Hey!

Thanks to everyone who voted for my story "Rockz Off" in the symmar
story contest--heck, thanks to everyone who wrote and who voted,
period.

Here's another story for you. As if you needed another reason to
spend time in front of your computer! ;)

Brock (aka Wrestlr)

_____

Yes, S.I.R.!

by Wrestlr

//Begin Standard Headers//
Author: Wrestlr
Title: Yes, S.I.R.!
Summary: A young recruit volunteers for a special training
program
Keywords: MC, MM, hypno
//End Standard Headers//

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

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 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.

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 ... 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 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!

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.




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