Usual Disclaimer: If you are not of an age to read this because of the laws of your country or district please desist. If you are a bigot or prod-nosed fundamentalist of any persuasion find your monkey-spanking literature elsewhere and keep your predilections and opinions to yourself. Everyone else welcome and comments more than welcome.
As far as I know the story is mainly fiction but it does contain some elements which did really happen. When you write a yarn some happening triggers off the sequence. Over the past few weeks several incidents - on the news, in the papers, a conversation, recollections - set me thinking, et voila.......
Taming the 'Phobes
By
Joel
Part 2:
But a chance for getting at Dwayne did occur that same week. One of the duties of the squad lance-corporals was to go to the post-room attached to the Company Office each morning at ten hundred hours to collect the squad's post. Taffy and I took it in turns. It also meant, if the mail wasn't ready we missed a bit of the next training session. Neither Taffy nor I worried about this, especially if it was some lecture on how to pull-through a rifle, or the naming of parts of said rifle, but it was one of Sergeant Bigelow's means of getting at us, and especially me.
On the Thursday it was my turn to collect the mail. I got permission from the squad NCO to go and made my way to the Post Room next to the Company Office. I was a bit later than usual as we'd had PT from O nine hundred hours and the PTI had kept us at it because some lad had riled him and he made us do a whole set of exercises again. This meant we were late for a shower and my feet were still damp when I tried to get my socks on, and so on... Little troubles to cloud the day. Anyway, I was last of the squad lance-corporals to get to the Post Room. It was empty except for a Corporal I hadn't seen before. I said I was from F Squad.
"Good job you're a bit late," he said, "I'd only just finished sorting when the others came. This is your lot."
He indicated a bundle of letters and a couple of small parcels. I reached out to pick them up. He put his hand on the bundle.
"746 Private Dwayne Riley," he read. "Liverpool postmark... Can't be anyone else. I was at school in the same class as his brother Eamonn."
I noted he also had a Liverpool accent. "He said he went to St Brendan's.."
"Yeah, that's him. Brother was Captain of the hurling team... Big bloke he was." He grinned. "Yeah, Dwayne was the mascot, use to follow his brother and the team everywhere."
The Corporal was very chatty so I thought I would try to find out more.
"Dwayne told us there was a lad with the biggest whanger ever...."
He laughed. "That was Whopper Barrett. True. Had it crushed once by a Bible!"
"Yeah," I said, "He told us about that."
He laughed. "I was there when it happened. Baldy got him in one."
"He didn't tell us he was the hurling team mascot. He said there was some lad from a Home who was...." I paused, now or never. "..And did things for them..."
The Corporal guffawed. "Fucking liar, it was Dwayne. Why d'you think his brother took him round with the team...? I could tell you a lot. Fucking Dwayne!"
"He said Whopper got expelled 'cause he visited some club or other." I was improvising a bit trying to remember the content of the exchange.
"Bollocks! True, the bastard use'ta to wave his whang around and I can tell you Dwayne's been on his knees receiving communion many times.. Whopper got the push 'cause he'd confessed to some fake Yank priest who told the Reverend Father when they found he was a fake." He paused. "Shouldn't be telling you all this but I never liked his brother or the little fucker. Both loud-mouthed shits. Whopper was a great lad - big cock, big heart!"
I thought I'd up the ante. "Should I tell Dwayne I've met you?"
He laughed. "Do what you like, but wait until Monday - I'm temporary, waiting posting and I go then."
He gave me a cheery wave as I went out with a store of useful knowledge. How to use it was the next little question.
I giggled internally as I handed Dwayne, cocksucker in extraordinary, his letter. I made a point of getting Taffy to one side after we had been round the cookhouse for lunch. Luckily he was sitting by himself on the grass outside the barrack room smoking his usual post-prandial fag.
"Having an Apres?" I asked, plonking myself down beside me. Rudely, he blew a jetstream of smoke in my direction. I waved it away. "Got something to impart," I said, in as conspiratorial voice as possible. He raised his eyebrows. "Your friend Dwayne has a reputation."
He took another drag. Coughed. Another exhalation of smoke, this time in the opposite direction.
"Bet he sucks cocks," he said in a conspiratorial whisper in return.
I was rather deflated. Then realised it must be a lucky guess.
"Too true," I said and the look on his face was a picture. He was startled and the rest of the smoke was transformed into a coughing fit. He shook his head from side to side several times.
"God, these fags'll kill me some day. Gotta stop! What did you say?"
"True," I said. I then went through the tale the Post Corporal (Temporary - to be posted Monday) told me. He laughed at the end of it.
"Got'em," he chortled, "We'll have both the bastards before the weekend's out!"
"Oh, come on, Taff," I said, "We know it, but we can't broadcast something like that."
"No," he said, "But darling Dwayne knows it, and if we indicate we know it, the fucker'll have to shut his gob and not make his snide remarks. Leave it to me. I'll do it carefully." He closed one eye. "But Ferdy first."
'Ferdy first' came in more ways than one that Friday night.
The usual bed-time ritual began about twenty-one hundred hours - sorry military ways, I mean 9 o'clock - as stragglers came back from the NAAFI which closed at ten. We had one drill parade scheduled for the morning and organised games in the afternoon. I was glad to get to bed as we'd had a pretty heavy day and I relished the thought of a good night's sleep.
By half-ten everyone was in bed and lights out. It was almost pitch black in the room and the only light was the dim night-bulbs in the corridor outside. I was in that just before dropping-off state when there was a light scurrying across the intervening gap between the end of my bed and - I realised - Ferdy's bed. Suddenly the beam of the powerful torch, usually hanging by the door in case of emergencies, illuminated a very strange sight. Two figures, on either side of Ferdy's bed had whipped the covers off him downwards, exposing an eyes tight shut figure, furiously wanking a short fat rigid cock. The torch beam magnified this so that bizarre shadows of a huge prick and flying fist danced on the wall behind the bed. There was a general upheaval as figures either sat up in their beds or rushed along from the other end of the room.
Ferdy was too far gone to notice. In fact, without the restraint of the covers his fisting accelerated in those last ten seconds when the universe stands still and the Big Bang occurs again somewhere in the region of the base of one's balls. A final pull down and four squirts of white cream shot up and landed. There was dead silence in the room. Four gobbets of spunk glistened on the black mat on Ferdy's chest in the light from the torch. Slowly two dark eyes opened, then blinked in the beam of the torch.
"What the fucking hell?" a very startled Ferdy exclaimed, his hand still tightly gripping his five and half inches of rigidity.
Taffy led the applause which rippled along the ranks of watchers until that old military gentleman - a General Titter - also ran round the room. Taffy was in his element, he chuckled louder than most as he was holding the torch!
"Gosh, you must be Ferdinand the Flying Fist, your great-granddad would have been proud of you."
A General Ripple - of full-throated laughter this time.
That did it. Next morning as I emerged from my wank-pit Taffy banged me on the leg from the comfort of his own masturbatorium.
"Didn't know if it was Coleridge or Benjamin Britten after that show last night!"
I must have looked half-dazed - it was only six hundred hours and I'd had two wanks before settling to sleep.
"What'ja mean?"
He laughed. "After that I didn't know if it was Kubla Khan with his stately pleasure domes or a Spring Symphony!"
Yeah, I'd noted the effect Ferdy's performance had had on the populace.
In the dim light I'd seen the mound under Taffy's covers next to me moving up and down and I'd heard the unmistakable rhythm of beds being set in motion. In fact, later that morning, after I'd fetched the post and Taffy had offered to take it round the room he came back with the head count that everyone had had a wank. So, which wankers were to lose their balls in Ferdy's opinion?
He'd been pretty quiet that morning but perked up when several of the lads congratulated him and actually thanked him for breaking the ice. We never heard another phobic word from him for the rest of training - he, like the rest of us, got on with our nightly habit and that was that. His taming was complete.
Dwayne also remained remarkably silent, at least that weekend, after Ferdy the Flying Fist was re-christened. His turn was to come.
Perhaps he was becoming a little braver. Perhaps he'd noticed that Ferdy, although a champion of his art, only had a small weapon. Anyway, on the Tuesday after that high- lighted demonstration and consequent release of much pent-up spunk, there was the usual gathering of industrious souls, less industrious souls and plain idlers during the evening. Dwayne was again idly looking at a tabloid and also eying the backs of the two black lads, Royston and Jason. You could almost see the cogs turning. What have they got? Big black lads?
By straining my eyes - I had twenty twenty vision unharmed by that activity which previous generations had been informed would send you blind - I had also noted the vertical movements, at least in Jason's bed on two nights. As Dwayne was nearer he must have noted it too. I giggled inwardly. If Jason and Royston expanded mightily did they have to have a more prominent pleasure dome than the rest of us? In my own case in bed I tended to use a finger and thumb, almost delicately, along the length of my cock which habitually - much to the past amusement of Jake - rose stiffly along my belly to my navel rather than out at an angle like his. So although I sported a good six and a half inches I only raised the bedclothes a couple of inches. All these differences between boys, my my!
Dwayne looked across at Ferdy, who was semi-industrious for once looking at the training manual we were all supplied with and had to learn parrot-fashion.
"I told you about that lad with the big 'un didn't I?"
Ferdy looked him rather warily - lad with big'un - me with littl'un - written all over his face.
"Yeah, use'ta do things for that team. Wasn't soccer was it?"
"Nah, hurling - I told'ya it's an Irish game with sticks, like hockey."
A quiet voice from the bed next to me spoke up.
"Weren't you the mascot for the team when your brother was in it, Dwayne?" asked Taffy levelly.
"What'cha mean?" he said, "Yeah, I was. Who told'ya?"
"How did Whopper Barrett get expelled?" asked Taffy in the same low enquiring tone.
I have never seen anyone go beetroot red so fast.
"Who the fuck told you that?" he blustered.
"Oh, just a friend," said Taffy, "He said that the mascot......"
He got no further. Dwayne jumped up and kicked the leg of his bed, he was in a real frenzy.
"My fucking brother made me... I had to do it to him when I was a kid!
I didn't want too! Then he fucking told me I had to for the others or he'd get everyone else at school as well as his fucking team... That's why I came here... To get away from my fucking brother and his fucking friends...."
At that moment I felt very sorry for Dwayne. He was sobbing and ranting now in an almost incoherent way. I got up and walked slowly to him. I took him by an arm and sat him on his bed. Strangely, Royston also got up, came over, and sat the other side of him. We both put an arm round him and sat there while his sobs subsided. The whole room was in silence. Several more came in but were quickly hushed by the others who sensed that Dwayne was going through a very traumatic experience.
Ferdy slowly came over and knelt in front of Dwayne. He took one of Dwayne's hands and gripped it.
"Come on, mate," he said, "It can't be as bad as that. You've got through it and I've got through it. Two of my older cousins held me down and fucked me when I was twelve! I didn't know what the hell they were doing. They tore me up and I couldn't tell anybody. All they did was fucking laugh."
It was revelation time. Taffy said he was sorry he'd said about it. Dwayne said he was glad it was in the open now. One of the lads who'd been in a home came up and said he'd been raped when he was seven by some bigger kid. All in all it was a sombre evening. But, out of such gloom several good things emerged. I learned a bit of good advice - don't under-estimate people. Dwayne came to me the next day when I was standing outside, contemplating the infinite, waiting for the next encounter with the drill sergeant or something, and said thanks for supporting him the night before, he was glad he had such good mates.
Ferdy, Dwayne and Royston became good friends. Dwayne blossomed - an odd word perhaps - but he certainly now buckled to and improved as a member of the squad remarkably. The other lads in the squad, when they heard about the outburst were more than sympathetic. Out of the twenty of us it transpired that quite a few had experienced a rude introduction to sex in some form or another. No wonder, I thought when Taffy, very contrite in a way but glad he'd done it in another way, and I had discussed in great detail the events and how lucky we had been in our own initiations into the mysteries and joys, there were so many unhappy, frustrated creatures in the world around us and in the columns of the Sunday newspapers. At least, there was another topic of conversation in the evenings to keep our minds active. One lad's tale of how he'd been seduced by the mother of a friend at the age of fourteen set the bedsprings zinging that particular night, especially as he was asked to repeat the narrative twice more in the darkness, and he had to repeat it several more times before we finished training, so perhaps it wasn't only our minds were kept active!
Disaster struck though the same week. Our squad NCO was a fairly ineffective soul. He was coasting along as he only had about six months to do before his seven year enlistment ran out and he was leaving to join the police. He was a fairly diligent instructor but we, as a squad, were mostly unnecessarily slow in absorbing all the finer intricacies of marching smartly, handling the rifles, which we all thoroughly hated because of their ill-balance and general clumsy construction, and becoming total killing machines. The last was Jason's jocular remark which earned him a regular tongue-lashing from his pal Royston who pointed out most of our duties would be peace-keeping. That set off another round of nightly argument and we concluded we had to be both, but... After that, poor Jason was nick-named Terminator much to his chagrin. One lad said he was more likely a Dalek in disguise, so he was changed to Exterminator which cheered him up a bit.
Anyway, Perce as we called him behind his back, the squad NCO, didn't turn up on the Tuesday morning. We waited, all expectantly, in the barrack room for the usual first thing in the morning inspection. No one came until a blustering Sergeant Bigelow appeared, announced that Perce was in hospital with appendicitis and he would be looking after us, this said in a very menacing voice, until a replacement could be found. "Get fell in, smart!"
Get fell in was the order of the day. We had never been worked so hard. Because we were "a shower of shit" in his quiet words - NCOs are not allowed to swear directly at their unbeloved charges - he was cancelling most of our timetable for the day and we would be taught to be "proper soldiers, not the fucking nancying, poncey shower" he could see before his very eyes. He denounced two of the lads as coming on parade looking like a sicked-up dog's breakfast That generated a nickname for me - Boon was transmogrified into Bonio, a known dog's breakfast.
After three-quarters of relentless marching up and down he then decided we ought to have some proper rifle drill with full packs on our backs. Five minutes to get ready and we were off again. Taffy was told to shut his row when he asked permission to go and get the mail. Jason was ordered to double up the parade ground and back when he almost turned left instead of right. Ponyboy (real name Tony and a nickname not given because of largeness of parts) Thomas was told to put his rifle down and do fifty press-ups when he didn't salute neatly enough when an imaginary officer passed. And so on.
By lunch-time we were all sweating like pigs, hot, bothered and bewildered and wishing Bungho (another name we'd already christened him with) to all sorts and shades of Hell. Dante's seven levels weren't in it. We had three-quarters of an hour for lunch - he couldn't deprive us of that - and strict orders to appear in PT kit, carrying towels, outside the barrack room in three ranks at fourteen hundred hours on the dot.
Taffy had rushed to the Company Office and had persuaded a reluctant clerk to release the post to him enduring a lecture about proper times and it wasn't his job to.... Taffy said he'd snatched up the bundle and scurried back fearful of being late for Bungho's onslaught.
Onslaught it was. We were doubled to the gym where Bungho had offered us to a Sergeant PTI pal of his to use us as guinea-pigs while a new PTI was put through his paces. The pair of them, urged on by Bungho on the sidelines, used the next hour and a half with careful sadism. Each exercise was started slowly, then hotted up and we were kept at it while the Senor PTI went over finer points of the torture we were under.
If it hadn't been so wearing and tiring there were jocular moments. For one ligament tearing exercise we were around the gym hanging on the wall-bars by our stretched-out arms facing into the gym. Part of the exercise was to open and close our hanging legs, slowly first but quickening up. The Senior PTI was striding up and down urging us to 'Fucking make some effort'. Having just completed about twenty vaults each over a horrendous piece of apparatus we were all a bit knackered.
The PTI Sergeant stopped between one of the lads who had been in a Home and Royston. Most of us had slipped on briefs or jockstraps when we had donned our rather short military issue shorts. Terry and Royston hadn't. They had unsuitable boxers on underneath and thus as they opened and closed their legs their equipment must have been on full view and full droop.
"God Almighty," came the stentorian tones of the PTI, "Looks like a fucking donkey and a Shetland pony here! Open your legs lads, nothing'll fucking drop off.
Come on, wider!"
Both made supreme efforts. Royston's imitation of Da Vinci's Man in a Circle meant his legs were wide apart, his shorts stretched and two inches of thick black cock dangled.
The PTI's eyes popped, the rest of us stared. The PTI roared. "Shut your legs, soldier!"
Ferdy and Yorkie who was dangling next to each other laughed having seen the knob end emerge.
The PTI strode along the gym.
"Are you laughing, soldier?" he demanded as he stood in front of Yorkie. He didn't wait for an answer. Anyway, we'd quickly learned that most NCO-produced questions were rhetorical and required no answer but were designed to induce a fearful rigidity. "Just you keep quiet," he said and turned to look at Ferdy's dangling legs, richly coated in black fur. "You there, you hanging there like a bloody hairy-legged spider in the bath.
Shut your row too! Watch I don't flush you down the fucking plug-hole!"
This incident set up two more nicknames. Ferdy as well being Flying Fist was now 'Spider' and Jason christened Royston 'Knobbo' which also stuck!
But, the afternoon was not over. We ran laps, did handstands, cartwheels, climbed ropes, balanced on beams and were completely shagged out when the PTI and his mate, with a nod from Bigelow, who had stood with a fatuous grin on his face all afternoon, called a halt and twenty dripping bodies filed into the showers. God! Weren't we glad of the life-giving heat of the water. Too bad we were only allowed five minutes before being told to dry off in one minute flat and still damp were doubled back to the barrack room.
Bigelow wasn't finished. He said that he would be inspecting the barrack room at O nine hundred hours sharp in the morning and if.... He left the whatever unsaid and dismissed us.
We all lay almost demented on our beds and bemoaned our fate. Two of the lads said they were all for chucking it in and getting an immediate discharge. One wag said you could only get that by fucking the Colonel's daughter. Another said as far as he was concerned it wouldn't matter if the Colonel only had a son but he wouldn't be able to get a hardon even for that as he was too fucking tired. After a bit we decided that Bigelow wasn't going to win, fuck him! Nil carborundum was going to be the squad motto!
So, fucked as we were we dressed, went to the cookhouse and than began the process of shining the barrack room up. Taffy and I divided the lads into five groups of four, including ourselves, each group with a specific task. We even made Spider and Dwayne task-group leaders and we swept and polished, had all the beds out and even made sure the springs were dusted. Fuck Bigelow was the rallying cry! And everyone worked like stink. Several of the lads even folded their bed blankets up that night and slept with just a sheet over them. Also, I know I didn't indulge in one of my favourite activities that night because as soon as my head hit the pillow I was fast asleep.
At Reveille next day there were plenty of grumbles but Taffy and I managed to get everyone by their clean and neat beds when Sergeant Bigelow swept in dead on nine hundred hours. He was like a fucking tornado. He pulled half the beds apart to see if things had been folded properly. I saw once lad blushing when a sheet was held up which had a huge wank stain on it. Luckily, Bigelow ignored it and told the lad to report to him at seventeen hundred hours with his eating irons polished and shining as they were a sodding disgrace. But, he couldn't really find any major faults which riled him. So, leaving the room in a bit of a shambles we were told to assemble pronto on the parade square, packs on, collecting rifles on the way.
He was in his element now. We were inspected first. Most were OK. He told three others to report with cleaned-up boots or buckles at fifteen hundred hours. We were then marched up and down doing all sorts of left turns, right turns, about turns, sloping arms, arms here, there, until poor Jason was in the shit again for almost going the wrong way. He had another bout of doubling to do and this made everyone else get in a state of panic. At last we were halted and he strode up and down the ranks berating us for being such an idle, good for nothing shower. He stood in front of one lad and bellowed at him.
"Stand up straight, lad, you're slouching there just like a pregnant fairy! What are you?"
"Pregnant fairy, Sergeant," came a half-hearted reply.
"I didn't hear you, lad, what are you?"
"Pregnant fairy, Sergeant," was said in a slightly louder voice.
Someone in the rank behind must have smiled.
Bungalow pounced. "Are you laughing, lad?"
Silence as he marched back a rank.
"I am speaking to you, lad! Are you looking at me, lad?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Well don't. Keep your fucking eyes to the front..." He stepped back to the front some yards away from me. "You're a shower," he reiterated, "You stand there like a set of girls' blouses." He paused to let that sink in. "You march worse than a herd of cows with loose udders." A longer paused ensued and he was getting rather red in the face. "You shower," he said through gritted teeth, "In all my years.... You look just like....."
In the pause then, I couldn't resist it, I mouthed sotto voce to Taffy in the same rank next to me... "A host of golden daffodils!"
Bigelow heard something. He stormed along the front rank and stood between Taffy and me, his head swivelling. He didn't know which of us had said something.
"What did you say, Corporal?" he demanded, addressing us jointly.
I took the plunge. "I said to Corporal Williams the post would be ready in ten minutes."
He moved to stand in front of me. He looked me up and down as if I were a pile of warm shit.
"Corporal, I advise you to keep your mouth shut. I'll decide when the fucking post is ready, ten minutes or not!" Some of the others had heard what I'd said and were obviously openly grinning. Bigelow turned on them. "What are you fucking laughing about? You colossal shower. Left turn, Quick march. Left, Right, left, right..."
Some were caught on the hop - we set off - a raggedy bunch with Bungalow ranting at us to smarten up or we would be for the high jump. Memories of the previous afternoon and the high jumps, low jumps and other tortures were enough to concentrate the minds so we only lost five minutes of our needed break before the next session which was, guess what? Bayonet drill!
That was another nightmare. I was accused of running like a turd in a trance. I had a great desire to shove my bayonet right up Bigelow's fat little arse. He obviously wasn't finished with me. He had guessed what I'd said didn't relate to the collection of the mail so I was subjected to several oblique allusions to my parentage and other characteristics with a number of extra tasks allotted to me in reference to the disembowelling of the imaginary enemy. I cut and thrust and parried and plunged and thought I did pretty well. My efforts were not appreciated and the squad came in for more.
"Right lads, let's show the Professor here what should be done. He's just stuck his bayonet in like your sister darning your fucking socks."
My apparent lack of effort meant that the others were also made to run back and forth numerous times using me as the scapegoat. It didn't work. At one brief respite where one of the smaller lads was being castigated and made to repeat the stabbing motion with cries of "Come on lad, I've seen a cockerel fucking a hen with more thrust than you've got!", Dwayne came up behind me and whispered "Don't worry, mate, we'll have that shit one day!"
That shit pursued us relentlessly every day. Every day we were made to work twice as hard as any of the other squads in training. I and Taffy, by association, came in for a great deal of flak. I did everything I was told but whatever he thought I'd said on that day still rankled. At the end of a disastrous parade on the Friday afternoon, where, mishearing his command, half the squad turned right instead of left, he'd gone nearly berserk and came up to me.
"Corporal," he said, his piggy eyes glinting malevolently, "You and this squad are the biggest load of....." He must have seen the glint in my eye. He knew if he swore then I would be tempted to report it as one of the Squad NCOs had been reprimanded by the CO two days previously after the Chaplain had overheard him call his squad a herd of fucking dinosaurs. He looked at me again having stepped forward a couple of inches.
Being shorter his peaked cap had to be up at quite an angle for his eyes to meet mine. He stepped back a good foot to get a better angle on me. In his mind I was probably the major part of the biggest load of...... "Instead of you lot enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon idling the time away on your beds playing with yourselves you can all clean the latrines in your block. When I went past there this morning it smelt something horrible. What did it do, Corporal?"
"It smelled something horrible, Sergeant," I parroted almost faithfully.
The look made me feel as if the pile I represented had grown.
"Then you and this shower can make it all smell sweet and lovely and those floors had better be clean enough for...," He turned his head slightly and fixed his gaze at some miscreant in the row at the back further on. He pointed his swagger stick at him "...You, lad, face the front..., better, fall out and double round the parade ground, hadn't you! And you!..., and you!..." He pointed his stick and two more took off like startled rabbits. "As I was saying, the whole place had better be clean enough for you lot to eat your dinner off that floor." He took two steps back. "Left turn, dismiss!"
There was almost universal silence as we trooped back to the barrack room. The three lads came in puffing and panting and swearing vengeance. Four of the other lads had been picked to play in a soccer match at fourteen thirty hours the next day.
I volunteered to plead with Bungalow in the morning when he inspected us before the two scheduled lectures.
By the time for lights out we'd cheered up somewhat. No more so than when some clot further down the room, in almost perfect imitation of Bungalow's accent piped up, "No idling in your beds and playing with yourselves tonight!" A general rejoinder of "Shut your row!" or "Shut the fuck up!" was the prelude, I know, to a most satisfying wank on my part and from the sounds I heard, on the part of many or all of the others.
I was surprised next morning. I asked Bigelow's permission to speak after he had done no more than a cursory inspection of the room and contents, namely us and our military possessions. I asked if four of the squad might be excused latrine cleaning duty that afternoon as they were representing the squad in the soccer match that afternoon against the Gunners team from a nearby camp. All sweetness and light he said yes. There must be more to it than that but all he said was that the rest of us would have to make up for the absence of the footballers.
We assembled in stripped-down order for the cleaning at fourteen hundred hours. Six, with Taffy were sent off and returned with an assortment of brooms, mops, hand brushes, cloths and buckets and canisters of disinfectant and other liquids.
Usually latrine cleaning was done by those on jankers and confined to barracks as one of the more unpleasant tasks allotted to them. Other more pointless tasks given them were clipping the edge of the lawn outside the Company Office with nail scissors and painting everything that didn't move with white paint, checking first by saluting it to see if it was an officer!
After seeing the assembled squad was all present Bigelow departed and said he would be back in two hours and he would leave the organisation to Squad Lance-Corporals Boon and Williams. We quickly divided everyone up into four groups of four and two groups were set to clean the two sets of cubicles. My group had the urinals to deal with and Royston, or Knobbo, and his three had to wash, scrub and buff the tiled floor.
I know little boys like to have "I can piss higher than you" competitions. Grown boys had also had the same idea so not only did we have to wash and polish the urinals themselves but had to find a step ladder to tackle the yellow-stained tiles right up to ceiling level much to the disgust of Jason who had been volunteered for step-ladder duty.
There were shouts from the cubicles as favourite items of graffiti were noticed and communicated to all.
One lad called out "I like this one, 'Diarrhoea waits for no man!'"
There was a shout from another, "What about 'No soldier looks so fierce in fight as does the man who strains to shite!'"
"It's got 'Beware of limbo dancers' on the bottom of this door!" came a third.
"Oh fuck," said another, "This one says 'Bigelow may have the smallest dick on the Depot but...'"
There was a general shout of "....he's the biggest dick around."
"We'd better scrub that one off," I heard Royston say and when I went to have a look he then busily set to and erased it.
There was also a murmured discussion of whether it was true. Someone said it probably accounted for his hatred of his fellow men. Someone else said he had watched us in the showers after PT one morning so was getting at us because we were better endowed than him. Our contemplation of the possible smallness of Bungalow's dong and the continued ohs and ahs of the graffiti readers helped time pass.
One hour and fifty minutes after we had started we decided that the place looked spick and span. It did too. The brass-work shone, the tiles above the urinals were white again, the tiles behind the toilet bowls showed no evidence of solitary activity, the red floor tiles were no longer inlaid with accumulated dirt and grime, ledges and crevices had been dusted and washed over. Fuck Bigelow! We had done a good job and were proud of it.
In fact, Bigelow was impressed. He actually praised us and then announced we would be having a replacement Squad NCO on Monday. But, he said he would himself, personally and without prejudice, be keeping his beady eyes on us. Dismiss!
Our new Squad NCO was OK. He was about thirty, had a cropped military hairdo and a small bristly fair moustache and a wildly Scottish accent. He was even freer with the swearing than Bigelow - not directly at anyone but his phraseology was peppered liberally with the 'fooks' and 'fooking'. His speciality, other than an insistence on being smartly turned out on drill parades, was map-reading.
We'd had several lectures on map-reading from an old Staff-Sergeant who had done them so many times he made the whole subject as boring as hell. Our NCO was roped in to supplement the lectures as during the basic training on three occasions we had to be taken out, dumped in small groups, given a map and two references and told we had two hours to get to the second point, and 'Gawd fooking help you wee fookers if you ain't fooking there!' Before he arrived our first essay into the wild left four of the lads temporarily stranded as they had argued which way up the map went. I was at an advantage as having done Geography at both O and A level I knew the map conventions more or less off by heart. The two daytime excursions after the guidance of the new NCO were not too bad but the things we all dreaded were the two exercises where we had to bivouac out.
They were, respectively, a two-day, overnight exercise and then a longer four-day three-night one where small groups of us would be abandoned and instructed to find our way back to a fixed location avoiding hazards.
When the time came for the first one we were taken out the first morning and played silly buggers all day crawling through undergrowth and along ditches keeping out of sight of a very loud-mouthed Major who directed the 'campaign'. That evening we were taught how to construct fairly waterproof dwellings and, tired out, crawled in wrapped in a blanket carried in our overflowing packs and slept dreamless and chaste. I didn't. I woke with a start having dreamed I was being pursued by a tribe of angry Red Indians wielding nasty- looking tomahawks threatening to scalp me. I also had a raging hardon. I thought you couldn't be scared and have signs of sexual arousal at the same time? I'd read in one of my sister's textbooks about fight and flight and had also read surreptitiously in her notes the underlined aphorism, which no doubt one of her male lecturers had emphasised hoping to cause a frisson of embarrassment, that 'Men cannot have an erection while being chased by a tiger'. I had one, rampant even with the imaginary tomahawk about to descend. Oh God, I wanted a wank but within three feet was the recumbent body of Royston. He was flat on his back, snoring gently. Oh my God! His blanket had slipped and he'd divested himself of his combat trousers as the night was warm and there, extending for seven full inches, was the fattest, blackest, stiffest cock I'd ever seen. Correct me, I hadn't seen a black one in that state before!
Unhurriedly I undid my combat trousers and eased out my rather restricted hardon and very slowly gave myself a most satisfying wank. But just before my balls began to harden and rise I wondered how was I going to clean up? Desperate times involve desperate measures. Just as I shot I cupped my left hand over my knob end, causing me to whistle softly as my knob felt extra sensitive, and caught the six squirts more or less comfortably. I'd tasted my own and Jake's semen many times so I just slurped up my own effusion and, to use a hackneyed phrase, licked the platter clean. I fell asleep again almost immediately and was awoken by a grinning Royston poking me in the side..
"Come on, Bonio, wakey-wakey, we'll get to the kitchen first."
His dick was still out of the fly of his boxers but drooping. As I watched, he nonchalantly poked it back in, reached for his trousers and pulled them up. I groaned and rubbed my eyes.
"Never leave me in a ditch again!" I moaned, "I'm stiff, cold and want a piss!"
Royston grinned and pointed up and out of the ditch we'd made our bed for the night in.
"Get out there and watch which way the wind's blowing! And if you're still stiff when you get back I'll give you a rub-down...." His great grin appeared again. "...Your back I mean."
I clambered up and out and, also nonchalantly, dragged out my drooping four inches, pulled back my foreskin and arched a stream high into the bushes. I shook myself and popped all back and dropped back down into the ditch where Royston, true to his word, began to massage my back. Oh, bliss!
"Hope Bungho doesn't come along and make you clean the bushes," he murmured as his fingers dug into a particularly knotted muscle.
"As Temporary Unpaid Squad Lance-Corporal I would order you to polish every leaf and twig with your evil tongue," I said pompously. He dug his fingers in further accompanied by a throaty giggle. "Ouch, you sadist!" I said with feeling, but actually feeling much more relaxed.
"My turn now, Corp!" he said, twisting me round to face him, "Get those fingers working, man!" The last said in the most West Indian accent he could muster. He turned and I gave his muscular back a good working over. I also developed another smoldering hardon. The hard globes of his buttocks were outlined in his combats. I could have fucked my friend Royston most happily. That bit of repartee and the friendly massages sent messages of friendship and trust. If only! I wouldn't mind a piece of the action with that body and, more importantly, with that person!
My years of quite intensive wanking, sucking and fucking with my good friend Jake were now over. We had both realised, although we were great friends, we were not made for one another. At the end of one of our last sessions together we had both confessed of our lust for each other, our friendship, but not our love. We parted wishing for each other that we would each find a true loving partner. In one of Jake's letters to me in the past week or so he'd implied he was too busy with his most interesting and demanding course to pursue his search and I inferred he was living a celibate life. I'd written back with some descriptions of barrack room life with my own undertone of a continued search. Some day, some place! I knew that the connection would be made but, even with someone so open and friendly and sexy as Royston, my inner self would not be satisfied.
We all got through the next day of continued harassment, this time with dummy bullets firing and explosions set off by the Major and his more-than willing to-scare-the- poor-rookies helpers. It wasn't too bad though, the only casualties in the squad being a sprained wrist, a twisted ankle and Yorkie's pride as we had full sight of his bare bum for the rest of the day after he'd ripped his camouflage combat trousers to shreds negotiating unexpected barbed-wire.
"Fucking nice bum you've got, Yorkie!" sang out one brave soul when we flopped onto our beds when we arrived back, "Are you advertising?"
"In your fucking dreams!" was the growled reply.
"It will be!" came another voice to the general merriment of all and a blush from the first shouter.
The second foray into the wild meant we were divided into groups of four, taken to unknown locations, given sealed envelopes containing instructions and two tasks to perform and a time and place to be at to be picked up at the end. We also had to avoid certain hazards such as a group of marauding enemy.
Whether Bigelow's hand was in the selection I do not know but I had Ferdy, Dwayne and Royston in my group. It turned out to be a good mix. Dwayne had annoyed Bungho on several occasions because of his unwillingness to take any initiative. However, over the past fortnight or so I'd noted he had determination once he'd mastered something.
Ferdy went at everything bull at a gate. Bungho was always bellowing at him to keep in step or be smarter and not so impetuous when doing rifle drill. He was also a born follower. In one of our head-to-head heart-to-heart chats one afternoon he'd said he was led into pinching his father's money because of the friends he'd got at the time and he made the point he didn't grass on them. Royston, on the other hand, I knew was totally dependable. Honest and willing. But, our little massage session was a hint of something else I was sure.
Anyway, off we went at O seven hundred hours, after a very early breakfast, in closed-off jeeps or trucks, camouflage paint applied in proper manner to faces, loaded with full packs and rations for three days and very, very apprehensive.
The driver stopped at the head of a small track, we jumped off the back of the jeep and he dropped the envelope out of his side window as he reversed quickly and went off like a bat out of hell down the hill.
"Oh, man!" moaned Royston, giving me a wink as Ferdy and Dwayne scanned the nearby horizon of bushes and low trees, "We're lost already!"
He pointed just down the track at something I had just noted as well. A small signpost which the deviser of this task must have missed. I signalled him not to say or do anything. The four of us hunkered down behind the convenient hedge, out of sight. Ferdy and Dwayne both wanted to piss so we had to wait for them which gave Royston and myself time to look at the rudimentary map, the instructions for completion of the two tasks and the directions for the trek.
The map was standard Ordnance Survey with principal towns and villages heavily inked out. If the signpost wasn't a lure and the map reference we'd been given was correct I was able to pinpoint our present location with surprising accuracy. Royston had a look and concurred. The other two appeared, adjusting their dress. I handed the map and the first page of instructions to them.
"Know where we are?" I asked.
I was impressed because after only a minute or so they also agreed with our conclusion.
No need to deal with the tasks or the trek but we accomplished the first two days easily. The only problem was Dwayne and his appetite. He'd eaten ninety per cent of his rations by the time we had finished our stop for lunch on the third day. We told him he'd starve by the time they came looking for our lost bodies as the next phase looked pretty formidable. However no worries - we met no enemy although we did surprise a courting couple behind a haystack. We bet the chap's hardon wouldn't return for a week after the fright we gave them - three blackened-up, and one greened-up natural black, faces peering round at them just as he'd got his hand down her blouse and her hand down the waistband of his trousers. Royston rolled his eyes at them and Ferdy gave a low wolf-whistle as we disappeared off down another obscure country path.
That night we bivouacked in pairs as we'd decided if we were to be attacked it would be better for pairs to be on guard with one sleeping while the other watched. Royston and I found a snug corner about a hundred yards from Ferdy and Dwayne and after magnanimously donating a few crumbs of comfort from our own depleted rations to an ever-hungry Dwayne we settled down for the night. I volunteered for first watch for our pair and settled down, back against a convenient tree as Royston settled under he hastily erected canvas cover. It was a starlit night and after a while as Royston appeared to doze off I thought I would check on the others. In true commando style I crept up to their hide out. They were well-hidden but I had a good view as I approached. Dwayne was flat out on his back, flies open, skivvies to his knees while Ferdy was slurping on his well-formed, erect shaft. I watched and waited, my own rod stiffening and lengthening. I'd never witnessed another pair in the same position I and Jake had been in, oh so many times.
I knew Dwayne had been an unwilling cocksucker for his brother and others but here he was, lying back and giving little gasps of pure pleasure as Ferdy brought him to a climax, fixing his cock tight by his clamped jaws.
The final few moments had been accompanied by slightly louder murmurs of joy and after Ferdy let Dwayne's softening prick go and lay beside him I heard Dwayne mutter profound thanks.
"Nothing, mate, you needed that. Was that really the first time ever for you?" Ferdy whispered.
"Fuck, yes," came a heartfelt response, "I've had to do it hundreds of times to my brother and those other cunts but I never knew it could be so wonderful."
"Tis too, ain't it?" whispered back Ferdy.
It was then I had he shock of my life. Something or someone pushed their hand and arm under my prone body and gripped my ready to explode hardon. It was Royston.
"Come on back," he ordered.
Leaving the others sublimely oblivious of their hidden watchers we slithered back to our own bivvy.
Two pairs of combats and undies were swiftly lowered and for the first time for me I held the hardest, stiffest and longest black cock in my hot hand. My own was gripped by another hot hand.
A throaty whisper came right by my ear in the most atrociously emphasised West Indian accent. "Maan, for de skinny ass whiteboy you 'ev de massif black tool!"
I giggled. "Soldier, if you're being racist I'll have your black arse on a fizzer when we get back!"
There was a giggle back. "Ma fine black ass ain't for you to fizz or nuttin' but you can 'ev ma mo'"
With that he twisted round and clamped his jaws round my cock in full imitation of Ferdy on Dwayne. Not to be outdone I scooted round and down him, opened my mouth as far as I could and took in the head of that biggest cock I'd experienced. Actually it was only the second one I'd had in my mouth. I pursed my lips and his foreskin slipped back and I was able to bathe and lick that huge head slowly and sensuously. My own cock was having the same treatment and the pair of us were oblivious of the world around us.
What would have happened if we had been suddenly attacked by the marauders I do not know. All I know was that two very satisfied lads ended up, after two mammoth outbursts of cum, in each others arms and deep sleep with no thought of who should be on guard.
To be continued:
Previous stories of mine have been published on Nifty.
Spying on My Brothers: (45k: Incest Section: Apr 15 2000) Easter Rugger Tours (Dir: HS Section: Jun 10 2000) Jordan's Story (84k: HS Section: Jul 23 2000) Flip's Tale (Dir: HS Section: Apr 17 2002)
Read and Enjoy.