Date: Wed, 29 Jul 2020 18:58:59 +0000
From: JordanProject@protonmail.com
Subject: Military School Training & Management Chapter 1

This story is fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely
coincidental. It's copyrighted 2020 by The Jordan Project, all rights
reserved outside of Nifty. The reader comes first, so I welcome
feedback. Please take some time to provide it to
JordanProject@protonmail.com. What works? What doesn't work?

Style Note: This book-length story starts out a bit slowly. My goal was not
simply to write a gay BDSM tale, but to write a story that succeeds as
fiction. To that end, I think credibility in plot, scenes, and characters
is critical, and that takes words. Lots of them.

Imagine a Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey is sex, and the rest is the
trimmings. Having made more than a few of those feasts, I can say that the
turkey is easy: Throw it in the oven at 350, and wait until it's done. The
real work is in the trimmings. Without the turkey, it's not a Thanksgiving
dinner, but without the trimmings, it's not much of one.

Reader, your patience will be rewarded. You will find plenty of turkey
here. I suggest reading all the way through, and then returning to your
favorite parts later.

Synopsis: We follow the training of young Billy Stingler, and later Clifton
Yarrow, two military school cadets who are made to confront their weakness,
and choose lives of service to those stronger than themselves. Enjoy!

* * * *

Keep this great site going and donate to
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* * * *


MILITARY SCHOOL TRAINING & MANAGEMENT


When I look back, I see that everything in my life prepared me to know what
I know now: That I am not a Man, that I never had a chance of being a Man,
and that I will never be a Man. I will serve Men. I am a stump-dicked,
cocksuckin', piss-drinkin', fuck-takin', boot-lickin' little boy. That is
what I am. That is what I will always be.

* * * *

I was the second of two boys born to Richard "Mayhem" Stingler, and his
doting robot of a wife, Joanne. My fate was sealed before I was born, when
my father's genes mixed with my mother's and gave me more of hers. My
father never let me forget it, and that is how the direction of my life was
determined. Joe, my older brother by three years, was a big one from the
start, weighing in at 9 pounds 11 ounces. "You could have heard your mother
scream over in the next county," my father would laugh, accompanied by my
mother, who worshipped the ground Joe walked on. "But you, Jimmy boy, she
barely even noticed."

I was born at 5 pounds, 2 ounces –- the runt of the litter, never to
forget it. My brother Joe is a towering giant to me. Always was, always
will be. Six foot three of solid, swaggering military manhood, renowned for
his exploits. Today, I stand 5 feet, 5 inches tall. Not five-six-and-a-half
like I had claimed on my application to the Andrew Jackson Military
Academy. "Fifty-fiver," my kindest nickname around here, burns every time I
hear it.

Joe was afraid of nothing. Not spiders, not the dark, not other boys, not
thunder, not even dad. "I'd whip you into shape," my father would tell him,
"but I'd have to kill ya before ya'd even notice." He was a natural
athlete, the best football player the high school had ever seen. He was a
fullback, and his rushing records led the Bulldogs to three consecutive
state championships. I was almost as good a baseball player as Joe was a
football player. I played second base, and was called "Greyhound" for my
base-stealing abilities. As a varsity wrestler, I would starve myself to
make weight, which put me in the 132-pound class. Girls liked Joe, but they
liked me too. Other boys mostly kept their distance. They laughed behind my
back and hated my guts, but they knew it wasn't safe to mess with my
family.

I was raised by the king of wolves, "Mayhem" Stingler. Not that he had much
use for me, mind you. Behind closed doors, he made that clear. Just for fun
sometimes, he'd pick me up by the ankle, twirl me around and laugh and
shout, "Where should I toss this runt? Over the fence? Into the garbage?"
Then he'd throw me into the swimming pool in the backyard, clothes and
all. But outside of the house, I was not to be touched. One day, my father
learned that I had been bullied into handing over my lunch money to some
third-grade boys. He was enraged. "Why the hell didn't you fight back?" he
demanded, as I cowered and sniffled. "What are you now, a goddamn little
girl? I'd rather have you come home a bloody mess!"

But I was never touched again. My father took Joe aside and had a talk with
him. I was told to stay home sick for the next two days. When I returned,
two of the bullies were covered with bruises and another's arm was in a
cast. Each of them apologized for taking my money, and promised to pay it
back. Which they did.

"Stand tall!" My father would say. It was Saturday morning, inspection time
at the Stingler household. While I stood as tall as my little frame would
allow, my father inspected every inch of my room. "Acceptable!" he would
conclude, the closest thing to praise I ever heard. Three hours of
backbreaking, dull work for an "acceptable." Which I craved with all my
little heart.

"Now listen, and listen good," he would say. "When you leave this house,
you are a Stingler, and no one crosses you. Ever. You are a leader, so
LEAD!"

In my quest to satisfy my father, I became quite the sniveling little
prick. Class tattletale. Team captain, not through peer regard but through
petty intimidation and behind-the-back maneuvers. Sometimes, I would pick
someone even weaker than me and humiliate him in front of my teammates –
half of whom would have wanted to kill me if they weren't so afraid of my
older brother and my father.

"Mayhem" Stingler just about ran our little town. Not only did everyone
know it, but my brother and I were schooled in it. "The police chief, the
mayor, and the principal of that school don't so much as take a piss
without my permission," my father would boast at the dinner table. By the
time I was a high school senior, and my brother had gone onto Jackson
Military, I had mastered the unspoken code of our town. No one dared cross
me. I remember a history class where we studied Napoleon. The teacher
looked straight at me as she talked about the "Napoleon complex" that
described short men who were petty, mean, and vindictive to make up for
their stature. I remember that day well. I remember curling my lip at her
and chuckling. She didn't return the following year.

* * * *

When did things start turning against me? I mean, yes, maybe when I was
born the runt of the litter. But I had managed to deal with that when I was
growing up. I became a petty tyrant. I had a girlfriend, and we were
invited to parties, and every now and then I'd screw her to keep up
appearances. My heart was never into it, but what the hell. I did what I
had to do.

There was never any question where I would go to college. My father was a
hero in both world wars, and a third-generation graduate of Jackson
Military, a venerable institution that fed its graduates straight into the
Army. His war record, and his position in the upper ranks, made my
admission a no-brainer. Joe had already been there, and like my father, had
made his mark in Korea.

* * * *

Jackson Military Academy was well known to those who had a reason to know,
and almost invisible to everyone else. Its lands sprawled for more than
7,000 acres, and were surrounded by several hundred thousand acres of
federal land. Its physical isolation was matched by its admissions
criteria: To get into Jackson, you needed to be related to or recommended
by its alumni, or a handful of career military men who knew of its
existence.

Jackson was revered as a breeding ground for heroes and
leaders. Established in the Indian-fighting days of the U.S. Cavalry, its
graduates populated the upper reaches of the modern army. Unlike other
military academies, Jackson hated publicity. By custom, it was not
mentioned in news accounts of its graduates, including those who otherwise
famous for their military exploits. "We know who were are, and are known to
those who need to know," was one of the many codes drilled into cadets.

Top physical fitness was a requirement for admission. Jackson cadets were
drawn from the ranks of top high school athletes with military family
backgrounds. They were tough when they entered, and much tougher when they
left. The rank structure was complicated, and matched by intricate
distinctions among uniforms. First-year cadets were Candidates, vulnerable
to harassment on sight by second-year, third-year, and fourth-year
cadets. An entry class consisted of 170 Candidates, 80 of whom were
expected to wash out by the end of the second year. Usually, it was a
matter of temperament rather than fitness, and there were no hard feelings
upon separation.

Cadets who remained became corporals, wearing sharp, crisply starched khaki
uniforms and caps, and high brown boots, which they were expected to keep
shined to perfection. Their utility uniforms, used for combat training,
were green and also heavily starched, with lower cut black boots, also
shined. At the end of the first year, the academy Commandant announced the
members of the Discipline Corps, composed of about a dozen cadets selected
from the Candidate class from a list of nominees proposed by class members
themselves. The new cadet sergeants, freed from petty Candidate rigors,
joined the cadets from the two classes ahead of them. This group of young
men wore braided shoulder cords, sergeant's stripes, and a distinctive
uniform consisting of gray trousers with a black stripe, a gray shirt,
black boots, and a gray cap. The Cadet Sergeants comprised the daily
backbone of the Corps of Cadets, leading combat platoons and enforcing
various rules among cadets.

A third group, selected at the end of the second year by the Commandant
from within the ranks of the Discipline Corps, were the so-called
Tops. They carried the rank of Cadet Captain, and were an elite within an
elite, within an academy that itself was elite. They wore the same uniforms
as the sergeants, but with officer's insignia and a gray hat rather than a
cap. They were regarded as figures of mystery and menace, both feared and
revered, and distant. When I entered Jackson, there were only eight tops,
and when I left there were nine.

In some years, there was a further level, Cadet Major, selected by the
Commandant from within the Tops. In many years, there would be no Cadet
Major. It was regarded as high honor to attend Jackson while it had a Cadet
Major, and an honor to merely have been in the same class that had produced
one. A Cadet Major was the closest thing to a god we could ever be
fortunate enough to meet. His uniform was the same as that of the other
Tops, except for the oak leaf cluster that distinguished a major from a
captain. The higher the rank, the better the tailoring.

Then there was the other end of the scale, the Trainees. In their own way,
they were the most mysterious of all. They were a handful of cadets who had
chosen to stay at Jackson rather than leave when invited. They led
miserable lives in every dimension. They were expected to remain silent at
all times, not to be spoken to and not to speak, even to each other. They
wore baggy navy blue pants and loose-fittitng shirts. The ensemble
resembled a Cub Scout uniform, right down to the humiliating yellow
neckerchief. The uniforms had no rank symbol other than diamond-shaped "T"
patches, one on the chest and the other on one shoulder.

Trainees were invisible and isolated within an invisible and isolated
institution. Candidates, for example, saluted and stood at attention for
everyone. Corporals saluted and stood at attention for everyone above
them. Sergeants did the same for Tops. Tops only saluted, and then only for
the Commandant. Lower ranks were first to salute, with salutes returned by
higher ranks. Trainees saluted no one, but stood at attention if reporting
to someone. Otherwise, such as when passing in a hallway, they looked
downward. The message: Trainees weren't Cadets, and in fact were barely
even human. They even ate their meals separately.

Oddest of all, they were directly supervised by the Tops, sometimes on a
two-to-one basis: Two Tops to each terrified Trainee. No one knew why
anyone would ever be willing to stay at Jackson as a Trainee. They were
seen as desperate, pathetic, and strange, something I would learn in due
course.

* * * *

I made it through Candidate summer just fine. I knew the drill, and they
knew my father's name. If I had been paying a little more attention,
though, I'd have seen the warning signs. There was Zack "Rack" Thompson, a
powerfully built Cadet Sergeant. Rack took an instant hatred to me. It was
as if he saw right through my act. "I don't like the way you run your
platoon," he said to me one day. "If you were anyone else, you wouldn't
even have a platoon to run. You are what we call a squirrel, and I am what
you call a squirrel hunter!"

"Sir, the Candidate does the best he can, sir!" I said. "He will strive to
uphold ..."

"Cut that shit," he interrupted. "All I can tell you is you'd better
fuckin' watch your back."

But that was the end of it. Didn't hear any more, so I soon forgot about
it.

There were glances every now and again. Deke Windom, a lean, square-jawed
Candidate from Pennsylvania, would catch my eye and smirk. He'd eyeball one
of his buddies, Randy "Bake" Baker, and together they'd glance up and down
at all five-foot-five of me and chuckle, and make sure I noticed it. Every
so often a Candidate would edge slightly away from me when I sat down next
to him at mealtime, in a way that insured that everyone at the table
saw. Grins would be exchanged.

In the second half of Candidate year, even though I wasn't selected for
Discipline Corps, things loosened up ever so slightly. I was starting to
look around and see the males. Tough, angular, muscular specimens in their
khaki or gray uniforms, shining brass buckles, and starched shirts lined up
precisely with the fly of the trousers. I struggled to put out of mind what
I was starting to feel. Often, the ones who liked me the least attracted me
the most. In a hallway one day, "Bake" came up close. He smiled and
extended his middle finger toward my lips. "I bet you'd like to know where
I can put this, don't ya?" he whispered. My heart jumped. "Fuck off before
I get you put on report," I snarled. "You know I can do it, too."

So when did things start really sliding downhill? I'd say it was when I
thought I would expose Tommy Richards as a homosexual. Yeah, now that I
think about it, that was the trigger

* * * *

On the outside, Jackson's buildings looked every bit like a traditional
military academy: old, semi-gothic, sandstone, surrounded by meticulously
maintained lawns and parade grounds. Inside, cadets and Candidates were
grouped into pods of two sleeping rooms joined by a common area, including
a shower and study facilities. Each sleeping room could accommodate three
cadets, but in practice one room would house three and the other two. This
was to allow for majority voting on small issues, we were told. Five cadets
to a pod.

Cadet Sergeant Tommy Richards wasn't just a podmate, but he was also a
classmate all the way back to grade school. He had been a rival who I had
ruthlessly shoved aside in my zeal to become captain of the baseball
team. One day in high school, I had gotten a fleeting glimpse of him and
another player grabbing each others' erections. I told the coach, and that
was the end of Tommy's campaign to become team captain. Tommy was handsome,
tall, and muscular. He stood 6-2 and weighed a lean 190 pounds or so, with
a torso resembling an exaggerated "V" rising from compact, muscular hips. I
resented him for the size of his dick. It was at almost six inches soft,
and it looked to be half the size of a baseball bat the one time I saw it
stiff. Mine was barely two inches limp, and no more than four inches hard,
a shameful secret I tried hard to never let anyone see.

The other podmates were Gary Hilt, a wiry kid from Indiana; Ritchie Ortan,
a big, round-faced guy from Pennsylvania; and Cadet Sergeant Hank "Big Dog"
Tinley, the finest specimen of manhood I had ever encountered. He
mesmerized me the first time I laid eyes on him. The academy was fond of
nicknames, and Hank was "Big Dog" for a reason: He was as tall as my
brother, 6 foot 3, and must have weighed 225 pounds. He jaw was square, he
had a voice that could be booming at one minute and velvet the next, and he
had a dark complexion with placid brown eyes that cast a stare into
eternity. His uniforms needed to be specially tailored; the gray pants he
had been issued when he was promoted to Sergeant fit like gloves, and I
took careful notice that his dick hung on the right, just like Tommy's did.

Tommy never knew that I had sabotaged him in high school, so he thought I
was his friend. I might have lusted after Big Dog without realizing it, but
he and Tommy had an instant, easy, masculine rapport. They would trade
jokes into the night after "lights out," some of them private. I felt
excluded, and my jealousy grew. One day, when Tommy was off on drill with
his platoon, I was in the pod with Big Dog, attempting to make
conversation. "You and Tommy seem to be pretty good buds, sarge," I said
nonchalantly, as Big Dog smiled and replied, "Yeah, he's good people."

"Well you'd better be careful, sarge," I said. "You know we're from the
same school, and he was on the baseball team with me," I
continued. "Tommy's a great guy, but he was a little light in the spikes if
you catch my drift."

"What the fuck you mean?" Big Dog said, glaring.

"He was messing around with one of the other players," I said. "I never
said anything to anyone of course. I'd never ruin his life over it or
anything, but I think he's a little on the, well, you-know-what side," I
said, holding my hand out level and wiggling it from side to side like an
airplane being rocked in a strong wind.

"You're tellin' me Tommy's some kinda queer?" Big Dog asked.

"Well, yeah, I'm sure of it," I said. "Saw it with my own eyes in fact. He
was grabbing the other guy's dick, and vice-versa."

"I'll be goddamned," Big Dog said softly, his eyes wide. "I'll be
goddamned."

"He never tried anything on me," I added. "Maybe it was just a passing
thing, but I don't think so. I think he and the other guy were doing it
regular."

Big Dog burst out laughing.

"No shit, Sherlock," he shouted, his laughter growing. "Are you fuckin'
kiddin'? You can barely even find your pecker with a magnifying glass. If
some guy was gonna suck dick, it sure as fuck wouldn't be yours!"

It was the first time anyone had ever mentioned my tiny dick. Looking back,
I wonder if people talked about it in high school. If they did, it never
got back to me. Here at Jackson, showers were in pods, although there were
also some gang showers for athletics and military drills. But no one had
ever said a thing. People joked about other people's dicks if they were
big, but never my little one.

I could barely speak. "What?"

"Oh hell, Jimmy boy, we've all been wondering what raccoons you fuck," Big
Dog laughed. "Tell me, can you open doors with that thing? Will it fit in
the keyhole, brother?"

"You mean everybody ..."

"Yup, you're known far and wide in our class for havin' the smallest little
pecker anyone's seen since the fourth grade," Big Dog said with a
laugh. "We've all been hopin' for your sake that it's much bigger when it's
hard, 'cause otherwise you've got what we call a manhood issue down there."

I stammered, "Well fuck yeah it gets a lot bigger when it's hard."

"I sure as fuck hope so for your sake," Big Dog repeated. "So Tommy's a
queer you say. That's funny, he's never given me any reason to think he
wants to chow down on what I got."

With that he grabbed the crotch of his tight uniform pants and pressed them
around his dick. Involuntarily, I stared as he let it get slightly hard and
tightened a muscle that made it bulge against the crisp gray fabric.

"If anything, Jimmy, I'd have guessed that you'd be the one to wanna do
that around here," said, his voice turning soft and sympathetic. "You know,
not havin' much there and all. You must wonder what it's like to have a
man's equipment and all."

I found myself wanting to pour out my pain and humiliation, and struggled
not to.

"I guess I got shortchanged a little bit," I said, mournfully. "My
brother's about your size and has a big dick like yours. When I was a
little kid I was pretty interested in it. But I'm not queer for it or
nothin', just have always been curious."

"Yeah, but you're tellin' me that Tommy's a queer and I should stay away
from him," Big Dog said, his voice growing suddenly hard. "Jimmy boy, I
been watching some of the little games you've been playin' to make yourself
into some sort of power around here. You'd better watch yourself and that
little stump dick of yours, 'cause you're in a Man's world now."

"Uh ... uh ... I was just tryin' to let you know!" I protested. "I wasn't
tryin' to mess up Tommy. He's a good friend! I just figured you'd want to
know, just in case."

"Just in case what?" Big Dog shot back, staring holes through me. "Just in
case fuckin' what, little boy? Just in case what?"

I was in full panic, my mind racing. The plan that I didn't really even
know I had was in tatters. Here I was, the object I worshipped (without
really knowing it) tearing my defenses apart. My stomach was in knots, my
mouth dry.

"I ... I ... let's forget about this," I stammered, tears welling up. "I
didn't mean any of it. Please, Big Dog, I didn't mean it!"

"I wonder what Tommy will have to say about that," he said.

"You're not going to tell him!" I said, noticing how girlish my whine must
have sounded. "Pleeeeeeaaaaase don't say anything!"

"Maybe I will and maybe I won't," Big Dog replied, with a smile. "Anyway,
look, little worm, I got a platoon roll call in 20 minutes. Gotta roll."

With that, he moved toward the door of the pod.

"Oh," he said, looking back over his shoulder with a grin. "Better change
those trou. Looks like you pissed in the ones you got on. And why don't you
shine up my spare pair of boots, too."

* * * *

I didn't shine those boots, and Big Dog said nothing about it. In fact,
things seemed to go much better. Big Dog and Tommy included me in their
circle, and some other cadets started palling around with me. I had no idea
that I was slowly being surrounded by a big, powerful python. It started
slow. Inspections, until now a breeze, started to get tougher. Little
things. A loose thread, a missed stain, slightly incorrect marching
form. At a military academy, there is no end to infractions that can be
manufactured if need be. Most of the time, I was the target, although the
others in the pod were also written up. The nature of many punishments made
them collective, so others in the pod were paying for my mistakes.

Within a few weeks, tension began building. I think Gary Hilt was the first
to say it. "You're a jinx. Stingler jinx," he said one day, as he polished
a belt buckle. He laughed as he said it, but there was an edge. Ortan
complained later, and soon the two barely acknowledged my presence. Oddly
enough, Tommy and Big Dog didn't hassle me.

"Don't worry it," Tommy said one day. "I'm sure this is just a passin'
shitstorm."

"Yeah, I don't think it'll be any big deal," Big Dog added. "It's just some
shit they decided to throw our way."

The real problem arrived soon enough. Until one Tuesday, all of my
infractions, and the others, had been either been debatable or minor. They
were irritating, especially to Ortan and Hilt, but it was possible to argue
that it was all random, like a passing cloud.

Then, the towel. A towel. I was undone by a goddamn towel! Morning showers
are required, but Candidates and second classmen didn't get enough time to
do it. So you basically sprinkle some water on yourself, dry off, and make
sure to throw the towel into a hamper. For a reason that only God knows,
leaving a towel in a shower stall was a five-alarm offense, something made
abundantly clear to all of us. It was one of those stupid military academy
rules, the idea being that in real war there would be rules that could save
your life so you'd better get your head around the idea of rules that can
never be broken. Pods would have "towel call" in the morning to be sure
that the towels were disposed of. We did it too. We joked among ourselves
about "towel patrol," but we made damn sure we did it. Duty rotated, and on
that Tuesday it fell to me.

"Towel patrol!" Ortan called out. "Got it, Stingler?"

"Got it!" I replied. And then I failed to check. I will never know why, but
I didn't check.

* * * *

"Well, well, well, look at what we have here," the third classman called
out from the shower area. "A towel. Pod 43 left a towel."

We were lined up outside the door for inspection. I could hear the other
podmates growling under their breaths. "What the fuck did you do now," Hilt
whispered.

The second classman came to the door and called out.

"Towel in Pod 43!"

Three other third classmen, crisp and starched, double-timed up the hall
and into the room. The head of the pack, a fiercely handsome, razor-jawed,
burly blond Top with a flattop crew cut named "Wolf" Henderson, took the
lead.

"Strip!" he barked. "Now!"

In what seemed like a nanosecond, the five of us were naked.

"Right face! Double-time, harch!"

We double-timed down the hall, down three flights of stairs, outside and
onto the parade ground. It was February, for chrissakes! We shivered in
front of the Commandant.

"Well, fellas, you knew the rules. All of you, no liberty for a
month. Punishment drill, three hours after dinner, for a month. That is
all."

The third classmen were grinning.

"About face! Double-time, harch!" the blond Wolf shouted. We ran back into
the building to our pod and lined up where our uniforms lay.

"Well look at you," the Wolf said to us, as he stroked the riot baton he
carried on inspections for its intimidating effect. "Pathetic fuckups, all
of you. Now why don't you tell me which pathetic fuckup did it?"

No one said a thing. The biggest rule of all was to never rat on your
comrades, no matter what. The flip side was that if you messed up, it was
your job to own up to it by stepping forward.

"Tell me, fuckups. Whoever did this is liable to get tossed out on his ass,
and if you don't tell us who did it we will assume that each one of you did
it."

No one said a thing. I remained silent. They won't expel five cadets, I
thought. But if I speak up, they will expel me and my father will kill me.

"All of you will be dishonored."

Silence.

"Okay, have it your way. One towel, five fuck ups. Hope you're happy. Now
put your uniforms back on and go to class."

Then the Wolf twisted the knife. He looked at me and spoke.

"You keep standing while the Men get dressed, stump dick."

I stood there as the others donned their uniforms. Soon I was the only
naked one in the hallway. He put his face so close to mine that felt his
lips brush against my ear.

"Tell me stump dick, your dick is smaller than my 10-year-old cousin's," he
whispered, seductively. "What's a 10 year old boy doing in my academy,
anyway?"

I turned bright crimson, but said nothing.

"Answer me, little one," he whispered, as he used his baton to jostle my
shriveled member. He whispered more loudly now, loud enough for everyone to
hear: "Tell me what a little boy is doing in my academy. Is the little boy
trolling for some big dicked soldier Men to show him what bein' a Man is
all about? Tell me, little boy."

"N-n-no sir," I stammered.

"Then what is the stump dicked little boy doing here?" he asked,
smiling. "Does he dream at night hoping his pod mates will fuck his
smart-ass little mouth six ways from Sunday?"

The baton jostled me again. I felt his hot breath against my cold skin and
saw his handsome face close to mine.

"Is that a little stump I see sticking out?" the Wolf asked, continuing to
jostle my small but hardening member, while casting a mocking grin into my
eyes. "Just look at you. Your little boy dick is getting stiff at the
thought of being manhandled by the Men around here."

He motioned the others to come closer.

"Look at the little boy," the blond Wolf said. "I bet he's the fuckup of
your pod, too. Little boys always are. He can hardly wait for all of
you. Look at how little his dick is even when it's hard. Little boy's so
turned on he can hardly stand it."

It was true. My 4 inches was ramrod stiff, pointing up at a 45-degree
angle. The Wolf turned to the others, and smiled

"You'll be walking punishment for a month, confined to this pod for a
month, all because of this little boy can't keep his mind off your stiff
peckers," he said.

My brain whirled.

"I – I – I'm not a queer!" I cried. "This is disgusting! Stop it!"

With that, my hard on softened, and the color began returning to my face.

"Better get your clothes on, don't you think, little queer?" the Wolf
asked, calmly. I grabbed my clothes and put them on, humiliated beyond
measure.

* * * *

Two nights later, my pod mates got their revenge. Sometime after midnight,
I woke up with a start. I was wrapped in a thick blanket while blows rained
down on me. Fists and boots slammed and kicked me.

"I have fuckin' had it with you," I heard Hilt growl. "You little fuckup,
not only did you get us onto punishment and restriction, but you're a
little coward who wouldn't even own up to it when they asked."

"Yeah," I heard Ortan add. "Ya little shithead, it's a fuckin' good thing
I'm not queer like you 'cause my dick's as big as a telephone pole."

With that, he began kicking me hard. Hilt joined in. It dawned on me that I
was being beaten by only two of my four podmates. Not that it felt any
better. I was in excruciating pain. Finally, after a half hour of
pummeling, they let up.

"Keep fuckin' up and this will be the least of your troubles," Ortan
growled. "Now get back to bed."

They had taken me out of my usual room with Big Dog and Tommy. I felt my
way back in the dark, whimpering. When I got back and eased myself into my
bed, I heard Big Dog's voice in the dark, soft but firm.

"Don't you think it's about time you starting shining my boots?"

* * * *

I still ignored the command, and once again Big Dog said nothing about
it. The next few inspections were uneventful, but Big Dog and Tommy were
harder edged. They complained about the punishment drills and room
restrictions – to each other, while ignoring anything I said. In the
confined quarters of the pod, I noticed that I was being jostled.

"Stay the fuck out of my way," Big Dog growled as he bumped me hard,
sending me careening into a wall. "Watch where you're going, little one."

The other four took over towel patrol. When I offered to resume, they
refused.

"You've got to be fuckin' kiddin' me," Big Dog said. "Who the fuck would
ever trust you again?"

Tommy and Big Dog started to mock me.

"Hey Tommy, maybe Jimmy don't need a towel. With that stump a-his, don't
you think a washcloth would do?" Big Dog said.

"Wash cloth," Tommy laughed. "More like postage stamp!"

My own tension rose, and so did my anger. Yes, I had fucked up with the
towel, but I had apologized profusely. The two pod mates had no right to
beat me, and the jostling and mockery from the other two was wearing on my
nerves. Finally, one day I snapped. I was on punishment march with the
other four, in full dress uniform, after dark. The first rains of March
were falling. As we performed an intricate maneuver known as a cross-hatch,
Big Dog tripped me and Tommy pushed me. I flew through the air, and landed
face first in mud. Enraged, I struggled to get up.

"Not so fast, stump dick," I heard Big Dog say, his boot planted firmly on
my back, holding me down. Turning to Ortan and Hilt, he told them to
continue marching, but farther away.

"You had your business with him, now we got ours," Big Dog said, as the
other two marched away.

I heard water splashing near me. Some landed on my cheek. It was warm.

"That's right, Tommy, take a good long piss," Big Dog said. "This one's got
it comin'. Had it comin' a long time."

A second stream on the other side. Warmth on the back of my head. Then
another boot on the back of my head, forcing my face into the puddle of
rainwater mixed with piss.

"That's right, little one," Big Dog said. "Open your mouth and drink it."

I struggled against the boots. Filthy liquid entered my mouth.

"Queer little pisshead," Big Dog said, his voice full of disgust.

The pressure on my back and head lessened. They were letting me struggle
free. I jumped up, filthy and seething.

"You will regret the day you ever did this," I squealed. "I have taken as
much as I will take. You seem to forget who my father is."

Tommy laughed at me.

"Is this the same father who called you a runt in front of my face and said
you embarrassed the family name?" Tommy said. "Is this the father who once
told me that he wished he could swap you out for a real son? That father,
Jimmy?"

Anger and humiliation welled up inside, and burst forth.

"I am going to go to the Commandant, and I swear you will be out of here by
the weekend," I said through muddy teeth, the taste of piss lingering on my
tongue. "Just wait!"