Date: Tue, 23 Jun 2015 08:12:19 +0000 (UTC)
From: Gary Stayton <garystayton@yahoo.com>
Subject: Elite Force Training chapter 3

Copyright 2015 by the author. For private use only.

garystayton@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER: Adults only. Not for minors.

*****

Author's note: Comments and suggestions most welcome.

Please consider making a donation to the Nifty archive at
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Sorry about the delay with this installment. Some have said they were
waiting. The faucet for this stuff gets turned on and off, it seems, and
for a while the writey urges were just not there. Feel free to let me know
if you find any continuity problems which bother you. And for God's sake
give me some guidance on inter-character dynamics, and whatever else.


***ELITE FORCE TRAINING***

3.

Josh was relieved his boots had received a substantial amount of prep-work
back at Fort Roland. Now, under inspection on his first day at Elite Force
School, it was obvious that top-quality work was the requirement. Standing
rigid and naked, he inwardly quailed as the big, no-nonsense Sergeant
examined the combat-specials. They rested on their steel studs – three
feet apart – shoved onto bare feet and positioned meticulously on the
line of number `14' muster-stand.

There was a short glance between the Private and the Sergeant at post
14. "Eyes to the front, boy. Forty-five degrees."

That low growl resurrected a knot of fear and excitement inside the
Private. But now it was mostly fear. At four am, stripped and strictly
postured in the biting cold of the night, there seemed little scope for
pleasurable anticipation. Nevertheless, the nineteen year-old's male member
surged and rose with apparent enthusiasm.

The Sergeant – his name was McCloud, Josh knew – made sharp, striking
footsteps on the concrete of the yard. His words, his bearing, and his
massively imposing frame were obviously all meant for business. As Josh
caught that look from the hard, resolute grey eyes, he sucked cold air
between his teeth and forced his risen elbows higher, stiffer, and further
back.

By the time the sixteen men had been inspected, McCloud had demonstrated –
twice – a trademark gut-punch, sending two men to the ground, heaving
for air. Facing the Quartermaster's Hut with his eyes fixed in front, Josh
heard the beatings take place to his right. Men moved in and used fists,
truncheons, and strops. Each sharp *crack* was met with earnest bellows
from the trainees who had been deemed to fail the inspection.

"Extra work on kit-maintenance will be undertaken during the silent hours,"
the Sergeant said in a clipped, angry voice which signaled the expectation
of utter compliance.

"This is not boot-camp," he said to the sixteen-man line. At three yard
intervals between the inspection-stands, the single rank was maybe fifty
yards in length, but there was an effortless and clearly heard declaration
in the words which sounded across the yard.

"There will be no allowances made. You will strive for diligence,
discipline, and efficiency, and expect punishment for failure. The rules
are that you will obey every order given without question or hesitation. No
speaking unless spoken to. Everybody is `Sir.' There will be no need for
you to squawk amongst yourselves. You won't have the time or
inclination. There is no mess-hall or meal-hours. So all you have to worry
about in those heads of yours will be how to obey the last order, how to
keep your kit maintained to proper standard, and how to keep me satisfied."

The short speech was reckoned to be sufficient to welcome and inform the
new arrivals, and inspiring as it may have been for young Joshua Jaeger to
hear it, he was given very little time to digest its contents. With a
shocking explosion of noise from blasting horns and screaming loudspeakers,
the platoon was roused for drill.

It began at zero-four-hundred-hours – four am. Sixteen old, used pairs
of combat pants were issued, tossed from a can, belted about the trainees'
waists with rope. Pants, boots, rope; that was all. Then the parade-runway
beckoned with its five straight miles of hard concrete.

Two ranks of eight triple-marched side by side in Elite Force School style,
directly down the center of the runway. With knees lifting high and with
arms held rigidly by their sides, they huffed hard with the effort required
for triple speed. Fingers and thumbs were to be borne down straight at the
thighs, and chins were to be lifted high. The metallic *clack* of steel
studs on concrete had to make a tight, fast, united rhythm. The unbending
music of the drill made evident any wayward participant who fell from the
firm cadence – and fierce, screeching shouts of admonishment rung from
the speakers on the shadowing Humvee.

Captain Damme turned up the heat blowing inside the truck's cabin. He keyed
the mike.

"I want those footfalls sounding as one! I want five faultless miles or we
continue `till you meet with my satisfaction! Now get that sloppy
performance shaped into proper drill!"

"*HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT!*" Sergeant McCloud's amp-charged voice joined the
encouragement, and sixteen men strove for drill perfection.

Josh Jaeger trip-drilled at the right-hand rank, near the rear at position
14. At this station he could hear the tires of the Hummer crunching slowly
on the surface of the runway – behind the formation at the starboard
quarter – and the obscene noise of the close loudspeaker shocked him
from his concentration when it barked. The voice of the Captain in the
cabin preserved its malevolent intent through the squawking battery
amplifier. Perhaps worse, the big Sergeant's orders also jolted him when
they came on the air.

"*HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT!*"

The unnatural, straight-arm run made his shoulders ache. The close-shorn,
bright yellow hair of the man in front became a monotonous vision in his
eyesight. Josh could see beads of sweat on that scalp, even in the cold of
the morning before sunrise. In the dark, the formation drilling at
triple-speed was guided largely by a pool of light from a roof-mounted
spotlight on the vehicle.

"Eleven! Lift the knees! Two! Chin up! Nine! Get back in step! Fourteen!
Get that chin up, boy!" That was the Captain. Then;

"*HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT-HUT!*"

The Sergeant's strident command issued forth and electrified Josh into a
disciplined, controlled machine.

At the end of the five-mile runway, the men were fallen-out, ordered
stripped, and mustered barefoot onto another set of sixteen
inspection-stands.

"*Don't dawdle, you bunch of fucktards!*" the Sergeant roared as he strode
across the tarmac toward the harried platoon. "*Inspection stance!* *Now!*
When I've finished with you you'll leap to the stands instantly at the blip
of my horn! Now GET YER FUCKIN' SCHLONGS ON PARADE!!!"

Josh tightened in the cold, the soles of his feet freezing on the hard
surface of the runway, his eyes blinded in the powerful light from the
truck.

Someone was gut-punched. He heard the strained *oof* as the Sergeant's fist
made contact and the man dropped.

"GET ON YER FUCKIN' FEET, FAGGOT!!!"

He felt his dangling balls pull upwards in the chill, jerking between his
parted legs. The headlights of another truck approached and more soldiers
spilled out, their boots scraping and their movements purposeful in the
edge of the artificial cone of light.

With a loud, sharp, stainless-steel *click*, a man primed a spring-driven
tool. It was like a staple-gun. A handful of sixteen silver dog-tags
jangled as the first one was loaded to the instrument, and the number-1
trainee shouted in surprise and pain as the mechanism was released.

One by one, dog-tags on steel rings were punched through each man's left
nipple. Josh felt the cold steel at his hard-pinched breast, and he yelped
forcefully as the small, shining adornment was driven home.

"A combat-operator doesn't squeak, boy," the Sergeant said to him. "Bellow
like a man or we'll teach you how with the strop-whip."

Josh stiffened, arching his back at inspection-posture, forcing the rear of
his skull back into his folded hands. The man who had pulled the trigger
grinned, close at his face, and offered an open-palm, sideways cuff to his
male meat which sounded with a dull slap. During the five-mile return leg
on the runway, Josh could hear the faint *ting* *ting* of his new tag as it
bounced at his nip – suspended from the zenith of a pointedly muscled
tit, the little piece of shining metal swinging softly and prominently at
the delicate overhang of the trim breast. His swollen nip hardened in the
cold and hurt with its recent puncture.

The men were now fully decorated and recognizable as inducted Elite Force
trainees – with their large black numbers stenciled fore and aft, their
respective weights inked onto their bare backsides, and their cropped hair
colored yellow. A pink hue rose in the sky above a distant line of trees,
and the platoon was trip-marched back to the Hell School enclosure for a
breakfast of ration-pack biscuits devoured from the plastic as they stood –
mustered again – on their stands. Water was distributed from a single
jerry-can, poured directly and impatiently into waiting lips. At
zero-six-hundred it was time for cleaning-stations.

It had never been among the ambitions of Joshua Jeremy Jaeger to be able to
clean forty latrines within two hours, but overseen by two Corporals and a
Private, all armed with rubber-bladed strop-whips, it is impressive what a
young man can achieve. He worked naked on the tiles. Forced with boot and
fist, he tested the inside of each stainless-steel commode with his
tongue. When forty shining toilets stood sparkling, a slippery, gliding
hand made its way quickly and rudely between his buttocks. His ankles were
gripped and parted as a probing finger entered his hole.

The boy made a trilling birdsong as his inner regions were massaged, and he
spurted quickly with long, shooting ropes of hot come. With a boot at the
back of his neck and with his wrists raised painfully behind, he slurped
the gobbets of cooling jelly from the tiles with his tongue, swallowing and
gulping under the strop-blade which hummed in the air.

"Har! Har!" the leering Corporal heckled into his ear as he struggled, face
down. "Twinky-boy thinks he's good enough for Elite Force! Whadda fuckin'
joke! I'm gonna bounce this faggot hard!"

Josh squirmed, his wrists gripped and bent at his shoulder blades. His
breath was ragged from the recent and surprising ejaculation of his male
juice, and he whimpered pitifully, tasting his own thick, salty gobbets of
cream.

"*SWALLOW* faggot!" the Corporal yelled, his angry spit flying.

"Say *SIR, FUCKIN' YES SIR* when I speak to you, faggot-boy!"

"SIR! YES! SIR!" Josh roared in fury from his place on the floor. The tiled
chamber reverberated with the sound.

A stunning *CRACK* landed on his bare ass, courtesy of a wood-handled strop
and a full-strength shoulder-swing.

"AAAAAAAARGH!!! FUUUUUUUCK!!!"

For a moment, Josh had a vision of his old pal Benjie – reclining on his
bunk back at Fort Roland with a magazine and a mouthful of
Twinkie-Roll. Then it was an apparition of Captain Ball – the officer
who had drawn attention to Josh's `glutes'. That part of Josh's anatomy
needed no further notice made of it, as it seared hotly under the single
stroke of the rubber strop.

It was now a world owned Sergeant McCloud, Captain Damme, and this evil
Corporal.

"I got you singled-out, faggot. We don't want no pretty-ass twink-boy in
the outfit, and we gonna see you squeal for a new assignment."

His name was Corporal Weston. That information was freely available,
although Josh and the other Privates of the Hell-School platoon needed only
to know him as `Sir'.

"Fuck these early mornings," Weston said to the other Corporal and the
staff-Private as the hooters blared for the start of Forenoon Watch. Josh
dashed for the yard at the insistent summons with his rump blazing.

"I can't believe you made him blow his jism like that."

"Fuckin' faggot."

It was another boot inspection at the stands – a regularity which Josh
was beginning to learn for the start of every watch.

"No fucking way!" he heard someone breath desperately as the sixteen
trainees rushed and struggled to do something – anything – to improve
the appearance of their footwear for the no-notice muster. He glanced
down. Thankfully, he'd managed to preserve most of the shine during his two
hours scrubbing toilets. Others had been less lucky and, having been
consigned during cleaning stations to their knees with wire brushes on the
small parade-ground, they now wore their boots in a badly scratched state.

"Congratulations, fuckbags," McCloud announced to the mustered
platoon. "First day at the school and you're all to be dispatched for
punishment. You're not getting me to inspect those disgraceful excuses on
your fucking feet. Full kit-issue is delayed until tonight. You've fucked
the schedule real damn quick haven't you? And you're due eight hours of
punishment drill. Starting now."

As the first *clacks* of steel studs on bitumen sounded, and the drill
formation began its circuit under sirens, horns, and speakers, Josh quickly
wondered if – and how – an eight-hour drill session was
possible. Captain Ball had said he wouldn't find a moment to sit down, and
sure enough, he hadn't slept. And at the beginning of the first day it
seemed there was a full program to extend well into the night.

Two ranks of eight. Side by side. This time it was regulation
punishment-drill – arms folded behind the head and elbows high,
triple-marching at inspection-posture. It was a public parade. Past the
Gunner's Store, through the Gunnery Square. Command block. Admin
building. The roadway behind – and in front of most of the barracks,
stores-buildings, and miscellaneous agencies of Fort Drexel – naked and
with bare rump-cheeks pumping hard in unison.

"*CLOSE FORMATION!* TIGHTER! CLOSE-UP! DON'T SWING YER FUCKIN' ELBOWS AND
GET THOSE DONGS SPINNING AT TRIPLE-SPEED!!!"

*****

"How's this lot shaping up, Sergeant?"

"Too early to tell, Sir."

"Yeah. But your men will have a sweepstake on which one will fail-out
first."

"They usually do, Sir."

"So which is leading?"

Major Fletcher wanted an advantage in the Officers' Mess betting, McCloud
knew, and no one had better insight into the form than himself – the
Sergeant of the Elite Force School. Except perhaps the combined
intelligence of his men who worked the compound – and Captain Damme.

Anyway, Damme would be hard to beat in the Officers' Mess, and that was why
McCloud expected to be sounded-out by more than a few gambling men in that
quarter. He didn't quite understand the keen gaming fixation the various
messes had with the Elite Force training ejection tally, but then, Fort
Drexel was isolated, and all these men had few distractions.

"The money's on number fourteen, Sir. By a long way," McCloud said airily,
sounding as if he didn't care – and he didn't, did he?

"Good, good," Major Fletcher said, rubbing his hands. "Fourteen. What's the
problem with him? I'll get a look for myself when they're under my
window. Good idea – the punishment-drill circuit on the first day. Let's
everyone have a look. Noisy though. You can hear them coming a mile
off. It's to go all day, is it?"

"Eight hours, Sir."

"Well, I suppose that'll give a real good look to everyone who wants
it. Here they come now."

"I reckon they're down by Maritime Command, Sir. Might be here in ten
minutes."

On the third floor of Tactical HQ, the distant racket could be heard
faintly through the windowpanes of Major Fletcher's office. It was a mixed
clamor of angry, amplified voices and the urging whoops of electric
sirens. Sergeant McCloud had excused himself from the trailing Humvee and
Jeeped here for the strange little surreptitious meeting. It was a relief
to be away from the noise of the slow-rolling drill procession.

"There's a few who have their eyes on number sixteen, Sir."

"Another tall one, eh? The tall ones tend to fail-out early I'm told."

Presently, a Hummer turned into the paved square between Tactical HQ and
the opposing wing of ELINT Operations, and into the view of the Sergeant
and the Major. The vehicle showed flashing strobes and issued a stormy
barrage of howls from its speakers, both human and electronic. Then the
platoon rounded the corner, its sharp, fast-striking footfalls sounding
through the commotion. The two ranks of naked men, shod in their boots,
tripled hard in the convoy between the forward Hummer and a personnel
carrier behind, their elbows raised, their carriages erect, and
concentrated expressions of pain and effort on their faces.

"HUT HUT HUT HUT!" the trucks bawled.

*Clack clack clack clack*. The men hurried, striving, the hot grill of the
rear vehicle close at the hindmost pair of asses.

"Fourteen. That one. Second from the rear," said Fletcher. "He's a young
colt. Looks mighty fine from here. But I can see why he's odds-on first to
go. Just a young buck, eh Sergeant? Won't have the stamina or the mental
fortitude."

"I really don't know, Sir." McCloud was tiring of this meeting.

"Good legs," said Fletcher, peering thoughtfully through the window-pane,
his nose close to the glass. "Look how slim the lad is. He'll be good in
the water. And Christ! That's the smallest ass at Fort Drexel! Jeesh! We
should have him up in the Officers' Mess to collect a prize!"

Fletcher laughed. McCloud frowned. Down below, the sixteen men of the
platoon exhibited their form for the many faces at the windows all
around. Sixteen shorn scalps painted bright yellow nodded and jerked
together in short, rigid movements as they ran. Sixteen sweat-stained
torsos glowed with a fine, oiled sheen, and sixteen loose, meaty penises
flipped and flopped and swung and slapped.

McCloud could clearly see how the slighter, slimmer youngster at position
14 was distinguished from the other more bullish men. And from up here in
Major Fletcher's office, the Sergeant could still make out the kid's pretty
features as he passed below – the narrowed eyes and the stern,
downturned corners of the mouth.

The Sergeant considered the betting sweeps (of which the kid was an early
and prominent favorite) a somewhat sordid tradition. In most messes and
workplaces, sixteen numbers were auctioned, some attracting high
prices. The first man to fail-out from Elite Force School rewarded his
backers with all the money collected for that sweep. The next round offered
fifteen numbers, and so on. It was therefore with much interest that the
form of the trainees was studied.

The problem was; when McCloud's own men made their stakes, there was scope
for conflict. Whoever purchased a certain number would ride hard on the
corresponding trainee. In fact, each of the sixteen cadets had their own
multiple `sponsors,' so to speak, who had bought the numbered tickets from
various bookmaking operations and whose financial interests were linked to
that man being bounced.

The start of the six-week school saw fervent bidding on the obvious weaker
ones, with others selling for nominal amounts. The game could be become
more interesting, or less so, as the weeks progressed. Sometimes the Elite
Force platoon had a high attrition rate, and there seemed to be imminent
fail-outs for most of the course. Other times, a few bounced near the
beginning and left a sizeable, tough core of trainees to continue. This
killed the betting early and made some disappointed speculators around the
base.

As 2IC of the Elite Force Training School, McCloud probably had the
authority to kill off the activity amongst his own men, at least most of
it, just as he'd banned the `Burton Duck-Suck,' an ignoble piece of
entertainment named after his predecessor, Sergeant Burton, who had
invented it. McCloud had been appalled when he first took over the
compound. Now, he saw the value in some toughening, team-building, and
somewhat illicit techniques. Still, the Burton duck-suck had been beyond
the pale.

Under Burton, the trainees had been mustered to their stands. Each uneven
numbered man had been made to crouch, with his arms folded behind his head,
and to duck-waddle to the even number next in line. Here, squatting to
conserve the shine on his footwear, he had sucked on the
inspection-presented cock. The vulgar pursuit of Sergeant Burton and his
men had been initiated late in the six-week course, when discipline and
compliance were drilled home hard

They had one minute. Then the crouching uneven-numbers waddled across to
the next even number at the blip of an air-horn, and sucked on the next
erected prong of meat. It was a regimented and complicated choreography. If
a man came, he swapped with the squatting sucker before him, and so it
went. Around in a lewd display, the last in line had to waddle behind the
rank for fifty feet to take in his mouth the first – until every
participant had unloaded his balls.

It was a demonstration of the absolute obedience instilled by Elite Force
Training. There were no complaints. Every effort was made to prevent a drop
of juice hitting the small parade-ground which was the compound-yard, so
they gulped desperately, well aware of the punishments on hand.

And punishment was given. Both the first and last man to come were sent to
the submarine facility at the edge of the bay where they were treated by
the sailors for whom such a novelty was rare.

McCloud cast-off the memory of the crude experiment he'd seen when he first
arrived. Here, in Fletcher's office, he considered his own current platoon
of determined hopefuls and their prospective challenges. The big money was
on the kid at the fourteen-spot to drop-out first. It was impossible to
tell how long that boy would last, but now McCloud predicted that the
youngster's sojourn at Elite Force Training School would be shorter rather
than longer.

The platoon's punishment-drill kept it busily moving – a coordinated,
hop-dancing unit of thirty-two black-booted feet in concentrated rhythm.
Every hour it was watered – run through a stagnant, concrete channel –
down the shallow slope with steel studs ringing on the hard surface. Then
emerging on the other side to continue with the Hummers and Jeeps, slaked,
dripping, and wheezing.

Harsh road-grit found its way deep into wet butt-cracks. It scraped between
pulsing, working buttocks, stuck to opened armpits, and caked the insides
of mouths – mouths which were wide with appalled distress in the midst
of the torture-drill.

McCloud spun the wheels of his Jeep in the gravel outside of Tactical
HQ. He caught up with the procession and drew alongside the naked men as
they performed in drill-formation. Sixteen schlongs whirled and slapped as
the incessant ring of steel on bitumen sounded the platoon's progress. The
kid looked to be doing fine – better than most – but this was
lightweight speed-drill, and the boy could be expected to suffer grievously
under full pack-load. Now, he loped effortlessly and well, arms controlled
and locked behind the head, bare, springing muscles streaming with filth
and sweat.

Time would tell the future for every member of the elite platoon. But for
the time being, the eight-hour punishment circuit would end with each man
crying tears of agony as he faced the next sector.

*****

garystayton@yahoo.com