Drill Sargent Ch. 01

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WARNING: This story contains words that may be offensive to some readers. As they are not the author’s point of view, such words were used liberally in basic training, especially back in the seventies. And I assure you, oh savvy reader, the story is fictional. All characters are over 18.

This is basic military training of a very different kind.

“How’s the meal? Peas and carrots crisp? How about the muffin? Soft?” my Drill Sargent asked with surprising interest.

“Well, the Salisbury steak was a bit tou–“

“Get your goddamn ass up, stow that tray, and get on the goddamn bus!” Drill Sargent shouted. He shouted me out of the chow hall and onto the bus; he even shouted me off the bus and into the dormitory. In fact, Drill Sargent was gonna stay on my ass for the next six weeks in more ways than one.

“Un, un, stop right there,” he said with delight. I stopped in my tracks while other recruits moved from me as if I was a leper. “This is an example,” he said, walking toward me, “of how not to fall out for reveille.”

The fear and shame steamed my neck as I stood at attention.

“Let’s start with the cap. Make sure the lining is tucked in all the bahis firmaları way round,” he said, snatched the cap from my head, and flung it behind a hedge. Pointing to my blouse (Uniform shirts are called blouses), he said, “Make sure you match each button with its corresponding loop.” He unbuttoned my blouse and jerked it to the floor. “Off,” he said, pointing to my pants. “Make sure your boots are laced properly and your pants are pulled over them.” Finally, with much frustration, he said, “Just take it all off, faggot.”

I didn’t move fast enough.

He pushed me to my knees, pulled my tee over my head, and ripped my drawers from my naked ass. “Secure this shit, meet us at the chow hall, and you better not be late for chow,” he warned, inches from my ear. His hot breath and spittle caused stirrings in my crotch that surprised and frightened me. Only, I was far from hard. And after bringing the recruits to attention, he marched the flight to chow.

I wasn’t late and I didn’t get to eat; I had to sign the flight up for chow. And for the rest of the day, I tried not to fuck up.

After mail call, we gathered in the day room for dormitory duties.

“If you thought kaçak iddaa you ladies were just gonna sit on your asses, you are sadly mistaken,” Drill Sargent said, and told me to read the clipboard.

“Musberger, latrine queen; Cashton, wash hag; McFadden, dorm guard…”

“And you,” he turned to me. “You’re gonna be permanent ‘house mouse’,” he said with a haughty laugh that I didn’t understand.

I learned the hard way that house mouse was the most demanding position in the dormitory. The mouse coordinated the duties of all the other positions, and ultimately, reported their progress to Dill Sargent. I had to create the roster for dormitory guard, create a list of guys with appointments, and create a schedule to get our flight to chow and through military processing. All this was to say I worked my ass off, while I still held responsible for completing my training.

Because my duties required me to get up an hour before the flight, and stay up at least two after, I worked very closely with Drill Sargent in the confines of his office.

Drill Sargent’s office was slightly larger than a jail cell. A desk sat opposite his bunk with drill gear propped here and there.

“You kaçak bahis type?” he asked, scratching his crotch.

I shook my head, no.

“Well, you’re gonna have to burn the midnight oil to get this shit done,” he said and began to strip. “Here, use the typewriter and don’t fuck things up, too much,” he said with a certain level of satisfaction.

I looked at the desk and back to him. Naked, he stood tall, with hands on hips, like a hairy mountain—the type of height that made guys like me fall to their knees and open their mouths. Texas heat had bronzed him from head to toe; good genes and athletic discipline had shaped him into muscular perfection; and, an enormous but impressive cock, about seven inches, dangled along with low hanging balls bushed by thick, brown pubes.

I kept my composure and made no outward signs of desire, but I wondered if he could see my growing bulge.

And as I stood at the desk of my monumental task, I hadn’t noticed his closeness. Uncomfortably close, he whispered, “You can’t hide from me, sweet pea. I clocked you back at the chow hall when you sat that cute little ass down like you were at your mama’s table. The warmth of his breath swooned me and weakened my defenses. “You’ll have some additional duties to perform,” he continued to hiss and poked my asscheek with his cock. Smacking my ass hard, he chuckled and headed for the shower.

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