Drill Sergeant

She kept him balanced on a knifepoint between heaven and hell for what felt like hours. Torture and ecstasy were his world, his entire universe, so much so that when she'd released his balls he'd felt like he'd fallen into the abyss for a split second. He looked up, startled coming out of the fog, into the real world where implacable green eyes stared at him with a fire, a wildness that could make a dead man's blood sing. "Pull your pants up and put that fuck stick away, Private Campbell," she said in her normal, professional voice, as if what she'd just done was in any way normal. The sheer contrast between the intensity in her eyes and the calm in her voice were jarring. Maybe she really IS crazy, he thought while obeying. It was difficult; his hard-on looked to be in no danger of flagging. Drill Sergeant Slaughter glanced down so quickly he'd have missed it were his nervous system not attuned to her every gesture. He didn't know what to make of that. He didn't know what to make of anything that had transpired. The feelings of confusion and uncertainty were completely foreign to him. He fell back on one of his brother's witticisms he never thought he'd have to heed. When in doubt, lock it up and pray for forgiveness. After taking more time than he'd ever spent buttoning a pair of trousers, he braced himself, went to Parade Rest and stared at the wall while his brain fought to gain purchase in a suddenly more confusing new world.

Drill Sergeant Slaughter stared at his face for a long, tense moment, her hands folded on her lap as she sat on the edge of her desk. When she finally did speak it was as sudden as a gunshot at dawn. "First," she began without preamble, "you will not speak of what just transpired. For you, it will be like it never happened. Second, that pea shooter in your pants officially belongs to me, and it will be obedient. To that end, you will not fire that thing off without my leave. And before you ask, no you do NOT have my leave. I'll know if you disobey my simple request and I won't be as gentle next time. Lastly and most important, your first day as a Platoon Guide was nearly perfect. That is un-fucking-acceptable. Fix yourself, fix your platoon, or I'll find somebody better. Are we clear on all points?"

Gabe wasn't sure any of what she said made sense; the entire speech was about as clear as mud. "Yes, Drill Sergeant!" he said without pause or hesitation as he was taught. It seemed the only relatively safe phrase.

"Good. Now get the fuck outta my office."

He completed the marching orders with the precision of long practice. His mind was blown, his body on autopilot. Was the last half hour real or just an especially vivid dream sequence? He couldn't resolve in his mind how his world had changed in such a short time or what that change signified. He had been violated and humiliated yet was made to enjoy it. His balls ached, as much from the denial of release as from the mistreatment at the hands of the sadistic drill. His body was charged, turned on in a way he'd never come close to experiencing. She had mentioned a next time. He wasn't certain if he was dreading the possibility or yearning for it.

For the rest of his shift the office was as quiet as death. There was no sound coming from the closed door of the Drill Sergeant office. If there were, he would not have heard. His mind was occupied; trying to make sense of his fucked up emotional state was an all-encompassing activity. Over and over he tried to figure out what to make of Drill Sergeant Slaughter. Did she like him or hate him? Was he just a plaything she could torture without consequence or did she have real feelings for him. She was so different from anyone he'd ever met that there was no real frame of reference for her. By the end of his shift he believed he had it figured out. He had to focus. She was trying to break him. He was better than the other privates that belonged to her; conventional methods wouldn't work on him. Hadn't they made him a PG because he was better, harder, stronger than his peers? He didn't know why the sexy drill sergeant wanted him broken, but that didn't matter. He would see that she failed in that task, even if she succeeded in all others. HE. WOULD. NOT. BE. BROKEN.

Blue Phase

The sun was blinding and oppressive on the morning of the final ruck march. The 16 recruits of 2^nd Platoon, E Company 1/34BN, the Remnants as they liked to be called, stood at Attention on the asphalt ignoring the elements and the 90lb rucks strapped to their backs. Fierce concentration on the upcoming task was the only expression they allowed themselves to show. PV1 Gabriel Campbell stood at the head of the formation, salute crisp and sharp. Drill Sergeant stood in front of her recruits carrying a bag nearly as big as she was without an ounce of effort. She returned the salute rendered by her Platoon Guide and he returned to formation. She addressed her group, one significantly smaller than what she was assigned that first day, with hands on hips.

"This is it," she spoke with an emotion bordering on pride. "The final test. After this you will no longer be considered maggots, you will have graduated to a higher life form. You are the elite, the best this miserable company has to offer. That's not saying much. You are all pathetic. But it's something. I have bragged on you to the other drills. I told them that my platoon was harder, faster, stronger, and more deadly than any of the bums they could offer up. Your task is to prove me right. That means nobody falls out. Nobody quits. Everyone makes it back to the Company area in one piece. I called you elite. I will accept nothing less than that. Is that clear?"

"DRILL SERGEANT, YES DRILL SERGEANT!!" they rumbled, their voices loud and hungry. Private Campbell stood in the last rank of the formation as was custom when his Drill Sergeant addressed her troops. He took in the scene with a jaundiced eye, his smirk hidden under a mask of indifference. He knew very well that he was being watched, that her eyes and ears missed nothing at all. He had learned the hard way to never let a true emotion show.

He also knew what it meant to have the harsh spotlight trained on him, how it felt to be first in everything. Misery followed him as a result, and Drill Sergeant's Slaughters words to her platoon ensured that misery would follow the entire group. She'll probably have us all running the entire road march, the evil bitch, he thought as he stood ready to receive the next command. He let his body run on autopilot as he let his mind wander. He'd learned detachment as a necessary skill. She would have broken him long since otherwise.

He was holding on by a string as it was. He no longer got helpful hints from his brother; once Drill Sergeant Slaughter started playing her sick games his brother's experiences were no longer relevant. He forgot his reasons for joining and rarely thought of home anymore. He couldn't go to his fellow recruits for support. Even if he wasn't threatened into secrecy by his torturer he felt that they would never understand. His ordeal was his alone. His only solace was that after this last camp out he'd be free of Drill Sergeant Slaughter and her special brand of punishment forever.

He suppressed the twinge of regret he felt at that thought. Survival was his goal; it was almost in his grasp. You'll never be free from me. Never, Drill Sergeant Slaughter seemed to whisper in his head. The image of her, hair loose and free, sparkling eyes flaring with passion invaded his mind's eye. He imagined her scent in his nostrils, cinnamon and roses no matter how hard the training day. His erection was immediate and involuntary. "As much shit as I give you, I wouldn't expect you to be happy to see me," a voice pierced the bubble of detachment he'd built, causing him to stumble. "Careful, maggot," she spoke loud enough to be heard by the rest of her charges. "Stay ALERT!!"

"STAY ALIVE!!" the automatic response from every private in hearing range. Stupid, stupid. STUPID! He yelled at himself in his head. He thought he was past his little lapses in concentration, especially with Drill Sergeant Slaughter lurking. He braced himself for the punishment that was sure to come. Instead, she walked away. It was far from the response he expected. She'd never passed up an opportunity to teach him about his worthlessness, to grind him into the dirt, to prove her superiority. She turned back, flashing him the first genuine smile he'd ever seen from her. The entire situation was so out of character for her he'd almost stumbled again. It made him suspicious. What the fuck is she up to now?

*******************************************************************

Gabriel's mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Drill Sergeant Slaughter. Her entire manner was throwing him off his game. With one dazzling smile she shattered his hard-earned detachment like a sledgehammer to a windshield. The road march to the Capstone event was 15 miles of heat and grime through multiple terrains, from sand to asphalt to underbrush. The drill sergeants set a grueling pace yet he barely noticed. His mind kept playing back that moment in time when the heavens opened up and She smiled, becoming his dream girl again instead of his taskmistress. He fought the image by supplying his mind with every detail of his alone time with the sadistic drill sergeant. He had four more sessions with her during his 2 week stint as a CQ runner, every bit as bewildering, confusing and painful as the first. She'd taken pleasure in causing him pain and had never let him cum. She'd frayed his emotions and had almost made him like it. How could he feel anything other than dread for her after all that? It was like that one smile had erased everything she'd ever done to him before that moment, had erased nearly every trace of the bitterness he was using as fuel to survive his ordeal.

Snap out of it, Cam! She wants you to drop your guard! He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood as they marched into the field site. He was desperate to shake the dopey feeling she'd induced with that perfect smile. He had a long 5 days ahead of him and he needed to stay sharp. He was still Platoon Guide. He still had responsibilities that she'd nail him to the nearest tree for neglecting, smile or no smile. And he was the only recruit without an assigned battle buddy. He had no one to lean on to pick up the slack. He set up his tent and dug his fighting position while keeping an eye on his platoon-mates, all the while biting the inside of his mouth. The pain helped him keep focused on his tasks and responsibilities. Meanwhile he could feel Drill Sergeant Slaughter's gaze like an ice cube down his spine. She never approached him, never said a word, she just watched. He refused to look back; he didn't know what expression he expected to find on her face but he didn't want to find out. A mean one or a vicious smile, while familiar, would promise pain in the immediate future. A smile like what he got earlier would make him stupid. Neither outcome was welcome.

The Company set up efficiently and over the next couple days conducted battle drills from sunup to hours past sunset. The drill sergeants were demanding and relentless but not overly cruel. The absence of Drill Sergeant Slaughter had not gone unnoticed by Gabe; she'd disappeared sometime during that first day and hadn't come back since. He didn't know why she'd made herself scarce but he took it as a blessing. For the first time since he'd been sent to Ft. Jackson, SC he was actually having fun. An oppressive presence had been removed, allowing him to let his proverbial hair down and fully engage with his training piece. Still, a small part of him, a part that he didn't want to look too closely at, was feeling stirrings of longing. A small part of him missed her; that frightened him as much as anything else. What did that make him? Was he as sick as she? Did he relish the pain? He dismissed those feelings out of hand, much like he had to dismiss pesky erections whenever he saw his drill sergeant do something he found particularly sexy. That small part jabbed at him but he ruthlessly pushed it down as soon as it rose to the surface, refusing to give it a foothold.

0437 hours on the morning of their 3^rd day out in the heavily wooded Area of Operations found Private Campbell on perimeter guard, rifle in hand as he scanned the area for imaginary threats. He thought he was being cautious. He thought he was alert. An advantage to having night duty for so long was that he became used to being a night owl. His supposed vigilance was no match for one who moves through the woods like a ghost. His first indication that he was not alone in the night was the flat of a steel blade pressing against his Adam's apple. "Not a sound Private Campbell," said Drill Sergeant Slaughter in an overly pleasant whisper. He froze, unsure of what to do. Naturally, she had instructions. "It's about to get really loud and crazy in the very near future. Before that, I'm going to need you to march slowly and calmly to the nearest foxhole. I'll be right behind you, ready to fuck you up if you make so much as a peep. I trust you get my meaning Private?" He nodded, his heartbeat elevated in anticipation. Fearful anticipation? Joyous anticipation? He was in no state of mind to judge his feelings at that point. He had no choice but to play the game. "Good boy," she purred seductively as he started to move.

His steps were careful as he made his way through the underbrush to the nearest foxhole. He moved as quietly as he was capable, trying to match the skill of his captor by pure reflex. He silently slipped into one end of the fighting position, dropping his rifle before being asked. "My, aren't you a smart private today?" she mused with a smirk. "I believe I'm actually may let you cum today. You have been following directions, haven't you?"

"Of course, Drill Sergeant," he said, the volume in his voice barely above a whisper.

The smile came out, a beam of light in pure darkness. "I'll attend to you in just a minute. For now, business." With that she pulled two shiny canisters from her pistol belt. She popped the pins and underhand tossed the CS grenades through the center of camp. One of the other sentries noticed the sound of escaping fumes as they polluted the humid air and bellowed out the alarm. "GAS! GAS! GAS!" the command went out from every throat in camp. The activity resembled a kicked anthill as other drill sergeants tossed their payloads of CS grenades as well. The area was blanketed in thick noxious yellow smoke, turned silver in the half-moon's light.

Gabriel had donned his mask in 7.5 seconds, grabbed his rifle from the ground, slapped a magazine full of blanks into the mag weld and aimed his weapon outward all through muscle memory. The rest of the Company was scrambling to put on their entire MOPP suits. He waited patiently for someone to relieve him so that he could do the same. A tap on the shoulder let him know it was his time to change. He made his way to his tent, put on his bulky MOPP suit and moved to his assigned foxhole.

When he got there he found that it was already occupied. Standing in one corner, her back leaned against the wall and the brim of her brown round shading her eyes was Drill Sergeant Slaughter. Between the low light of a misty dawn and the difficultly of seeing through the eyepieces of his mask he found it hard to make out her individual features. He couldn't read her body language under the circumstances, couldn't gauge her facial expression. In the midst of the chaos he had forgotten her promise but seeing her standing with her arms folded brought it all back. He knew why she was here. He knew what she came for. In that moment he knew that nothing else mattered but her whims, her will. The billows of yellow corrosive gas still staining the air didn't matter. The fact that he was standing in a seven foot hole in the middle of the woods didn't matter. He was hot, dirty and tired but that was no excuse. He was expected to perform for her pleasure despite all manner of pain, that there would be hell to pay if he did not comply. The situation flashed through his mind in an instant. He knew without a single word passed between them what to do.

Gabe propped up his rifle at the lip of the foxhole, the barrel pointing outward as if facing a rushing enemy, then removed his gloves. Next came his pants, both the thick protective chemical pants that stained his uniform with charcoal and his uniform trousers pooling around his ankles. Last came his underwear, freeing his ever stiffening member. He thought he caught the hint of a smile but was unsure; his eyepieces were already fogging up, his breathing already heavy.

A hint of a smile, whether real or imagined, was all the encouragement he needed. He grabbed his cock and began to stroke, filthy hands be-damned. He expected her to move closer to provide the pain she usually applied during their little sessions but she did not move; she just stood watching. He was confused by her inaction, thinking that there must be a reason even as he enjoyed not having his nuts crushed. Soon the reason became clear however. The CS was thick in the foxhole. His sensitive penis flesh began to sting, then burn. He grimaced with pain, thankful that Drill Sergeant Slaughter could not see his face and continued stroking. She must have set off a canister right next to my position. Just how long had she been planning this?

It was a different pain than what he had become accustomed to, making it difficult to continue with any type of focus. He slowed his strokes and despite all his efforts his penis began to flag. That was bad news; he didn't want to contemplate what she'd do to him if she didn't get her show. After a month without cumming he thought there was no force on earth that could stop him once he was allowed to do so. The stinging gas was proving him wrong.

Drill Sergeant Slaughter would not be denied. She sought to do something about his little issue. She stepped closer and he could see her exposed face; she was immune to the effects of the riot gas. She maneuvered herself in the tight confines of the hole until her body pressed against his right side. Her left hand grabbed a liberal handful of his butt cheek while she said just loud enough for him to hear through the hooded mask, "C'mon Private. Don't you want to cum?"

She knew how to push his buttons. Her sexy whisper sent an immediate jolt to his dying erection. His strokes resumed. His breathing was labored and he was sweating from the exertion. Her nearness, her pointed and pierced nipples rubbing against his upper arm was his entire existence. She grabbed his unoccupied hand and guided it into her pants. She wore nothing underneath her uniform trousers and it was evident when he touched not cotton or lace but her bare skin. She encouraged him to reach until he came into contact with the silky folds of her womanhood. He was poised to spray like a firehose but she stopped him with a familiar squeeze to the balls. "Not just yet, cowboy," she said breathily as his questing hand found her clit. "Ladies cum first."

The hand stroking his cock moved in time with the one stroking his drill sergeant's pussy. He was driving her as crazy as she was him and he knew it. When he entered her with one and then 2 fingers he could feel the muscles gripping as if they never wanted to let go. Just as fast as he withdrew his fingers she was pulling them back in. She squeezed his ass, her nails digging into the hard flesh and making bloody furrows on his backside. She had lost much of the vaunted self-control he had come to know her for; she was quiet but her body sang.