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`6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`)
(_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-'
_..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
(((' (((-((('' ((((
K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Copyright 2003 © by Wrestlr. Permission granted to
archive if and only if no fee (including any form of
"Adult Verification") is charged to read the file. If
anyone pays a cent to anyone to read your site, you
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Yes, S.I.R.!
by Wrestlr (wrestlr@iname.com)
***
A young recruit volunteers for a special training
program. (MM, mc, hypno, huml, military)
***
Author Note: The naked hypnotist strides confidently
into your room. His lips curl in what might be a smile
as he dangles his shiny crystal pendulum before your
eyes and announces, "Listen and obey. If you are not
of legal age, or if you offended by sexual situations,
you will leave this place immediately.
"From here on, no matter how autobiographical it may
seem, everything will seem like fiction to you, a
pleasant dream where scientific possibilities and laws
may change according to my suggestion. Now, if you are
willing, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride."
Wrestlr's fiction is archived at the following URLs:
o http://www.asstr.org/~wrestlr/
o http://www.asstr.org/~mcstories/Authors/Wrestlr.html
***
1.
"Get that Private Fuckhole over here!"
Crouched naked in the darkness in the tiger cage,
Private Dennis Butler stiffens. All the tactically
sensitized points of his body prick--like a dog's
ears--to attention at Master Sergeant Bullard's roar.
Like the other recruits before him in the S.I.R.
program, Private Butler is immediately treated like a
bona fide prisoner of war. As Master Sergeant Bullard
told him before he applied, the Survival-Intimidation-
Resistance (S.I.R.) program was originally designed to
accustom recruits to the hardships of incarceration by
the enemy during military engagements. "It is
essential," Master Sergeant Bullard had briefed him
and the other new volunteers, "to replicate exactly
the grueling containment camp situation."
Private Butler hears the groans of his fellow
participants in the training program. What is being
done to the men? Their cries echo through the derelict
barracks. Their howls resound so oddly--they could be
howls of torment or ecstasy. Butler hears, and he
envies, and he fantasizes--fantasies of men doing
queer things to one another in the dark--fantasies he
has never before fantasized. Before, he hungered for
discipline. Now he bristles for the sting of firm
punishments, scared to find himself wanting the same
demeaning indecencies he imagines being lavished upon
the bodies of the other "prisoners."
He has spent two days with his hands tied behind his
back, unable to touch the hard-on that has been nearly
constant, the hard-on that goads him into almost
doggish devotion to hear Master Sergeant Bullard's
voice, to feel his touch, to fetch, to roll over, to
beg. Latent desires, canine and groveling, awaken.
Sequestered for two days in his dark cage, Butler has
only his erection for company and his future
humiliation to anticipate. The twitchfires of his
subconscious cast suggestive shadows.
Within his cramped darkness, he finds himself craving
human contact. Within his cramped darkness, Butler has
fantasized.
Butler has turned anxious--very anxious--to please.
2.
"Get that Private Fuckhole over here, Johnson!"
Master Sergeant Bullard's assistant is Corporal "Pony"
Johnson, who helps induct the S.I.R. program's new
recruits. Private Butler, their latest recruit, stands
erect and obedient before them now. Every inch of
Butler stands rigid with expectation. Johnson aims a
small digital camera.
Johnson's photo seems normal enough.
Butler's fresh burr cut outlines his sleek cranium
with strawberry-blond fuzz. The muscular recruit's
thick-columned neck crowns large crescents of pumped
deltoids. His spotless white tee-shirt, biceps bulging
the arm sleeves, shows the segmented flatness of the
recruit's midriff, tapering to his slim waist.
Butler's buttocks look vacuum-sealed inside his
skintight fatigues. The seam pinches the private's
ass-crack. His hard-on is obvious. It lumps his
crotch. His hard-on acts like a magnet--it juts up,
pointing north, stuck up embarrassingly, unconcealable
in his tight pants, a stiff quivering rod. Johnson's
camera lens is drawn toward it. Butler flushes as
Johnson snaps a close-up.
Johnson does not pity Private Butler. He finds the
young man very gung-ho and, yes, kind of dumb. The
unsuspecting recruit prides himself on being "goal-
oriented" and a "people person." In high school,
Private Butler was a top-seeded wrestler and varsity
All-Star quarterback. This Butler described himself as
a "go-getter," a "self-starter" motivated to network
his way to the top. He is always joining projects that
will make him more popular. That's why Butler thought
this S.I.R. training program would do him good. For
Butler, this is an "advancement opportunity." A gold
star by his name in the roster. Brownie points for
initiative.
This wholesome All-American subservience of Butler's
is what caught Master Sergeant Bullard's attention and
gave him the idea to recruit Butler for the S.I.R.
program.
Private Butler's dog tags rattle. The naked light bulb
hanging inches above his head in the deserted World
War II barracks makes Butler's eyes blink. The
incandescent light glares like an interrogation lamp.
The three men stand in its circle of light in the
middle of the barrack's darkness. Like a spotlight. It
makes Butler feel as if he is on display for his two
superior officers.
Johnson relishes the puzzled, uncomfortable look in
Butler's eyes. He likes the way sweat beads on
Butler's handsome brow. Funny, Johnson thinks, the
stupider this punk looks, the more fuckable he looks.
Ignorance, Johnson thinks with a sneer, is bliss.
Johnson cannot help but snap another photograph of
this lamb. This Butler stud is a model grunt. An
uncommon incarnation of bred-to-service military
architecture. Perfect raw material for the S.I.R.
program, Johnson thinks, practically licking his
chops. Johnson's camera eats up the young "inductee,"
his innocent beefiness. Photos of this big lunk will
be a showpiece in Johnson's personal album.
Master Sergeant Bullard barks at Butler, "From this
moment on, your name is Private Fuckhole. Remove your
uniform, Private Fuckhole!"
"Sir?" Private Butler blinks like a deer caught in
headlights.
Bullard hisses the order through clenched teeth.
"Remove ... your entire ... uniform." He drawls out
every syllable: "Uuuu-neee-form." He snarls, "Every
stitch of it. Fold your duds. Put 'em on the floor.
Now that you're a prisoner here, your uniform will do
you no good. Your hands will be bound. You will not be
able to amuse yourself with your usual jerking off. No
wanking your worthless pud ten or fifteen times a day
to pass the time. From this moment forward, you are a
prisoner here, and you're going to be treated like
one."
Bullard's methods might be unorthodox--brutal, some
might say--but his methods are highly effective at
instilling unquestioning obedience in young bucks like
Butler. "If you are allowed any relief at all, it will
be for our amusement, not your own. And it will be
when, where, and how we dictate. Is that clear,
Private Fuckhole?"
Private Butler's mouth gapes open. Relief? Amusement?
Fuck-what? What the heck has he volunteered for?
In the overpowering presence of Master Sergeant
Bullard, Butler trembles. He wonders: Has he done the
right thing? Has he made the wrong move? Maybe he has
gone too far trying to be a popular guy, a people-
pleaser?
Or is this where he belongs?
Beneath his white tee-shirt, Butler's stiffening
pectorals secretly answer.
Bullard barks again--"I said, Is that clear, Private
Fuckhole?"--and his voice booms off the barracks walls
in the darkness beyond this circle of light.
Butler jumps: "Sir, yessir. That is clear, sir!"
"Well?"
"Sir?"
Coldly, Bullard invades the confused recruit's face.
"When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed, and I
expect you to be the one obeying it, Fuckhole."
Bullard grabs the neck of Butler's tee-shirt and a
fistful of fabric and tugs hard--the front of the tee-
shirt rips away from the private's body, exposing
nearly half his chest and one nipple.
Butler's exposed skin prickles. Goosebumps tighten his
torso. The one nude nipple stiffens in the chill air
on his pectoral like a pink medallion. Otherwise,
Butler's glossy torso gleams porcelain-white. Not a
mole, not a freckle, not a tattoo. The dog tags
draping over his collarbone jangle like a chain and
feel suddenly just as heavy. Butler shivers in his
brand new exposure. A cream-smooth luster sheens the
incised muscles.
Butler has never in his life felt as naked as he does
now. His plated abdomen ripple down to a navel that
peeks just above the end of the gash in his tee-shirt,
barely above his polished belt buckle.
Bullard barks again, circling, threatening. He
obviously does not like having to repeat himself.
"Well, maggot?"
Butler gets the idea. "Sorry, sir!"
Master Sergeant Bullard wants him naked--now.
Quickly, Butler unbuckles his belt. Shoes, socks,
pants, the remains of his tee-shirt--all efficiently
discarded.
Butler is left standing there in his briefs, peek-a-
boo swaddling for his milky buttocks and erection.
But those briefs don't last. For just that moment's
hesitation, Bullard finger-hooks the snug elastic
band. He stretches the private's briefs, hard.
Stretches them so tight he gives Butler a wedgie.
Gooses the young recruit's ass. Constricts Butler's
cock and balls as shrink-wrapped in cellophane.
Suddenly the fabric gives way and in a split-ripping-
second Bullard tears the front of the fabric off
Butler's muscular wrestler body like a cheap
striptease act.
Butler's half-hard pink penis flaps out in front of
him.
Johnson smirks, snaps a photo.
Butler instinctively covers his dangling cock with his
hands.
Bullard smacks Butler's hands away, hard. "What did I
just tell you about frigging, maggot?"
Butler is grimacing--Bullard must have gotten the head
of his penis with that smack. Butler protests, "But I
wasn't--"
"Don't smart off to me, Private Fuckhole. Get the rest
of those briefs off right this fucking minute. From
now on, the only kind of jacking you're going to be
doing around here is jumping jacks when I'm putting
you through your paces. Now hop to it. Two hundred of
them--right now, Private Fuckhole!"
Immediately Butler spreads his stout thighs. He knows
to obey, and obey quickly. His arms lift, exposing
wisps of strawberry-blond hair in his armpits. Like a
good soldier, Butler starts counting his naked jumping
jacks aloud. "One-two-three-one! One-two-three-two!"
His bare muscles thicken with the calisthenics. "One-
two-three-three!"
He is uncomfortably aware of the way his balls
windmill between his thighs, and the way his erection
swings in the air, sometimes slapping noisily against
his groin and red-gold pubic hair. The head of it
begins to leak pre-cum.
Eventually, finished with two hundred jumping jacks,
Butler's cock is as winded as the rest of him, hanging
out from his body half-limp, like a startled wet worm.
"What's this?" Bullard roars. He thumbs the remaining
pre-cum that coats the tip of Butler's disappearing
erection. "Does being naked in from of two men get you
hot, Private Fuckhole?"
"Sir, no, sir!" The private looks confused. His pesky
erection just won't go the rest of the way down. It
begins to rise again. The more he thinks about, tries
to will it away, the stiffer it gets.
"No? I'd say it excites you plenty, Private Fuckhole."
Bullard invades the young man's face. "Judging by that
pud of yours, it looks like you're awfully excited to
be shaking your bare butt and balls in front of us."
Bullard's words register deep in Butler's soul. "From
the way that thing's spitting, this is probably some
lifelong dream of yours."
Private Butler sniffles, almost grateful for any human
attention. This is the first crack in Butler's psyche,
and Bullard Johnson both know it.
3.
In the darkness, time means nothing. Private Butler
thinks he has crouched here for an hour or a week, no
way of knowing which. He hears the other recruits in
the darkness. Their wails and quiet sobs. They're
separated by a lot of space. Afraid to speak up for
fear Master Sergeant Bullard will hear, Butler
whispers as loudly as he can but his fellow prisoners
apparently cannot hear him. No one replies.
Butler is afraid they are being broken. He is afraid
it will happen to him too. Soon.
In the dark, he sees a light. It's too far away to
make out. A small light. He sees a piece of cage, part
of a recruit's face. He hears a low murmur that might
be Johnson's voice.
After a few minutes, the light goes out.
4.
This isn't me, Butler thinks. This can't be me! Yet it
mirrors a dark fantasy that has germinated while
Butler stewed two days in caged darkness. Two days of
listening to something happening to the other
recruits. Butler couldn't get Bullard out of his mind.
Bullard's lecherous, appraising look now feels almost
flattering. Butler is grateful to be out of the cage,
to have his hands unbound. Bullard is ordering him
through two hundred jumping jacks again, and Butler's
hard-on, a nearly constant companion during his caged
time, is back at full strength.
Butler is grateful Bullard deigns to look at him.
Never in his life has Butler considered the size of
another man's penis. Yet there in the dark, with his
constant hard-on, Butler's mind began to wonder about
Bullard's crotch and what it might hold. How full it
looked. Potent with meat. Would he have a thick one? A
long one? A full-force package. He couldn't get the
images out of his mind. Then Bullard's boots.
Bullard's magnificent physique towering over him. To
grovel before such a man, Butler feels privileged.
Honored. Grateful.
"You want to get naked for guys. You want guys to
treat you like a slut." Bullard recites this aloud, as
if he is reading from some secret diary of Butler's
mind. "Treat you like the sorry-assed fuckhole you
want to be."
Private Butler is thrillingly self-conscious of being
naked. Of being made to bend forward, exposing his
anus. He can feel his asshole trembling.
"You'd like to be a fuckhole, wouldn't you? Isn't that
why you joined the army in the first place?"
"No, sir--I mean..."
Bullard slaps Butler's butt cheeks with something
hard, and the sound of it thunders off the barracks
walls in the darkness beyond. Butler feels the pain
spread like a blossom. His sphincter contracts,
imploding.
"You love to be ordered around. You need to be told
what to do. You don't want to think for yourself. You
need to be ordered to accept your fate. Does it arouse
you to take orders from real men, Private Fuckhole?"
Butler stammers, "No--I mean, yes--I..."
Bullard strikes his ass again, harder.
Butler blinks back tears. He feels his asshole
transforming. It mutates. Into a cunt. A butt-beaver.
A fuckhole. It opens. It becomes ... a hole.
A hole that needs to get fucked.
"Two hundred pushups now, Fuckhole! That's an order. I
want to see that punk ass of yours pumping double-
time. Move! Fuck the floor, Fuckhole. And keep that
worthless dripping prick of yours out of the way.
Stick it between your legs. Hold it there! That's it.
Wad it up your ass for all I care."
Johnson snickers at Private Butler's submission to
training. Most recruits crave some father figure to
boss their lives. Someone to make them obey.
Johnson snaps a picture of Butler's upraised butt. He
glimpses, between the cheeks of the full mounds of
Butler's rump, his virgin fuckhole, a pink button
winking at the apex of his straining hams.
Johnson thinks that if Private Butler ever saw the
photos in his top-secret album, where these pictures
are heading, Butler would shit his shorts. If recruit
only knew he would soon be like the other healthy,
wholesome pups captured in Johnson's pictures.
Corporal Johnson thinks of his album of before-and-
after photographs as scandalously obscene evidence of
what behavior modification can do. Some nights, he
spends hours whacking off, drooling over his photo
albums. All of them raw "recruits "conditioned by the
S.I.R. program.
The All-American studs in these photos are changed.
Their slimed, disheveled hair, their glazed and
flushed faces make them look like newborn chicks
wobbling out of their shells. Carnal, wanton cunts.
Depraved, almost bestial fuck-obsessed holes. Dumb
bantam redneck studs just like Butler, lewdly
squishing their purple dicks for the camera's
delectation. Their wills warped, these mindless
rutting animals volunteer their fuckable assholes to
be photographed, like slutty whores eagerly splaying
their just-fucked asses for centerfolds. Shameless
orifices now brainwashed with one desire. One need.
One hunger.
Cock.
Sure, some bucks resist. Some, more than others. The
men almost all balk at first, unwilling to accept
their own inevitable degradation.
But Johnson is proud of the fact that, with the proper
coercive techniques, he and Master Sergeant Bullard
always get these pups exactly where they want them. Or
where these pups really want to be.
Johnson is especially proud of his own part in the
process, carried out in special late-night visits.
Sometimes he considers his part the most important
contribution of all.
Johnson remembers how each once-proud, once-indignant
stud is eventually licking his lips. Each subject
salivates like Pavlov's dogs. Begs to be fucked up
their freshly cored assholes. And how they get
fucked!--Dicked dozens of times. Johnson loves dicking
these formerly straight guys most of all.
He loves dicking straight guys like this Private
Butler. Straight guys always try to be such "men"
about getting fucked, even when they are getting a
real man's big dick screwed up their tight straight
assholes.
They're always macho at first when Bullard and Johnson
start on them. Like tightlipped jocks getting steroid
shots, they lay back. They stoically spread their
legs. Doing their patriotic duty. Accepting their fate
as Bullard's or Johnson's cum repository. Resigning
themselves to playing barracks cunt to Johnson's
ramrodding meat or Bullard's thick fuck-stick. Telling
themselves this is not really them, this is just
something they have to tough their way through.
But after a few special late-night visits from
Johnson, even the butchest rednecks come around. They
cannot stay calm about Johnson's butt-splitter once
they see it. Once they feel it. Soon, they grow to
like it. They like Johnson's cock as it drills further
into the virgin territory of their bowels. These pups,
these men, begin to love the idea of having Johnson's
large cock packed up their asses. Soon they're
whimpering, then howling like wolves. They shimmy and
strain beneath Johnson's thrusts. When his dick works
up into their tight assholes, Johnson holds it there
inside them. Very, very still.
His newly cored privates fidget irresistibly. Their
impaled butts yield, impregnated with Johnson's
foreign object. His fist-thick nightstick of a cock
inflames them. Alive, pulsing, it lays planted inside
them, radiating up into their hugging guts as if
taking root. And they love it. Their helpless pretty
mouths form wide, imploring ovals. Arching their backs
as if in convulsions, they flick their tongues around
the wet, red rims of their lips as if to taste the
fuck.
Sometimes, Johnson snaps a photo right then to capture
their surprised cute fuck-me-please-sir faces.
Or he pulls out from their asses just an inch,
documents his prick impaling this straight stud's
freshly busted hole.
Shame turns these guys on even more. They come to love
being degraded. Now the sluts start twisting their own
tits. Their hands roam around their bodies. They turn
into churning fuck-engines. They massage their hands
over their chests, their beckoning ass cheeks.
But Johnson waits.
He waits and soon they are dithering, ravenous for his
cock. He waits. His long cock slides gradually out of
the punks' jittery, enraptured asses. He teases his
cock out endlessly, so slowly withdrawing his horse-
sized rod all the way to its plum-like head. Their
asses gasp open for his cock, reluctant to release the
head of it. He tests their eagerness. They flail and
writhe and try to lunge up, to fit his studbuster
back, back up into their newly punctured asses.
Then, always, the words come.
Johnson loves it when the words come. Almost as much
as when their pricks spasm and ejaculate their cum all
over their bellies without their hands touching them,
Johnson relishes their ejaculations of words.
Imploring. Pleading. Guttural.
Nasty words that straight guys like Private Butler
have never mouthed about themselves before in all
their lives. Words they did no know they could say.
Words they don't want to say, but have been programmed
to say, have to say.
They pant and squirm, skewered like butterflies by
Johnson's cock, and the words come.
"Fuck!--" they gasp. "Fuck!--Fuck--Fuck--Fuck... me!"
Gibbering now, they hunch their hot, insistent asses
hard against Johnson's meat, hungry to be hardballed.
"Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!" Horny straight studs
tweaking their tits. Spread their butts. Beg to get
fucked by Johnson's cock. "Please fuck me! Fuck my
ass! Put it in me! Please fuck my ass!"
Most of the time, Johnson cannot pull them off his
cock once he is through ramming their holes. After he
cums, he pulls out, pulls off the condom, and lets the
studs split-polish his cock with their tongues like it
is a Medal of Valor. All the time they're wagging
their butts and begging him to please fuck them again.
That's when Bullard takes over and drills their asses
all over again.
Once these straight men get "inducted," Johnson
thinks, they make the most satisfying gutter-fucks
around. Most of these privates would gladly march the
perimeters of the base with Johnson's or Bullard's
cock crammed up their tight asses. Any time Johnson or
Bullard calls for one of their Private Fuckholes, the
privates are slavering to give them a piece of their
asses again. Their legs practically salute.
5.
A sound at the edge of Butler's cage in the darkness.
He can see nothing, but he hears breathing. Close to
his cage.
"Private," a voice says softly.
"Yessir?" Butler replies tentatively, his voice quiet
too. He recognizes Johnson's voice. Too dark to see
his face, not even an outline.
"Private, I know this is hard on you, but it's for
your own good. You know that, don't you."
"Yessir..."
"Private, what you're experiencing may seem hard on
your body, but it's designed to attack your mind. What
would you do if I said there was a trick, a special
way to train your mind to make all this more bearable?
It's the same trick used in the past, when our boys
were prisoners of war. It'll make everything seem much
easier if you want it to."
Johnson pauses to let it sink in.
"Private, what would you say if I offered to help you
learn this trick?"
"Sir, I'd..."
"Yes or no, Private. Answer yes or no."
"I-I... Yes, sir."
Suddenly, a light explodes in Butler's face. A small
one, probably a pocket flashlight, but painfully
bright after these days--weeks?--in the absolute
darkness.
"It's easy, Private," Johnson says. "Just look into
the light. Focus all your attention on looking into
the light, and do not look away ..."
6.
One hundred, seventy-three!
One hundred, seventy-four!
Private Butler's pumping neck muscles dip into his
straining arms as his body works through the pushups.
His mind went dormant before the count of fifty, just
as Johnson had trained him, and his body worked on.
Private Butler had taken to the mental training even
better than Johnson had hoped, and Butler's mind has
gone quickly back into the trance state without him
even being aware of what was happening. His body
operates as if on autopilot now. Butler's expansive
back, buttressed with sinewy muscle, works slowly,
nearing the end of its endurance. His buttocks quiver
with the strain. No amount of mental training can
change the fact that a body has limits, even a body as
fine as Private Butler's.
One hundred, seventy-five!
One hundred, seventy-six!
Butler's downy ass cheeks glisten with sweat and
clench with tension as his body strains to keep
working through the pushups. His whole body is slick
with perspiration. His cock dangles, oozing pre-cum.
His tool won't keep wedged between his thighs. It
springs loose. His cockhead fobs the cement floor,
which Johnson decides would probably hurt if Butler
were awake to feel it. Butler's buttocks lift. Strands
of his pre-cum trail from his cockhead to the ground.
Johnson's hard-on gets even harder when he sees what
Master Sergeant Bullard is holding.
The yardstick in Bullard's hand in ordinary enough.
But both officers know its purpose: To help Private
Butler measure up.
Strong as his muscles are, try as they might, Private
Butler's gym-crafted body has limits: It cannot summon
two hundred pushups. At number one hundred and
seventy-eight, the naked body collapses with a gasp,
sprawling bare-assed on the floor like a beached
dolphin.
Bullard swats Private Butler's thigh with the
yardstick. Butler blinks, starting to wake from his
trance--he is not yet trained well enough to stay in
the training state and ignore an interruption like
this. He looks confused, doesn't know exactly what
just happened, probably doesn't remember letting the
post-hypnotic commands take over and return him to the
deep trace he experienced last night.
"See this, Fuckhole?" Bullard brandishes the yardstick
beneath Private Butler's nose. "For every pushup you
didn't make, you get one smack from this. What's that,
Johnson--twenty-five he missed?"
"Twenty-four," Johnson says helpfully, knowing it will
not make a difference.
"Twenty-four," Bullard echoes, in a tone that says he
does not care. He saws the yardstick in the cleft of
Butler's creamy buns for emphasis.
Butler groans.
Bullard runs the thin edge of the yardstick between
Butler's buttocks, sliding its cool edge along
Butler's tender skin. The private's buttocks clasp at
it reflexively. Butler's eyes widen with fear and
surprise too--his conscious mind doesn't know why this
contact on his butt feels so ... so interesting. His
conscious mind doesn't remember what happened when
Johnson talked to him in his cage last night, after
his eyes closed and his subconscious mind listened to
Johnson's suggestions. All Butler knows is, for some
reason, he wants to feel more.
With the flat of the yardstick, Bullard pats the
private's buttcheeks, pats them gently.
Tap.
Butler's waiting ass contracts.
Tap. Tap. Then...
Crack!
The naked private howls and he sprawls, butt spasming.
"Up, maggot, up!" Bullard laughs like a lion tamer
cracking his whip. "Up on your knees, Fuckhole! I'm
going to swat your rump twenty-four fucking times.
That's for all the pushups you didn't do. You're
lucky, pup. This one jerk-off I had once--he dropped
out at one-twenty. Don't worry--this will give you
some incentive to measure up from now on. Get that ass
in the air, Private Fuckhole! Now! Crawl!"
Bullard's yardstick strikes like lightning.
Crack! Crack!
Butler tries to jerk away. His butt clenches hard. His
knees bicycle the slick floor.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Butler writhes, turning every which way. Chasing
himself. Bullard bellows, "Wag that tail, numb-nuts!
Stick it up for another!"
Crack!
Each smack nearly rockets the crawling private across
the circle of light in the dark barracks.
But Butler sticks his ass back in the air after each
strike, a good soldier. Just as Johnson had suggested
to his subconscious mind last night, his cock is hard,
hard and drooling. He is naked, exhausted, scared,
embarrassed by his hard-on, embarrassed by the
needfulness it represents.
"That's it, Fuckhole. Put on a show for us! Show us
that sweet little ass of yours. Stick out that butt so
I can hit it good and proper! Stick it out so I can
smack it, maggot!"
Butler scrambles across the floor, screaming real
screams and crying real tears. The pain is reducing
him to a flinching, begging wad of pink plastic need.
Bullard pauses. The pup is bawling and sniveling at
Bullard's boots, seeking relief at the very source of
his torment. Bullard smiles, admiring what his
handiwork has done to Butler.
Violent pink and red stripes crisscross Butler's lower
back and his butt. He whimpers. Tears and snot stream
down his nose and face. He bawls his humiliation. His
yowls grow almost expectant. Bullard swats him one
last time. Butler flinches a little at the impact but
otherwise doesn't respond to the strike.
Johnson smiles. Through it all, Butler's cock has
rubbed rigid against his belly.
Bullard nudges Butler with the toe of his boot. "So,"
he says, finally.
Butler's squalling has finally modulating down to
primordial mewling as he practically hugs Bullard's
leg.
"You want my cock bad, don't you." Bullard says
flatly.
Butler suddenly shuts up.
Bullard opens the fly of his fatigues and stands there
with his hands on his waist, looking down at the naked
Butler, lording over him.
Butler cannot help but look up at Bullard.
"Look at you," Bullard says disdainfully. "You are one
hungry fuckhole. How long have you been here, Private?
You been thinking about thinking about nothing but my
dick ever since you got here." Bullard smirks. "You
want to be told to kiss my dick. You need to be
ordered to suck it. Well, take it out, you dumb fuck.
Stick your tongue in there. Get your face in my fly.
Suck my dick out with your cocksucker mouth."
Butler hesitates. His eyes lock onto Bullard's open
fly. After a second, Butler's arms move, almost on
their own. They brace under his torso and lift his
head up, up, until his eyes are level with Bullard's
crotch.
Bullard growls, "Well, Private Fuckhole? Did I or did
I not give you an order."
Butler burrows his face in Bullard's fly. He can't get
Bullard's cock out with his mouth as ordered, so he
uses his fingers. Bullard's cock uncoils out of his
fly, already almost fully hard.
Bullard's cock is a stunning heat-seeking missile of
meat. It protrudes from Bullard's fatigues, nearly
knocking Butler on his ass. Bullard's cock is long,
foreskinned, full hard now, pendulous with its big
head.
Butler's eyes open wide.
"Yeah, it's a big'un, ain't it?" Bullard's cock hangs
so near Butler's face that the private goes cross-
eyed. "This the first cock you've seen up this close?
You never sucked a cock before in your life, straight
meat? Never even thought about it before? Yeah, I
heard it all before. Now sucking cock is all you can
think about, huh? Well, say hello to your new life,
Private Fuckhole. You're going to be spending a lot of
time swinging from the end of this weapon. Go ahead.
Say hello to it. Tell it how fucking glad you are to
see it. Tell it what you want to do to it."
Say hello to it? Butler looks up at Bullard, through
the enormous cock fanning his face. Bullard is
serious. Butler looks Bullard's cock straight in its
moist red eye. "Hu-hello."
Johnson and Bullard both laugh out loud.
Butler says, "Hello. I'm--I'm a--a fuckhole, and--and
I'd like to suck in you." Butler hears his own
desperate voice babbling.
"That's not what I meant, Fuckhole," Bullard says,
more gently. "But it's a start. Make my cock feel at
home. Don't you think you ought to kiss it now?"
Bullard jabs his hips forward and his cockhead
ricochets off Butler's lip. "After all, you two are
gonna be friends for a good, long time. Go on--open
wide, Fuckhole."
Butler opens his mouth and lets the head of that cock
pass between his lips. The heat of it sizzles on his
tongue. He feels the superior heft and rank of his
sergeant's dick. Like holding a warm egg in his mouth.
He tastes the saline flavor of this cock. His tongue
delves forward along the underside, and he lets more
shaft slip into his mouth.
Bullard drops his pants. His balls swing out in front
of Butler's chin. "Kiss them," Bullard says. "Kiss my
balls."
Butler slides off of Bullard's cock. He puckers his
lips like a flirting girl and he kisses each of
Bullard's balls. "Lick 'em," Bullard growls. He takes
hold of his own cock and smacks Butler's forehead with
it as Butler laps delicately at Bullard's grenades.
"Lick 'em like a man, Fuckhole." The sound of
Bullard's cock slapping Butler's cheek echoes wetly
through the dark barracks beyond. Smack! Smack!
7.
Before he tasted Master Sergeant Bullard's cock,
before he spent days caged in the darkness, Butler
never thought of another man's cock. Until he tasted
Bullard's cock, Butler fancied himself quite the stud
with the ladies. Butler always considered his own
penis something that slip pleasurably up between
women's legs and made them squeal until he unloaded
his sperm. Now Private Butler is learning what their
squealing was about.
Butler thinks Bullard's cock is changing his mind
about a lot of things. He barely remembers the
conversation the night before with Johnson, when
Johnson shone the penlight into his eyes in the
darkness. He doesn't remember the changes that Johnson
started then.
Butler finds, down there between Bullard's legs, a new
masculine underworld that he cannot wait to explore.
The solid round fullness of Bullard's dick in his
throat feels comforting. It tastes like his future.
"Yeah," Bullard hisses. "Yeah--take it in the face."
Bullard feeds his cock in and out of Butler's gaping
mouth.
As he thrusts, Bullard says to Johnson, "He's got some
tongue on him. He's gonna make a topnotch peter-
eater."
Now Johnson draws his own cock out. "Is his ass ready
to get dicked, Master Sergeant?" Johnson leers, palms
the still-flushed halves of the private's buns. He
runs his cock over the blond fuzz on Butler's ass.
Bullard grunts, "Feels like this one's ready for
anything, Corporal." Bullard poles deep into Butler's
noisy throat. Butler gags a little, eyes tearing, but
he manages somehow to take it. "Look at this
cocksucker suck me. He's a real snake-eater. He's got
nearly the whole thing down his throat. Go ahead and
put your dick up his ass, Corporal."
Johnson garnishes his cock with an army-issue rubber.
He test-shoves his cock along the gap between the
private's butt cheeks, teasing the private with it.
Butler moans. His cheeks part a little. His ass is
telling Johnson it wants his cock, needs his cock in
the hole. Butler rocks back on his haunches. He cocks
the globes of his ass and widens his hole. He wants to
feel Johnson's cock stuffed inside him.
Bullard leans over and probes Butler's ass with a
finger. "Look at him take my finger," Bullard says.
"Look at him suck it up. That's prime ass-meat."
Bullard's finger explores Butler's widening ass and
moist core of his hole. "Yeah, he's fucking ready for
some fucking. He wants to be rode hard. Fuck him good
and hard, Johnson."
Butler moans, and his pelvis cants upward. He can't
decide whether he feels outraged or eager--there's an
odd feeling around the edge of his thoughts, part
sharp focus and part blurring of every emotion. He has
felt this way ever since the pushups, maybe ever since
... when? Details and old emotions slip away into the
blur.
The feeling of something chill and wet at his asshole.
Lubricant, Butler realizes distantly.
Bullard again: "Make him feel you, Johnson. Let's see
if he can beg for your cock with my cock in his mouth.
Stick that big ol' head up his ass. Widen him out,
so's this fuckhole can sit on my cock all night long."
The thought of being screwed by Johnson and Bullard
does something to Butler. He feels a moment of panic,
then the feeling spirals out into the blurry numbness
that coats the edge of his thoughts.
Butler feels the head of Johnson's erection in
position, feels it pressing forward at him. He freezes
with Bullard's cock still in his mouth. He breathes
through his nose, around it. Part of him relaxes. He
feels the cockhead pressing into him.
Bullard slaps Butler's shoulder, distracting him.
"C'mon!" Bullard croaks. "Open up that hole!"
Butler hears Johnson hiss loudly in his ear: "Take my
big fuckin' meat up your ass. That's it. Relax your
ass. Push back like you're taking a shit. That's it.
Take that big cock. Take my cock all the way!"
Private Butler's arm muscles quicken. His butt tenses.
He braces himself. Johnson's cock splinters Butler's
sphincter. His soft target offers a pleasing
resistance before it gives. Johnson's cock slowly
bayonets its way up inside of Butler. Halfway up,
Johnson reaches around and fingers Butler's hard-on
and the two crinkly pods of his balls between his
legs. Johnson whispers something in Butler's ear,
something Butler doesn't quite catch but feels--feels
it ratcheting up his drive, driving him toward the
edge.
"This one's got the best butt yet, sir!" Johnson
barks.
"Yeah, that whipping always gets 'em bucking good,"
Bullard smirks.
Bullard and Johnson pin Butler between them, almost
hoisting him off the ground with their thrusts.
Private Butler is feeling something he hadn't
expected. The cock splitting his mouth hurt at first.
The cock splitting his ass hurt too. But slowly, the
sensations from both ends of his body are getting
coated with something like pleasure.
He finds himself liking what is happening. He doesn't
understand--something keeps his head too fuzzy for him
to understand--but the animal part deep in his brain
likes the feelings. He feels grateful that his
superior officers are giving him this attention,
grateful that they think he is worth using like this.
He wants to show them what a good fuckhole he is.
Johnson's fingers are still handling Butler's cock,
roughly. Butler feels it happening. Johnson whispers
something to him, and Butler feels it start. His
orgasm is his reward, and he feels it hit him hard, as
his cum spurts out in rapid, hard-driven volleys. His
ass constricts around Johnson's prong, gripping it, as
Johnson starts shooting his own load up into the
condom sheathing his cock in Butler's butt. Butler's
ass milks Johnson's dick for more, more. Johnson grabs
his camera in time to get Butler, hollow-cheeked and
sucking, throating Bullard's cock.
Johnson leans in and whispers something to Bullard,
and suddenly Bullard is cumming. Butler can feel it:
the sudden pulse of Bullard's cock in his mouth, the
jarring change of rhythm.
Bullard yawps, "Yeah! Take it in the face! Swallow my
cum down that hole!" Butler tastes the first volley,
salty and bitter, but he does not pull back. Bullard
hoses Butler's mouth. His hips jerk uncontrollably,
and his dick pops out of Butler's mouth in time to
shoot the last few spurts across his cheek.
Bullard pants. He grips Butler's bare shoulder to
steady himself as his orgasm subsides.
"Congratulations, Fuckhole," he says to Butler, less
gruffly than before, almost smiling. "For excellence
in the line of duty, you've been promoted to Chief
Cock and Ball Washer!"
"Thank you, sir!" Butler pipes, grinning. He knows his
future is here. He knows he needs more training but
this feels so right to him. Butler nuzzles deep into
Bullard's crotch, lapping at the softening prick.
Butler feels happy to serve both their cocks in both
his holes all night. He hopes he does.
Bullard suddenly pulls back, leaving Butler slurping
air. Bullard turns around. "Now show us what a good
ass-kisser you are."
Butler stares at Bullard's ass, unsure what to do.
Johnson rumbles, "Ain't you ever heard of rimming?"
Butler feels Johnson's hand on the back of his head a
split-second before Johnson shoves his head forward
into the crack of Bullard's ass, hard, and holds it
there. "Service the target, shithead!"
Butler, the natural brown-noser, is ready now to jump
through flaming hoops to pleasure his Master Sergeant
Bullard. Gladly he wedges his nose up into Bullard's
dark furrow, like a muzzle. His lips kiss. His inhales
and Bullard's masculine scent intoxicates him. He
inhales more deeply, breathing him in, then sends his
tongue out to tag Bullard's pink hole.
"Ah!" Bullard sighs. He reaches back and pats Butler's
burrowing head. "Yeah. Lick my ass. Get that tongue
all up in there." Bullard looks over at Johnson, who
is snapping another photograph of them. "Yeah. Looks
like we found ourselves another barracks slut. He'll
make a great fuckhole the whole platoon can use for R-
and-R, once we get done with him."
Johnson's photograph captures Butler's face, grazing
rapturously in his Master Sergeant's butt. Private
Dennis Butler. Wrestler. Varsity football quarterback.
Junior Achievement. Eagle Scout. Young Republicans.
Now, naked, on his knees, Butler can imagine no higher
honor, no better way to serve his country, than to
suck Bullard's cock and eat his ass and let his
superior officers dick his ass.
Butler hopes his voluntary "special training" will be
amply rewarded.
Johnson says a special word, and Butler feels ...
something happen. Johnson sees Butler blink, his
eyelids sag, his eyes close. Arms limp, head bowed
forward, Butler's subconscious has obeyed the command
to sleep. Johnson glances up at Bullard. Bullard's
eyes are closed too. He's a good soldier too, sleeping
deeply on command, well-trained after Johnson's
special "training sessions."
Johnson snaps another photo of them together like
that, deep in hypnotic sleep. He makes a note on
Butler's file, then carries it to the filing cabinet
against the barracks wall just beyond the circle of
light. He pulls open a drawer and files the file away,
among those for every other recruit processed through
the S.I.R. project.
Johnson lifts out a file at the very front of the
drawer and reminds himself that someday he needs to
shred this one. Private Butler and his fellow recruits
do not know the information this file contains. Master
Sergeant Bullard once knew, but thanks to a few of
Johnson's special mental "training sessions," he has
safely forgotten all about this file and the
memorandum it contains. The memorandum from five years
ago, announcing that the S.I.R. program was
"officially discontinued."
Rumors about "procedural irregularities."
Something about "abuse of authority."
Johnson replaces the file folder and shuts the drawer.
He walks back to the two men, sleeping still, and
snaps another photo: Private Butler dutifully face-
first in Master Sergeant Bullard's ass crack.
Bullard's cum from earlier still shines on Butler's
cheek.
Corporal Johnson aims the camera again.
Private Butler's special training is just getting
started.
END
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out any
of the scenarios in this story should seriously
consider seeking professional help.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 78