Date: Tue, 13 Aug 2013 05:27:13 -0700 (PDT)
From: Thoby Musgrave <thobymusgrave@yahoo.com>
Subject: Punk Drilled Into Shape chapter 4

Copyright 2013 by the author

The story is for ADULTS ONLY. Gay bondage and discipline.

*****

All comments most welcome. Also, please consider donating to the Nifty
Archive. It's a classic site which serves many readers and writers.

thobymusgrave@yahoo.com

O' patient reader! This latest chapter has wallowed within the jaws of
oblivion before being plucked from such by the devoted attentions of one Mr
RM. Thank you Mr RM! Your diligent reminders have saved the story – for
now! Let's hope the wayward author has not strayed too far from the
original intent! And now, Chapter 4 of...

***PUNK DRILLED INTO SHAPE!!!***

By Thoby Musgrave

Well, it's been a while. Say, does this punk have orange hair? It's been so
long we can't quite remember. Not to worry. The important aspects of
character and plot are all here. The punk is a nuanced and developing
youngster on the cusp of maturity, I seem to remember, and the Sergeant is
a big, gruff, faηade with deep insecurities and a heart of gold. Sounds
complicated... Oh fuck it! Let's drill the orange-haired muscle-stud *now*!

Chapter 4

*****

Whilst certain bravado and dignity had allowed Bobby to refuse to be
stripped for Conway Finn, no such audacity existed in the face of Jake
O'Rourke, and strip he did, barefoot and bare-ass on a rough, isolated road
leading somewhere into the deserted end of the Army base. Both Finn and
O'Rourke wore their Sergeants' uniforms, but further, there were two others
in the Chevy – younger soldiers – one with a cruel grin and a
pig-nose, and the other (*very* young indeed) with an aloof, angelic
face. Bobby hardly saw them anyway. He had ridden in the back of the truck
and now he faced them from the roadway, naked, as the headlights blinded
him.

It was Friday night, windy and cold out here in the forested
Army-grounds. Somewhere, the nightclub Cell Block H would be starting to
warm up, and behind the glare of the headlights, inside the cab of the
Chevy, the four soldiers would be rubbing and warming their hands against
the truck's heater.

Bobby hopped from foot to foot in old, old combat boots, possibly dating to
the Korean war. He saw his breath as mist in the dazzle of the lights and
stared expectantly, trying to make out the dark windscreen of the truck
behind the beams. Up there in that cabin, four sets of eyes were peering
out, he presumed. Their names? There was O'Rourke and Finn, but the two
younger ones were unknown to him, and in any case, he had been instructed
that everyone was `Sir.' Shit! The youngest didn't look old enough to get
into Cell Block H! Bobby was somewhat affronted. O'Rourke was one thing –
but a damn kid in a Private's uniform? And that dickwad Finn?

Oh well. Whatever. He'd show them. Their dumbass "Hell Camp" would be a
jaunt in the park for Bobby Ryker! Naked and all! Fuck `em! Bobby stamped
his boots against the cold on the road, scowling into the twin beams of the
truck. He hugged his shoulders and chattered his teeth. Well?  Whaddaya got
for me you dipshit Army douchebags?

O'Rourke's voice screeched from a roof-mounted loudspeaker like a foul,
scraping bandsaw in the night.

"*RUN* YOU COCKSUCKER! *RUN*! GET THAT FAGGOT ASS SWINGIN' AND THAT SCHLONG
PROPELLERIN'! YOUR COCK'S GOTTA SPIN LIKE A WINDMILL!"

Bobby clod-hooped down the centre of the road as best he could in the big,
flapping old boots. They slapped and clopped on the bitumen, and before
him, in his path, the white-lined black road was lit from behind. It
disappeared quickly into the night beyond the reach of the lights, but the
tires of the truck crunched steadily behind.

"FASTER!"

It was a welcome manner of getting warm – sprinting in the cold night
being trailed by the big truck. Bobby imagined the view of his butt-cheeks
rubbing firmly together in their pulsing, fast-moving rhythm, illuminated
from behind. His cock slapped from side to side, thumping into his upper
thighs. His shadow from the lights jostled on the road, playing out a long
way in front.

He saw the headlights diverge as the truck pushed up behind, close. If he
sped-up, the vehicle followed, urging him on. He heard the gas being surged
softly and felt the heat from the radiator on his butt. The cold air in his
lungs was sucked and blown in fast puffs, his cheeks filling as his hard
breathing became diligently forced.

Miles into the night, the little procession made its way. The surroundings
were blackened and invisible outside the cone of the lights, so there was
only the road and the white line. *Clop*-*clop*-*clop*-*clop* went Bobby's
boots. He heard the Chevy's engine right behind, so he burst into a sprint,
his hands chopping the air and his head thrown back, but the truck moved up
with him and maintained the speed.

It was cold enough that there was no sweat, and when Bobby finally stopped
and rested his hands on his knees, bent forward and puffing, his bare skin
prickled in the frosty chill. He was in a small yard, enclosed on three
sides by low, weatherboard buildings. His rest was momentary.

"Hut! Hut!" O'Rourke shouted, flicking and touching Bobby with the ten-foot
aerial – the implement which had been the cause of the entire adventure.

Business started. Bobby was handcuffed by his wrists to an overhead rail,
hoisted to his toes and shivering with abandon. Nevertheless, his cock was
hard, curving and upright with nerves and apprehension. There were
flashlights on him – two of them – O'Rourke's and Finn's. But
elsewhere in the yard, another flashlight illuminated the work of the other
two soldiers as they unrolled a canvas firehose.

When it was charged from a hydrant, it snapped and jerked, fizzing and
hissing like an angry snake. The two soldiers held it, and in the dark,
Bobby could make out the black, one-inch eye of the nozzle. Holding on to
it, pointing it at him, the pig-nosed soldier was grinning widely.

The freezing jet knocked his breath away. He danced on his toes and swung
by his wrists, hooting and hollering under the deluge of stinging
ice-needles. His body twisted and turned as he fought to get away from the
water lashing at him at one-hundred and eighty pounds per square inch. But
the torrent was easily played up and down his body as he rotated in his
manacles, battering him and lifting him off his feet.

"Yeeeoooooooooow!" he shrieked. "Hooooo! Haaaaaa! Fuuuuuuuck!"

His ears, his nose, his mouth were all full of water, gurgling and roaring
and hissing. Then he started spluttering in panic, fearing he might be
drowning. The jet didn't cease. It went up and down and over him with a
slow, sadistic motion. He tried to turn away, his toes scrabbling on the
wet concrete, but the firing deluge spun him until his manacles and wrists
were twisted overhead.

Bobby spluttered, spat, and choked when the jet was shut off. He was
bathed, flayed, and red-raw.

"Wanna beg for it to stop, fuckbag?," O'Rourke growled.

"Fuck you!" said Bobby.

"Hit him again!" Finn shouted, and the pig-nose soldier who bore the big
brass nozzle grinned.

Under the hose, time seemed to stand still for Bobby, but eventually the
game was played out. He stood shivering and hopping on a small,
green-painted circle in the compound. His task; spit-shine those old boots
by morning – spit shine them to inspection-standard, and if
spit-polishing was not among Bobby's repertoire of skills, then he had
seven hours to learn. Seven hours confined on the green circle twelve
inches in diameter, equipped with a small tin of crusty polish and only his
own freezing fingers with which to work it into the cracks and scuffs of
the well-used footwear. The boots were big, heavy combat ankle lace-ups
with steel studs nailed to the bottoms of the soles, and O'Rourke wanted to
see his own reflection in them by the morning sun.

They left him with his instructions and his work, retiring to someplace
indoors. Hours passed. The stars moved overhead.

"My name's Corporal Hollows," said the smiling pig-nose soldier. He'd come
to visit the busy, naked Bobby on the green circle in the compound. It was
an indeterminate hour. The moon was up and the compound's floodlights
illuminated ice-flecks in the air.

Bobby continued working on the boots.

"They say you wanna learn how to be a soldier, spunk-boy. How'd ya enjoy
the little bath I gave ya? It hasn't kept ya cock down, has it? Jus' wait
`till Sergeant O'Rourke puts a male curb-lock on that big wang, or it's
shut-up in the man-yoke. You gonna answer me, spunk-boy?"

Hollows gut-punched Bobby to the concrete, and the boots went
scattering. Bobby heaved and retched. It took some measure of will not to
jump at Hollows and beat the fuck...

"Fuck!" Bobby thought to himself. The Corporal was gone, and Bobby returned
to his green circle and his labor. Stupid fucking boots! This whole idea
was a joke!

"Heard there was some insubordination to Corporal Hollows last night,"
O'Rourke said in the morning. "And those boots are nowhere near
inspection-standard. Stand correctly at attention, boy! Chin up! Gut
sucked! Butt clenched and lifted. Lock in the elbows and bear down on the
thumb and forefinger! The only thing at proper attention on you, boy, is
that big meat-schlong!

"Eight cuts of the tawse!" the Sergeant continued. "You're gonna encounter
one of the last great experiences of Army-life, boy! A good whippin', for
which you'll be thankful for its invigoratin' medicine. It's time you were
indoctrinated, boy. There'll be no more slackness or answerin' back.

"Finn, Hollows, run him down to the frame and get him secured. You," he
pointed at the angel-face private. "Get the leather from the
Quartermaster's Store."

There were gleeful whoops and hollers as Bobby was grabbed by his limbs.

"There's gonna be a whuppin', boy! And you gonna be the star of the show!"
Hollows shouted joyfully into his ear as his head was shaken by a fistful
of his hair.

Conway Finn snarled, "Get ready to sing an opera, punk!"

He was belly-chained – cinched tight about his middle with steel links,
and cross-cuffed with heavy manacles secured at the rear in the small of
his back. A four metre length fastened him to the rear of the Chevy, and he
had no choice but to run.

His steel-studded boots made a harsh *clack* *clack* on the road as the
truck idled ahead. It was an awkward, elbow-swinging cant with his wrists
fixed behind him and the chain clanking and pulling him along. Wild voices
screeched from the speakers on the vehicle, and it was evident that they
were eager – wanting him moving fast.

The twin posts of the whipping-frame were set in the open on a wooden
platform before a miniature parade-ground. Bobby was hoisted into the air
by his ankles like a big slab of meat, the wide leather straps squealing in
the pulleys and his legs jerking widely asunder. With his cock dangling to
his navel and the steel studs on his soles facing the sky, he swerved and
writhed, his wrists still fixed behind him by the manacles and the belly
chain. Upside-down in his field of view, he saw O'Rourke. Their eyes met,
and Bobby tried to project a menacing defiance. His cock went hard. The big
Sergeant held his gaze with a steel, flint-eyed scrutiny which said "This
is what you asked for, punk!"

The Army tawse-whip was a black, oiled strop, thick and wide, folded in
flexing curves and heavy enough that it was carried on the shoulder of the
kid-soldier with the angelic face. A hot needle stung Bobby deep in his
belly when he saw it. He gulped, and felt his throat swallow against
gravity, upside-down. Struggling and jack-knifing his body, he succeeded in
swinging slightly and making the posts creak. The chain about his waist was
tight, and his breathing was short, sharp, and fast.

O'Rourke took the whip and mounted the platform. The black leather was
fitted to a carved wooden handle. With two hands, the thing was swung, and
it burned the air with an evil hum. Swung harder, it whistled. Bobby's
straining cock grew thicker and more solid. He swallowed again in a dry
gulp.

"It's been quite a while since I applied the old girl," O'Rourke
said. "It'll be a fine thing to get my hand back in. You should feel
privileged, boy!"

The tawse hummed. It whistled. Sergeant Jake O'Rourke's accuracy with it
was such that the contact between flying leather and tight-clenched butt
brought a *crack* sharp enough and loud enough to lift birds from nearby
trees into the early morning air. The sound of hide against hide was hard
and deep.

"Yeoow!" Corporal Hollows whooped. The little angel-face soldier grimaced
and winced painfully, and sucked between his teeth.

But Bobby's reaction was altogether more lusty and emotional. At first he
was stunned into mind-blanking amazement that such hot fire could exist
anywhere in the World, never mind in his ass. Then his mouth began to work,
and he heard loud curses being shouted – curses which he had no
recollection of forming. Then his mouth engaged some automatic function
whereby it must convince any person within a very wide area that no more
strokes of the Army tawse should be administered.

For while his mouth was working toward this objective, his brain had shaped
a very immediate and very new idea. And that was; Bobby Ryker could not -
*must* not – receive another whip-cut under any circumstance. Bobby
Ryker would spit-shine his boots with utmost, non-stop effort until they
were at whatever standard was specified, and somehow this message made its
way to his mouth, and his mouth sought to make known this information to as
many pertinent people as possible, very loudly and very forcefully.

The single cut had taught Bobby Ryker all his lessons. The Bobby Ryker of
old was finished, and the new one would sanction no insubordination or
disobedience within himself. No wise-assery would occur, and this new Bobby
Ryker bellowed and roared thus, telling Sergeant Jake O'Rourke, Sergeant
Conway Finn, Corporal Hollows, and the young Private – all in most
respectful and clearly enunciated terms – that things had profoundly
changed.

"The thing you better concentrate on now, boy, is to count the strokes,"
O'Rourke said. "That one didn't count."

What?

The tawse hummed, then whistled. The flying tail caught Bobby's fiery ass
as it had done before, except that now it was ten times worse. Bobby's mind
was now very clearly focussed, as were his healthy young lungs.

"You need to call out the count!" yelled the young soldier in some
distress. "Say `Sir. One. Sir!'"

What?

The whip hummed and whistled again. This time Bobby let go a mighty
"*Fuuuuuuuuuck!*" from the pit of his stomach before it landed. Just then
he realised what was supposed to come from his mouth.

"*SIR!* *ONE!* *SIR!*" he bawled. It was the first stroke. He had missed
the other two.

The upside-down hindquarters of Bobby Ryker took a total of ten tawse-cuts,
if the uncounted first two were included (and it would definitely be true
to say that the hindquarters of Bobby Ryker didn't know the difference
between those that were counted and those that were not), and these ten
cuts made a profound advance in the education of the well-muscled young
stud. From now on he would strive very diligently indeed, knowing of what
the Army-tawse was capable if the trained buckmeat were to be slung
upside-down by the ankles at the posts.

"SIR! TWO! SIR!" he had called, and so on – very loudly and
painstakingly, lest the count be lost and more strokes needed to be
applied.

He marched at triple-strut with meticulous posture back to his duties in
the stockade – that is; he sprinted at attention with his arms locked
down by his sides, his fingers straight down also, his chin raised high,
his knees lifting like a prancing pony, and his sweat trickling and making
Hellfire on his leather-burned ass. He maintained pace and stance, for
Sergeant O'Rourke and the rest of the crew rolled alongside in the Chev,
and Bobby had now tasted the consequences of negligence.

Further, the infamous whip-aerial waved from the window of the truck in the
hand of a laughing Corporal Hollows, and that flexing length of plastic
made dangerous, swishing gestures far too near to Bobby's poor backside –
the bare rump of hard-pumping muscle making a fine target for the sporting
Corporal.

One flick of the aerial back there cracked with the blinding sting of a
fresh-tawse cut, and Bobby made sure to triple strut-march as fast as he
fucking could.

*Jesus!*

He huffed and panted, desperate. Oh how he wished he'd never twisted that
wretched thing from Jake O'Rourke's truck!

The day had just begun. Bobby's pal Darren would be at home in bed,
recovering from too much booze, too many hours dancing in nightclubs, and
very probably having had his lights fucked out. Bobby, on the other hand,
was being rigged for Army punishment-drill.

"Tomorrow, your boots will be at *inspection-standard!*" Sergeant O'Rourke
roared at him as he stood to attention on the green circle.

"YES,SIR!" Bobby replied with all the force his lungs could deliver, very
anxious to fulfil the Sergeant's prediction. Another tawsing tomorrow would
be unthinkable.

The posture-rig was a device designed by some ancient Army genius for the
correction of the slovenly soldier. It was *not* designed for comfort or
modesty. A tall, thick collar was strapped to Bobby's neck, at the side
with four ascending buckles. It came high up to his ears and forced his
chin up, up, up. From the front, a broad, stiff brown leather belt cleaved
his breast-muscles, going down. It connected to the collar with rivets in a
steel plate, and at the other end, it was screwed about the base of his
genitals with an enclosing ring and a spanner. The belt was tautened and
buckled, just so, and it was rigid and heavy enough to hold the man
erect. Bobby's lithe torso swerved and swivelled no more. Buckled from neck
to nuts, there was only latitude to hop and prance vertically. All movement
was centred on how the thing pulled at the screwed cuff which gripped his
cock and balls.

At the waist, two short, horizontal leather ties were individually fixed to
the main erector-belt. They extended outwards, and strapped his forearms at
his sides. Any movement of his arms fore or aft pulled intolerably at the
rig. Thus, Bobby's torso was dissected at the front by a heavy leather
inflexible, inverted crucifix – his neck secured at the top by the
collar which elevated his chin and face to the sky – and his dangling
male-parts at the bottom by the screw-shut shackle. At the sides, his
forearms were gripped, and all movement was conducted with a very proper,
very military bearing.

"How does it feel, spunk-boy?" said the grinning, leering Sergeant
Finn. "You look a-mighty fine a-hoppin' and a-jiggin' in the rig with yer
big schlong a-flippin' and a-floppin'! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Indeed, the steel studs on the soles of Bobby's boots went *clackety-clack*
on the Quartermaster's Yard as he skipped and capered in the
posture-rig. It seemed he had to keep moving, the discomfort and weight
needing constant shifting. But he couldn't twist. He couldn't turn or lower
his head. Nor could he use his arms in any way. The vile grip of steel at
his balls was persistent and tight.

He felt something narrow and hard being forced between his buttocks, and he
*knew* it was the flexing length of the aerial he'd broken, held casually,
pointed upwards but bent fully over and fitted into his rear crack. Bobby
whimpered and blinked tears of humiliation as it forced him along in a
trotting circuit of the yard. The proximity of that plastic whip to his
enflamed ass made him obey it without resistance as it guided him along.

*Clackety-clack* went the studs on his boots. "Easy, punk. Find your rhythm
in the rig. Lift your knees. That's it. This is your chance to get used to
it."

It was Jake O'Rourke, and his voice from behind was of a somehow soothing
timbre. Bobby's buttocks clenched tightly on the length of plastic which
slid smoothly in the slick sweat of his rearward crevice.

One circuit of the yard was made, the boy erect in the posture-rig, steered
from behind by the authoritative hand and the pressure of the bent, plastic
whip hard in his rear.

"Now get your knees higher," O'Rourke continued with his hard-edged but
helpful advice. "You're going to need to prance at top speed out there on
the parade-ground, and those racehorse thighs of yours will be doin' all
the work. Get `em warmed up, boy, and get your little ass jumpin' to my
boogaloo. You like dancin', don't ya, punk-boy?"

Bobby felt a hurtful stiffening in his steel-clasped cock. "Yes, Sir..." he
managed to stammer above the high-raised collar.

And so he pranced like a dancing stallion to the parade-ground as the
morning sun shone down and promised a day of full, blistering heat from a
cloudless sky.

*****

thobymusgrave@yahoo.com