Drill Sergeant

For the next three weeks their days were a never ending stream of torment. The drills would come at all hours of the day and night, leaving the privates in a high state of alert. And of them all, no one was more relentless than Drill Sergeant Slaughter. She would run her second platoon ragged; nothing ever satisfied her or adhered to her high standards. She was verbally abusive, constantly questioning their will, their courage and their manhood. And no matter what the training schedule called for on a given day, the night would always end with hand-to-hand in the sand pit where she proved daily that she was the baddest bitch on the face of the planet.

Gabe was always picked as a demonstrator, she always cleaned his clock and every time she made him kiss her boot. He started hearing her scathing commentary in his dreams, a strange mix of erotic temptress and stern taskmaster. Lace and Leather dominated in equal measure. That first week was among the worst of his life; every time he ate dirt at the hands of his maniacal dream girl he had to fight himself to keep from quitting. The thought of disappointing his parents, dead in the 9/11 attacks and the brother who'd taken care of him in their absence kept him from walking away. In fact, one of his brother's magical sayings helped him build his determination. It's gonna be hard, he said. It's supposed to be. Don't quit, get stronger.

White Phase

Gabriel stood outside the Commander's office with three other recruits, one each from the other platoons. All of them were sweating; the South Carolina heat felt a notch below hell but that had little to do with the trepidation each felt at the time. It was late afternoon, they were exhausted, beat up after another endless training day. Emotions were already frayed; an unexpected summons to the Old Man's office was sure to pile on to a terrible training day. Gabe looked into the eyes of his fellow recruits, seeing the fear that they had done something wrong and not knowing what it was. Everything you do is the wrong answer, his brother's voice insisted in his head, and his three weeks in the care of Drill Sergeant Slaughter had burned that lesson in his mind. However, everyone associated a trip to the Commander's office with dismissal; for the life of him he could not figure out what he'd done to deserve that particular fate. He actually thought he was doing pretty well considering the fact that he'd never quit, and never complained. He'd always adhered to the often ridiculous standards put forth by his taskmasters and he felt that he was adjusting to the military lifestyle better than his platoon mates.

It felt like a lifetime before the recruits were allowed entry into the office. They marched in, their movements precise as they were taught, their steps landing on the royal blue carpet near soundlessly and in lockstep. They came to attention and offered whip-crack salutes to a wiry, balding man with steel gray eyes and an impeccable uniform. "SIR! PRIVATE CAMBELL REPORTING, SIR!", he belted when his turn came, his entire body stiff and unmoving despite the urge to shake from nervousness and fear. In that moment he knew how much he wanted to be a soldier, how devastating it would be if he failed. He did NOT want to go home a failure. He stared at the wall at a spot six inches above the Commander's head, inwardly dreading the reason for the summons and praying he was wrong about going home.

Commander Moseley looked up from the paperwork piled neatly on his immaculate mahogany desk and pierced each private for a long moment with a stare like frozen nitrogen. His face was blank, giving no indication of the reason why they stood before him. They held their salutes uncertainly; he did not yet give them leave to drop them. Finally after another lifetime he steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "Order Arms, gentlemen and lady, Rest easy," he spoke with a raspy, deep voice totally at odds with his seemingly slight frame. The privates moved in unison, going to the position of At Ease with parade ground precision. "I'm sure you all are wondering why you were told to report to my office," he continued. "Let's cut to the chase. My sergeants tell me that you 4 are the best your platoon has to offer. That you have shown poise in the execution of your duties. They offered your names as recruits worthy of some increased responsibility. Do you think you can handle that?"

"SIR, YES SIR!!" they replied. No other answer was acceptable.

"Excellent, excellent. You are now Platoon Guides of your respective platoons. If you can hold on to your positions until the end of the training cycle then you will be promoted at graduation. If you cannot, you will be promoted at the same rate as your peers. Now I am going to release you to your Drill Sergeants so that they can fill you in on the responsibilities that come with your new position. I'm counting on you all. Do me a favor and don't let me down. Platoon Guides, ATTENTION! DISMISSED!"

They marched out the office much as they came in, military precision and silent movements. They expected dismissal and received praise instead; their minds were much more tranquil after their chat with the boss. For Gabe's part, he was relieved to be allowed to stay and proud that he had earned the right to lead his platoon, yet he knew from his brother's playbook that his job just got harder. Beware of praise, he used to say. They usually offer praise just before they bury you in shit. He had no reason to doubt his brother on that score, especially considering the joy that Drill Sergeant Slaughter took in tormenting her charges, him in particular. Indeed when she took him to the side to explain her expectations in a PG she was giving him that forever dangerous smile. "Congratulations, Private Campbell," she said in a sweet tone that did nothing to hide the steel and venom underneath. "You have just become my personal bitch and number one target. You will ensure my platoon is in order. That everyone is where they're supposed to be. That everyone has the appropriate gear for the mission of the day. Anytime one of my guys screws up it's your fault and you will be dealt with swiftly and with extreme prejudice. If someone's late to formation it's your fault. If someone forgets their e-tool for a bivouac it's your fault. If I have to speak with any of those fuck-ups about anything at all then it's your fault. And if you fuck up too many times I will drop your ass like a bad motherfucking habit. The implied task here is that you had better be perfect; I expect excellence in my platoon and perfection in my Platoon Guide. Any questions about what the fuck I expect from you, Private Campbell?"

He stood at attention as she spoke, somehow even more ridged for her than for the commander. His eyes were trained far into the distance, his lips not daring to as much as smirk. He was determined not to repeat the mistake of smiling at her beautiful visage; he steeled himself to ignore the siren song in her melodious voice without ignoring the information the voice imparted. He answered on cue and without hesitation. "Drill Sergeant, No Drill Sergeant." To do less was suicide.

He was so focused on keeping his composure, schooling his expression, hiding his painfully obvious attraction from her that he was startled when she came to stand in front of him, their bodies mere inches apart. The brim of her hat brushed his chin as she looked up into his face. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he kept his gaze fixed on the distance. He knew if he looked into those emerald eyes he'd be lost. "I'm glad we have an understanding, Private Campbell." Her mouth caressed his name. Her breath smelled faintly of cinnamon. A slight, involuntary shiver moved through his body. "Something the matter Private?"

Shit, she noticed! "Drill Sergeant, I'm right as rain Drill Sergeant," he spoke evenly, his voice not betraying the turmoil and struggle her nearness, her smell, her voice was causing him.

"Tisk tisk tisk," she said in mock disappointment. "You're going to have to learn to lie better than that if you want your enemies to believe what you say." She leaned even closer, her lips nearly touching his ear. Her whispered words tickled his earlobe. "Make no mistake, GABRIEL. I am your enemy. If you fail me, I will rain destruction on you the likes of which you have never seen. Believe it." She abruptly put space between them, doing a perfect About Face before marching off, leaving him behind in the hall outside the Commander's office, stunned and still standing at attention. Nearly at the corner leading to the Drill Sergeant Offices she looked over her shoulder, almost catching Gabe's wandering eyes glued to her ass. "Oh, before I forget, you have CQ Runner duties for the next 2 weeks. The report time is 0300 hours. Now get the fuck outta here."

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Gabriel arrived at the CQ desk at 0245, eyes bleary, trying to shake his latest dream. Drill Sergeant Slaughter was chasing him with a sexy blinding white bikini and a bullwhip with spikes. His uniform was impeccable however; Lord knows what she'd have done to him if he'd showed up rumpled. He relieved the girl on duty before alerting the drill on duty that he was reporting. He went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face, willing himself to alertness. It would not do to show any drill sergeant signs of weakness, at least if he didn't want to spend his shift being exercised to death. After chasing the fatigue from his face he went to notify the drill sergeant on duty of his presence. As he went to place a knock on the office door it abruptly opened. In the door frame stood Drill Sergeant Slaughter looking glorious with her now strawberry blond hair falling lightly and in waves past her shoulders. Her uniform top was off, leaving her in a T-shirt and no bra. Her C-cup breasts stood high on her chest, defying gravity like a rebellious teenager does her parents; twin imprints on her shirt clearly indicated her pierced and very erect nipples. "Oh good, you're here," she said without a trace of self-consciousness. "I thought I was going to have to toss you out of your bunk and drag you down here. Anyway, sit at my front desk and answer if the phone rings. Direct any questions to me, but knock first. Turn on the lights in the barracks at 0500. Got all that? Good," she said before he had a chance to answer. "I'm going back to my office. Don't bother me unless it's important." She closed the door almost before she'd finished speaking, and for that he was glad. He felt that things would have went very bad for him had she noticed the slack-jawed, lust-filled expression he'd been too surprised to conceal. He walked stiffly to the CQ Runner desk, trying and failing to will away an erection.

After a short while he managed to calm down. He sat at the desk and his mind wandered to his sexy drill sergeant often. He banished thoughts of her as soon as they emerged yet they kept returning. He even began to imagine her moaning in pleasure, in the throes of rapture. After a while he realized that those sounds weren't the result of a teenager's overactive imagination. Muffled moans were coming from the drill sergeant's office. He knew he should ignore those sounds but the pull was too strong. He had to see; he couldn't not see. He was as helpless fighting as a newborn against a wolf. Still, he was cautious. He walked to the door, his steps as quiet as a panther stalking prey. Her office door was slightly cracked. Just a peek, he lied to himself. I just want to make sure she's ok. He crept those final, fateful inches until his eye was against the crack, peering in, doing his best to be as silent as a shadow.

The sounds he heard were no lie. She sat at her desk with her head tossed back in her office chair. Although the furniture blocked the view of most of her body, it was clear that she was furiously pleasuring herself while watching porn. Her bare calf rested on the desk next to the monitor and every few seconds she'd take a glistening finger from under the desk to taste her own juices before dipping it back in her honeypot. The sex smell made his head swim. He'd spent night after sleepless night imagining the sex faces she was making. It was overwhelming to see them live; his imagination did the experience no justice at all. She was closing in on an orgasm; he couldn't tell how many she'd already had, just that it was obvious that it wasn't her first. Her body stiffened and she began to shake. Then she shouted in ecstasy, breaking his trance, making him realize what he was doing. His hand was actually on the doorknob, his erection free from his uniform trousers and leaking pre-cum. DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!?!?! His inner voice yelled, finally getting through to him that he was about to do would be fatal. He tried to back away slowly when he heard, almost felt her let out a long, shuddering breath. When her eyelids moved as if they were about to open he moved faster than he thought possible. Did she see me?, he asked himself as he tried to get his frenzied breathing under control. If she saw him he'd be dead for sure. He was hyper aware of the door and the movements behind it. At any moment he expected her to storm out from the room with eyes full of disgust and righteous fury, looking to rip his eyes out for witnessing such an intimate moment. He sat on pins and needles for the remainder of his shift but the time went by without incident. He didn't hear another peep from the office, no indication that anything was out of the ordinary. He completed his tasks, left the office when he was relieved, and started his first full day as a Platoon Guide.

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By the time Gabriel went to sleep that night he felt reasonably safe that he'd gotten away unseen. Drill Sergeant Slaughter acted no different, wasn't giving him sidelong glances or singling him out for extra duties. He handled his platoon well that first day, making the extra effort to ensure that they were at the height of perfection, doing his best to give her no reason to destroy him. Along with what had transpired before, he was doubly aware of what she'd promised during his introduction to his new duties. He was sensitive to her every movement, her every breath. Fear kept him from his normal imaginings and actually allowed him to focus on the care and feeding of his peers. She was tough with him but fair, professional. Furthermore, there were no more surprise inspections or trips to the sand pit; they were practicing weapons training and Captain Moseley didn't want privates too tired for fear of them disregarding safety. Surely she'd make me pay if she knew, the thought kept running over and over in his head as the day wore on. But with no adverse action from her in the entire day, he felt that he was in the clear.

He was woken up by the fire guard at 0230. He dressed quickly and silently, and reported for duty 15 minutes early. He relieved the CQ runner and knocked on the door to alert the drill sergeant to his presence. Hearing no response, he opened the door. Drill Sergeant Slaughter looked up from her monitor, acknowledged his presence and waved him away. He sat at his post, reading a magazine while listening for the phone. For the first time in nearly 24 hours he'd started to relax. As if waiting for the exact moment he let his guard down, she called him into her office about 45 minutes into his shift.

He marched into her office and came to the position of Attention before her desk. "Stand at ease, Private," she said with a pleasant, poisonous smile. The peals of danger were going off in his head but he was powerless to do anything but obey, stomach in knots. "You handled yourself well your first day on the job. I commend you."

"Th-th-thank you Drill Sergeant," Gabe said, surprised by her statement.

"You sound surprised that I noticed. I mean, I wouldn't have picked you if I thought you couldn't do the job. Don't be so nervous Private. Relax."

"Roger Drill Sergeant," Gabe said. He did try to relax, but was incapable. He knew that the hammer was coming, or at least he thought he did.

Her smile got wider and more menacing as she gauged his reaction to her command. "You don't look very relaxed Gabriel. Why is that? I just paid you a compliment you know. You could at least show your gratitude. After all, you of all people should know I don't give out compliments very often. Hmmm, what could it be...?" Her voice trailed off as she stood, face screwed up in mock contemplation. Suddenly her face brightened. "Oh, I think I know. You're worried about that little show you witnessed last night."

Gabe froze. Oh shit! She did see. Fuck I'm so dead. He didn't know why she didn't seem more upset, but he was certain that the thunderstorm was rolling in. "Drill Sa-sargeant, I'm so sorry..."

"Shhh," she stopped him with a finger across her lips. "I see that you're worried about what you saw. No problem there, private. We'll just make us even. Pull your cock out."

She said it so matter-of fact that it took a minute for him to register her words. When understanding dawned after a few heartbeats, he had to question, it was too unbelievable. "Um, excuse me?"

Her eyes flashed and she moved nearly faster than thought. In no time she had a vice-like grip on his neck that brought him to his knees. "Private Campbell," she said, voice as cold as a dead sun. "I thought we covered this on our first day. I DON'T like to repeat myself. I won't do it again. Pull. Out. Your. Cock."

She released his neck and he obeyed her order, trousers and underwear pooling around his ankles. To his surprise, he was already erect, his sizable, nearly untested manhood pointing skyward. Standing with her body pressed against his side she reached out and grabbed his balls. "I'm sure you know what to do. Stroke that dirty private cock." She emphasized her words with squeezes just past the point of pain. This was unfamiliar territory; no sage words of wisdom from his brother covered this type of situation. Without any other guidance to go by he did what was instructed of him. He began to stroke his dick with his left hand.

The experience was surreal. The girl of his dreams, the woman he had fantasized about from first sight, was engaging him sexually, stroking his back and whispering encouragement while he beat his meat. It should have been the first step towards a dream come true but it wasn't. The reality of the situation was much more painful. She controlled the pace of his strokes with pressure. She would give commands in a voice as cold as winter's heart, strong hands squeezing, crushing when his tempo displeased her. The first time she applied her grip he nearly doubled over in excruciating pain; that was unacceptable. "What's the matter, Private?" she'd asked in a mocking sing song. "I thought you could stand a little pain. Was I wrong about you?"

"No Drill Sergeant," he replied with a hiss. She literally had his balls in her hands. There was no other acceptable answer, no choice other than to stand tall even as she sought to crush his nuts in her tiny, powerful fist. A nightmare, yet when she seemingly forgot her torture and focused on her show, she caressed his back, his neck, his ass. The way she touched him could have easily kept him hard for days without ever once touching his manhood. He would get lost in her touch and speed up his pace. She let him; she was obviously turned on from the display. He could feel her nipples on his arm though her stiff uniform top and her breath ever faster in his ear. Even with that, she never lost control. She made it known without words that he would cum only if she allowed it, and when she allowed it. Indeed, every time he was close to spilling his seed she would tighten down so hard he'd nearly passed out. Only fear of her wrath kept him upright.