Yes, S.I.R.!

By Wrestlr
published April 1, 2006
8467 words
Summary

A young recruit volunteers for a special training

Yes, S.I.R.! by Wrestlr

Disclaimer: 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.”

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 can’t use this without the express permission of (and payment to) the author. This paragraph must be included as part of any archive.

Comments to wrestlr@iname.com

Wrestlr’s fiction is archived at the following URLs:

o http://members.tripod.com/~Brock_J (MC and general M/M stories, plus my home page) o http://www.asstr.org/~wrestlr (MC and general M/M stories, mirror site) o http://www.asstr.org/~mcstories/Authors/Wrestlr.html (MC stories)


Yes, S.I.R.! by Wrestlr

“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.

“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.

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.

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 heir 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.

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 … 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 …”

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 cannott 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!

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.

The End

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