Date: Wed, 16 Mar 2011 00:49:51 -0700 (PDT)
From: Dark Entries <dark_entries01@yahoo.com>
Subject: Hellfire Bootcamp episode 3

Copyright 2011 by the author.

The story has gay sexual themes and bondage, and is for adults only.

dark_entries01@yahoo.com

Author's note: Very many thanks to those who have sent messages. As always,
they are very welcome. It's been a little while and I'm sorry about the
wait, but finally the time seems right for episode 3. It's the
encouragement from readers which has re-enlivened the story. For me, the
story is quite hardcore and obviously not to everyone's taste, but I guess
I let myself go, thinking what the heck! The responses I've gotten have
certainly made it worthwhile.


***HELLFIRE BOOTCAMP 3***

During the first night at the camp, Brett had foregone sleep to scrub and
polish his old, used boots.  On the second, he'd snatched a couple of hours
on the boards of a wooden pallet.  The third had been spent shackled on the
floor of the boxroom, and by this time, sleep had seemed a far-off heaven
– an ecstatic reward for those pure souls not consigned to Hellfire
Bootcamp.  Brett's trouble was he hadn't been issued any clothes, apart
from the boots, and everywhere he went he was punished for being out of
uniform.  He carried stones while swimming in sweat and dust, and licked
clean a stainless-steel toilet-bowl while the others polished linoleum
floors.  On the fourth night, the rock-breaking sledgehammers had ceased at
1:00am, and as the others had collapsed in exhaustion, Brett had been
ordered to the latrine floor where he cleaned between the tiles with a
piece of broken glass.  This was his down-time, so he found the skill of
working and sleeping at the same time.

Eleven men had quit, signing their discharge-papers, and having been
expelled from the Army, they were ejected forlornly to the dirt road
outside the camp gates.  Captain Catchcrowe considered it his duty to rid
the Army of such trash.  The quicker, the better.  And if four men remained
at the end of a course at Hellfire Bootcamp, they would be harnessed as a
team to his dog-cart and driven with the buggy-whip.  "Very good," he said
to the Adjunct.  "See that that the numbers are whittled down further.  The
younker hasn't been dismissed yet.  They're usually the first to go.  Six
six nine two five?  See that he's adequately encouraged."

*

Dennis Judd lay in bed, his hands on the pillow behind his head.  Aw shit!
He thought.  Hellfire can't be all that bad?  The kid could do with
smartening-up, and so what if the whip was cracked?  Probably do the punk
good!  He turned and slumbered, deciding that by whatever means, he would
make the calls and pay a visit, to see how things were going.

*

Once or twice, Brett and his classmates had read in their service-manuals
of the Army-Navy compliance-harness, for the worst kinds of prisoner.  They
had laughed, but Brett had wondered... what would it be
like... really... to be buckled into the rigid apparatus of discipline,
yipping and yelping and prancing like a trained pony.  At the Gunner's
Square of the bootcamp, he thought back to those mirthful moments with his
classmates and considered how his education had so far advanced.

The Army-Navy compliance-harness thrust into his back, a hard pole forcing
his posture upright.  His neck and wrists were strapped to it.  A tall,
leather collar kept his chin up – right up – and his hands were
fastened high and neatly between his shoulder-blades, his elbows jutting to
the sides in a military manner.  The black staff extended from the back of
his neck down to his bare buttocks where it was clenched tightly in the
crack.  He jigged and danced on the muster-point as he tried to ease the
strain on his tied balls.  Rough twine was cinched and tied about the sac
of his scrotum and to the pole in his ass, pulling with every twitch and
letting him know, intimately, the consequences of his movements.

A Sony rockbox was plonked onto the paved square and Brett danced to the
battery-powered sounds of AC/DC.  As he jiggered and boogied, working the
hard-gripped pole between his clamped butt-cheeks, the soldiers laughed.  A
horsewhip cracked, and Brett danced like a motherfucker, rigidly and
upright, with the horrid staff strapped to his neck, wrists, and testicles.
The steel-plated soles of his boots struck the hard bitumen and before he
even realised the progress of events, he was dancing-running, and then just
running.  As his bare ass turned with youthful agility on the road, he
realised belatedly he was on the way to the Admin Block.

"Keep that cock a-floppin' spunk-boy!  And move that pretty little ass!"
someone yelled from the Jeep as the naked soldier raised his knees and
clip-clopped on the road.  Brett struggled with his nuts strapped tight to
the staff behind him, swinging and veering his hips, and trying to keep an
adequately speedy pace.  He thought of nothing else but his cinched scrotum
and the movement of the inflexible pole – and the measure of his boots
striking the road.

*

"You have an interest in the recruit, Sergeant?  Is that right?  Or are you
here to scope the place for a posting.  We always have a need for capable
NCOs."  Captain Catchcrowe leaned back thoughtfully in his leather chair
and reached to place his cigar on the edge of his desk.  Dennis noticed the
heavy old neck, wrist, and leg-irons in a display case on the wall.

"Recruit Buckfield, Captain.  I should see that he's getting on.  Since I
brought him through Camp Helga."

"Very well," said the Captain.  "It's not that often that divisional staff
show up.  But let's say that I... understand... your interest in the
Recruit.  I'm bringing him up for a chat."

"Oh.  Good."

"We've only nine men remaining in this intake.  Your Recruit Buckfield has
surprised everybody with his staying-power."

The Sergeant looked thoughtful, so Captain Catchcrowe continued.  "Look,
Sergeant.  Here are the discharge papers.  My men expend much effort
getting these misfits out of the Army.  Much easier if someone like you can
persuade the monkey to sign-off."

Dennis took the forms carefully.  A minute later, as he stood by the window
looking down onto the Admin Block parade-square, he decided that he needed
to make Brett sign them.  The boy hop-skipped into the square, running
beside a Jeep, firmly buckled to a compliance harness and looking decidedly
concerned with his situation.

"Shit!"

"All the more for you to get him to sign those papers, Sergeant."

The nude soldier under punishment that Dennis saw strutting on the
white-painted tarmac just wasn't the Brett he knew.  This man turned and
hopped in complete, abject obedience, with concern only for the shouted
orders – a trained animal.

"This is the kind we have difficulty with," Catchcrowe said.  "He's
buckled-under and taking the strain.  We'll need to start overtime on him.
Hmm.  Young one, isn't he?"

"When can I see him?"

"Come with me, Sergeant."

As Dennis turned, he saw Catchcrowe take from a cupboard a long, black
leather buggy-whip.  It flexed with a graceful curve along its length and
terminated in a small, three-tongued tail.

Captain Catchcrowe didn't delude himself with ideas about `artistry' or any
of that nonsense, but he did savour the satisfaction his little skill
brought him.  The whip was a mid-nineteenth-century "Town-Crier," made by
the Mississippi firm of Stripe, Flickem, and Thrash.  It had driven many a
sweating colt through the busy, dusty streets – from Jackson to Atlanta.
It had obviously performed other duties too, and Catchcrowe kept it will
oiled and in good condition.  The top-quality Mississippi leather had worn
the years well, and made an awesome *crack* which did the Captain proud.

Brett whimpered in surprise when he saw Dennis in the Admin-Block square.
The look on the Sergeant's face was serious.

"Denn...!"

"Shutup, boy!"

Then Brett saw the starch-uniformed Captain holding the long, thin whip.
He looked back to Dennis quickly.

The men winced visibly with surprise as Catchcrowe wasted no time.  His
boots simply clacked on the square and, without a word, the leather found
the target, plumb across both cheeks evenly.  It was a good rump for
whipping, small and already clenched hard about the awkward baton of the
compliance-harness.  The inked data on those rounded twin peaches was
joined with a red stripe.  Brett's eyes held Dennis's for a shocked moment.
In that second, there was Dennis's stern frown, the sharp slicing sound of
the whip, and the rising fire in his tail.  The Captain with gloved hand on
the swishing leather was the evidence of the deed.

"Dennis!  No!"

"Keep silence, boy!" Dennis yelled through gritted teeth.  Christ!
Couldn't the kid learn to keep that stupid big mouth shut?  Even with his
balls tied to a harness and with a whip snapping in the air?  In the event,
Brett's mouth made Dennis proud, in some way...  Yes, he hollered and
hooted, but he hollered like a man.  The curses came with an outraged
furrowing of the brow and a boyish, downward turn of the eyebrows.  The
whip landed hard and fast, and the young soldier went around the square
like a prize horse in a yard, double-marching with his knees up and his
boots clacking.  Catchcrowe turned in a circle, following the boy with the
end of the whip.

"Knees higher!" said Catchcrowe.

**CRACK!!!**

"**AARGH!!!  SHIT!!!**"

"Faster!"

**CRACK!!!**

"***AARGH!!!*** ***SHIT!!!*** ***FUCK!!!***"

Dennis noticed the veins rising in Brett's legs.  There was a shiny gloss
of sweat.  The boy's posture was erect – unnatural – and his chin was
high in the air above the collar.

"Keep going, boy!  Hup!  Hup!  Hup!"  Dennis tried to add some
encouragement to his voice, and some kindness, but total candidness was out
of the question.  Not with Catchcrowe and the men present.  He felt a
painful surge of pity and anger as he saw the corners of Brett's mouth turn
down in a familiar little expression of resentment and hurt.  And Jesus!
That whip must *sting*!

As the depraved training session continued around and around, the men began
to relax, sensing the Captain's satisfaction with this cruel pastime.

"Ha Ha!  Look at his cock spinning!  It needs a pom-pom!"

"Tough little fucker!  Now we know why this one is labelled for `Special
Attention'!"

Dennis moved toward the Captain, turning with him as the whip followed that
striped, pumping ass.

"Give me a moment with him, Sir.  I'll get him to sign these papers.  Then
he'll be out of your hair."

Catchcrowe glanced at the Sergeant, then back to his prancing charge at the
end of the whip.

"Hear that boy?  The Sergeant here has your discharge papers.  Ready to
sign?"

"SIR!  NO!  SIR!"

Oh shit!  Dennis's heart sank as he heard the pitched defiance in the young
man's voice.  You *stupid* little punk!

"Sir," he said to Catchcrowe.  "You can lay off.  I *will* get him to
sign!"

The Captain paused.  "All right, Sergeant.  In an hour I'd have this
soldier begging to leave the Army.  But maybe you can save the trouble."

Brett struggled with his harnessed balls, twisting his head sideways in the
leather collar.  Dennis and the Captain were just at the edge of his
vision, saying something.  Dennis!  You shit!  Why are you doing this to
me?!

Five minutes later, Brett was thrust into a bare concrete room, hopping and
dancing, the tight harness making him bop wretchedly.  That ceased when it
was hooked to ceiling-mounted chain-block, raising him to his tippy-toes.
He yelped and jumped, and then just hoisted himself as high as he possibly
could, breathing hard through puffed cheeks and concentrating his strength
in his legs.

"He's all yours, Sergeant."

Dennis saw the muscles straining in those thighs he had so admired, like
bags full of snakes.  The drooping meat of the penis swung idly in front of
the bound scrotum, the bulging testicles lashed with knotted twine, pulled
hard and separated.  The Sergeant and the Recruit were alone.

Brett blew heavily, breathing like a runner.  His chin was stuck up and he
couldn't look down.  There was angry fire in those big eyes which were
usually brown and soft.

"I have the discharge papers, boy.  I think we can have you out of here
today."

"Fuck you!!!"

"Don't be a dumb punk!"

"Why did you come here?!  My ass is on fire!  My balls hurt!"

"Here.  Sign!"

There was a strangled chortle from the boy.  "How can I?"  His eyes darted
sideways, indicating his bent-up elbows and secured wrists.

The two exchanged angry words, but Dennis despaired.  He knew that the
stupid brave idiotic boy would not agree to the paperwork.  The tough-guy
attitude would remain.  Well, let the tough-guy continue to tough it out,
then, at Hellfire Bootcamp.

*

"It seems your mission was a failure, Sergeant Judd.  Sorry about that."
Captain Catchcrowe was passing the Sergeant in the white-painted corridor.
"Seems this one is rather bold."

Brett had been removed to a steel cell-box in a nearby room, with much
metallic crashing and angry yelling.  The cries went all up and down the
corridor, reaching the familiar high-pitched boy-quaver Dennis had heard
often enough in the store-room at Camp Helga, and he knew the boy was being
fucked.  He'd seen the men with a rubber police-truncheon and a can of
grease.

"They're going to fit a tow-ball in his ass," said Captain Catchcrowe.
"Hope you enjoyed your visit to Hellfire Bootcamp."

dark_entries01@yahoo.com