hall, a drill hall left over from the
War, even schools during the holidays. This would only be a quick
examination to find out if he had the clap or any other kind of sexually
transmitted disease (the medical people assuming that all horny male
teenagers would probably be rotting away with syphilis or gonorrhoea.) His
main medical would take place shortly after at the Royal Army Medical Corps
establishment in Deepdean. This time he and a host of other potential
recruits would have to face a battery of allegedly fully qualified Army
doctors and nurses. The examinations would take most of the day and would
include intimate scrutiny of hitherto very private areas as well as routine
inspections. "Great," thought an excited DC, "probably get some hairy
corporal poking about up my arse. Perhaps a dishy young medic will take a
mite too long examining my dick, balls and arsehole. Mmm, that I would not
mind!" In due course he reported to the RAMC establishment and discovered
there were at least fifty or so youngsters like himself, excited but
nervously covering up any trepidation they might be feeling individually by
taking refuge in a noisy outburst of chatter and loud raucous laughter at
each other's filthiest jokes. They were herded together into a bare room
and told by a corporal medic to form a straight line and stand to
attention. After some hesitant shuffling and muttered curses, the medic
ordered them to strip. Some of the more timid lads kept their underpants on
until the corporal medic bellowed, "I said, take 'em all orf! You lot deaf
or somethin'? That means everythin', includin' yer knickers! GET 'EM ORF!"
While the offenders removed their nether garments very reluctantly and
tried unsuccessfully to hide their bits by covering themselves with their
hands, the medic consulted his clip board.

"Nah then, lissen careful. Anyone 'ere wanna be Mummy's brave little sailor
boy?" Stony silence greeted his question. He waited, his pen poised over
whatever it was on his clip board. "OK then, anyone for the Brylcream Boys
intake?" No response. "That's wot we call the RAF, you ig'orant... Oh, fuck
it! Listen fer yer name and if I call it aht, you will take one step
forward. Never mind yer bits and pieces, if yer wanna be in the Services
then you start right here and don't mind who sees yer pride an' joy, you
just do what they say when they give an order. Understand?" A slight murmur
ran through the ranks. "If I say, 'Understand' you shout back, 'Yes,
corporal!' in a loud voice so I can 'ear yer on the battlefield. We like to
start as we mean to go on. So, let us try once more: Do you all understand
me?"

A thunderous "Yes, corporal!" greeted his ears.

"OK, OK, that's enough joking. I'm now going to take you through to where
the medics and doctors are eagerly waiting to inspect every inch of your
flabby bodies. Try to keep together and act like soldiers or airmen. Don't
forget, if an officer examines you, every other word you utter must be the
word SIR! Understand?"

Another thunderous "Yes, corporal!" shattered the quiet calm of the room
they were in, still in their long line. Most of them were getting used to
being stark naked and some were even comparing each other's size and shape,
whether they were cut or uncut, how high or low their balls were hanging,
and how bushy their pubic hair was. Suddenly the corporal bellowed,
"AT-TEN-SHUN !" as the door swung open and five people in uniform and white
coats, carrying clip boards, marched in. Dayton Cunningham had found out
that these medicals were always conducted by a panel of five allegedly
qualified medical students in their final year before being let loose on
hundreds of unsuspecting 'victims'. He thought, "Shit, they don't look old
enough to be fully qualified, nor to be military medics. I reckon they
might be first year medical students from the local hospital." This
particular quintet comprised three males and two females. When he told
Butch about the medical afterwards he said, "Guess who was first to examine
any lad who looked halfway attractive." Butch gave the correct answer, of
course: "The fuckin' dishiest guy there, you lucky sod."

As the examinations began, the youths were told to sit on the wooden
benches running along the walls and wait to be called. While he was waiting
for his turn to be dealt with, DC looked around. Large posters high up on
the walls of the room demanded: DO NOT PASS WATER AS YOU WILL BE REQUIRED
TO GIVE A SAMPLE. He noticed one lad sitting somewhat uncomfortably cross
legged for what must have seemed like hours to the poor sod. When his turn
came he was bellowed at by the corporal to "Stand for the medic!" and the
lad rose unsteadily, his knees pinned together like a girl in a tight
skirt. To the unfortunate lad's astonished discomfort, an attractive young
woman gestured that he should somehow hobble behind a curtain. She had
pulled it aside to reveal a large specimen jar awaiting his
contribution. Confidently, with an expression of immense relief on his
face, he began to fill the jar. Unfortunately, by some miscalculation, no
contingency appeared to have been made for the possibility of any
overflow. Under the disdainful eye of the young woman, he had to take a
damp, smelly cloth she handed him and told him to mop up his excess. He
realised he had made two vital mistakes. First, he'd had two full pints of
best bitter for lunch. Second, he had stood with legs astride to piss in
the time honoured male fashion. If only he had squatted over the
jar.... Then it was DC's turn to be manhandled, prodded and probed.

Before getting down to the really serious medical stuff, each would-be
recruit was given the once-over by a QARANC (Queen Alexandra's Royal
Nursing Corps) officer accompanied by several QARANC nurses. She and the
nurses looked more masculine in their severely starched uniforms, brogues
and thick woollen stockings than most of the male orderlies doing the
actual inspections. The officer could have doubled for the late Hattie
Jacques of Carry On fame when she played the part of a fearsome
Matron. This dragon lady was brandishing a thin stick reminiscent of a
bandleader's baton, which she waved at the orderlies who were still ticking
things off on their clipboards. The timid shy lads were still very
uncomfortable at being stark naked in front of these women and they used
the bits of paper they had picked up as ineffectual fig leaves. Most of the
others, including our hero, gave up the unequal struggle and brazenly
flouted their wedding tackle, allowing it to start swelling and
rising. However, hawk eyed 'Hattie Jacques' soon put a stop to that with a
few deft flicks of her baton. One of the lads actually got an erection and
she swooped down on him like an avenging angel and whacked his meaty cock
with her stick. He yelled and bent double, dropping his bits of paper, his
hands clutching his manhood. You could see tears welling up in his eyes. He
swore afterwards "...that fucking bitch nearly took the top of my dick
off." Finally, they were told that within the next fourteen days after the
second medical, they would be required to take more tests. DC had to go
back to Deepdean for these but found to his surprise they would also be
taking an intelligence test, an aptitude test, and a third medical "just to
make sure you're not contagious, young man. We don't want you going around
giving people something nasty, now do we?" When they were all passed fit to
do their duty for Queen and country, the medics seemed to be genuinely
disappointed they had not found a trace of any infectious disease amongst
them!

When all the prodding and probing and filling in of endless forms were
finally completed, DC's intake was sent home to await the arrival of a buff
envelope with the words ON HER MAJESTY'S SERVICE printed in bold letters
across the top. It would contain an official letter notifying him at which
RAF Recruit Training base he would be sent to do his training. They had all
been told it would take about three weeks before they heard anything. For
the first time in his life, DC watched anxiously for the postman every
morning for the next three weeks and two days. He admitted to his Dad he
was as scared as hell at the prospect of leaving home for the first time
without family with him, to face an unpredictable future. Sure enough, he
had been away with his fellow air cadets during the college summer
holidays, but that was only for a couple of weeks and he would be going
home again. It had dawned on him that this time it was serious, very
serious. He was going off to Heaven knew where, to learn how to be a
soldier (airman in his case) and learn how to kill or be killed. He poured
out his feelings to Butch, who blanched a bit when DC got to the 'kill or
be killed' bit. He said, "Sorry, Butch, if that upsets you, but that's the
bottom line. That's what being in the military is all about." He did not
see anything of Butch after that for some time.

Three weeks later his marching orders came through. At first, he simply sat
at the table in the dining room, staring at the large buff official OHMS
envelope, which he and no one else had to sign for. He could not bring
himself to open it. He was shaking as if he was suffering from palsy or
delirium tremens or something. Finally, when Mum and Dad reluctantly went
off to do the family weekly shop, he slit open the envelope. It contained a
mass of official looking papers so he took the first one. It informed him
that he had satisfactorily passed all his physical and other tests which,
together with his College exam results, meant he would be accepted for
service in the Royal Air Force. It took two sheets of foolscap size paper
to inform him of this - this was his first encounter with military
thoroughness! He got up, looked at the papers one more time, then leapt
around the room, yelling like a madman. He'd done it! He had been accepted
for the RAF! He ran out into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea just
as Mum and Dad burst in with bags of shopping. They could tell just by
looking at their son that he must have got some good news. When he told
them, excitedly, that he was going to be in the RAF, Mum sat down rather
heavily in the chair which he'd just been using while Dad came over to him
and grabbed his hand, shaking it vigorously.

"Well done, boy!" his father said. "Anything else in the envelope? Do you
know where you'll be off to for training?"

"Oh, I haven't got that far yet, Dad. Let's see what else is in there."

Father and son spent the next hour going through forms, questionnaires and
reading material. Mum busied about, occupying herself with storing the
shopping and preparing a meal for tea. DC admitted to his Dad that he had a
belief - misguided as it would turn out to be - that the RAF was less 'bull
shitty' than the other Services and did not have as much 'horse shit' as
the Navy and the Royal Marines. After the meal, DC said he wanted to go and
see Butch. He was concerned why he had not been in touch for nearly a
month. Their meeting was a bit frosty at first, but Butch soon picked up on
DC's excitement. They went up to Butch's bedroom and talked until quite
late in the evening and finished off with jerking each other off. When he
got home, DC asked Dad if Mum had gone to bed.

"Yes, she has, son. She's rather upset about all this but did not want to
make a scene and upset your big day. She realises that you'd have to leave
home some time, a bird leaving the nest. I want you to promise me that you
will keep in touch with her and, whenever possible, come home even if its
only for a weekend now and again. She'll come round soon enough, so don't
worry about her too much. Just keep her aware of what you are doing. One
thing she asked me to get from you, where will you be doing your training?"

"It's a big recruit training camp near a place called Lavington. It's in
north Yorkshire and I've got to travel up to London and stay overnight at
one of the servicemen's clubs. Then I'll be travelling by train from King's
Cross the next day. All my travel documents are in the envelope. I shall
have just over two weeks before I go."

The remainder of his time at home was spent in getting everything together
for his journey northwards. He visited his grandparents and a favourite
aunt to say his goodbyes and had a final night out with Butch and few other
mates, all of which showed marked signs of respect for DC. One of them said
to him quietly when the others were taking a leak, "Fuck me, DC, I never
thought you'd have it in you to go for the military. You're beginning to
look more macho and tougher every day and your voice has acquired a deeper
tone already. Don't forget us lot, will yer, you son of a bitch, you. We'll
miss you, you know."

Next: Chapter 2 : Enlistment Day.