This episode of Eric the Marine’s story, written to his dictation by his "slavegirl" lover Dean, appeared in Bondage Recruits, published in 1993. Bondage Recruits has been out of print for many years, but I recently came across six clean copies of this very rare edition, and am selling them for $49.95 each (plus $7.05 shipping and handling, domestically). If anyone is interested, e-mail me first at Bob@Boundandgagged.com and then send your check or money order right away (see Bound & Gagged Magazines for the address). I'll ship on a strictly first-come-first-served basis.
10
Taking Punishment Like a Man
I had known for a long time that I eventually wanted to go to college so I wouldn’t have to spend my whole fucking life being a career goat roper on a west Texas ranch. In spite of this, when high school graduation rolled around, I knew I wasn’t ready for college just yet. In order to buy myself a little time, and to get myself off the ranch and out from under my father’s thumb, I enlisted in the Marines. The reason I chose this particular branch of the armed forces was because I knew the Marines were real men and not like the pretend soldiers of the Army and the sissy-wimps of the Navy, Air Force and Coast Guard.
Because I lived west of the Mississippi, I was sent to San Diego for boot camp. Since I had been raised by strict parents and was no stranger to hard physical labor, I found the discipline of The Corps less of a shock than a lot of the other recruits, some of whom squawked and bitched as though they had been sentenced to prison and wasted a lot of time sounding off about the similarities: being deprived of freedom, kept under watch, having our heads shaved, being made to wear T-shirts with our platoon number stenciled across them, not to mention the perpetual and verbal abuse from those who appeared to hold the power of life and death over us.
The most important person in any recruit’s life is the drill instructor who, because of his distinctive Smoky the Bear hat, is often dubbed “the hat.” So far as I was concerned, life with any hard-assed D.I. couldn’t possibly be any worse than living with my father. I had grown up expecting life to be tough and I was plenty used to being punished when I fucked up.
The “official party line” of the USMC, which all D.I.s can spout off by memory, is deceptive in that it might lead you to believe that D.I.’s are more like sorority house mothers than men charged with preparing totally green and undisciplined boys for mortal combat. In my own case, I hadn’t believed any of that bullshit anyway and had fully expected to be kicked around by the D.I.s. I had also had it drummed into me that there wasn’t much point in making any fuss about it since it was no secret that, even if you did succeed in making trouble for one particular D.I., he had scores of D.I. buddies who would be standing in line eagerly waiting to settle the score with you later.
Every recruit platoon is run by a Chief Drill Instructor and his two assistants, the second and third hats, who are in charge of instruction and discipline respectively. Most platoons are lucky enough to have at least one D.I. who isn’t as big an asshole as the others. My platoon wasn’t so lucky. Had there been a contest to see which D.I. was the biggest, meanest son-of-a-bitch, I expect that all three of those motherfuckers would have tied.
To make matters worse, there was never a minute when one of these assholes wasn’t around. They even took turns sleeping in the barracks at night. It was my luck to draw the job of “house mouse” which, as it turned out, meant that I was the Drill Instructor’s fucking maid. I would have to make his bunk every morning, see that the deck was swabbed so clean he could eat off of it, and just generally make sure that the D.I. shack was spotless and well-policed.
From my point of view things had been going along pretty well. I knew for a fact that I was far and away the most squared away recruit in the whole fucking platoon and was damn proud of it. This is why it would never have occurred to me that my luck was about to run out. Now that I look back, the way I strutted my stuff, in addition to the insufferable pride I took in my accomplishments, has to have been a major pain in the ass to everybody around me, recruits and drill instructors alike.
Part of my problem was that it never occurred to me that a man can be too gung-ho. While I was growing up on the farm in Minnesota, my parents had always refused to settle for anything less than the very best I could produce. Any grade less than an “A,” any laziness, truancy or tardiness, any back talk or disrespect—absolutely any behavior which was less than perfect—was sure to earn me a session in the shed with my father for a bare-assed whipping.
Not surprisingly, when you are raised with your “ass on the line” as I was, you just naturally fall into the habit of always doing your best and you tend to expect everybody around you to do the same. It was this trait of insufferable perfectionism which was at least partly responsible for my downfall in boot camp. Everything I was told to do, I tried to do better than everybody else—whether it was preparing for inspections, performing physical fitness tests, running obstacle courses, rappelling down a forty-five foot tower, blitzing the shit out of targets with my M-16 rifle, policing the barracks, scrubbing my boots, or just laundering my clothes. As my fellow boots became less and less friendly toward me, I just blew them off by asking myself why I gave a flying fuck about these lollygagging cocksuckers, anyway? This led to my becoming even more critical of what I considered to be their shitty attitudes and their half-assed efforts.
My world of unreality came to an end early one morning about three weeks into boot camp. My platoon was out on the field doing Physical Training when the number three hat walked up to the number two hat and whispered something in his ear. As soon as PT had been brought to a screeching halt the third hat screamed, “House Mouse! Front and Center!” After double-timing me back to the abandoned barracks, he took me into the D.I. shack, slammed the door and made me stand at attention in my T-shirt and shorts which were, by now, soaked with sweat. I knew I was in deep shit as he angrily paced the floor in front of me pounding his right fist into the palm of his left hand. Glaring at me malevolently he barked, “Now then, cocksucker! What did you do with my gold wristwatch which, when last I saw it, was in the pocket of that shirt hanging over there in that closet? I know it was there, and you know it was there, and I know you ripped it off! It was a birthday present from my wife and, goddammit, I want it back!”
I had always prided myself on having a hide only slightly thinner than that of a rhinoceros. Now, for once in my life, my cage was really rattled. It was all I could do to croak out, “Sir! No Sir! I haven’t seen your watch, Sir!” “And you’re a goddam motherfucking liar,” the D.I. screamed in my face. After a couple more ugly exchanges, the sergeant stopped pacing and looked me straight in the eye. “Okay, shitbrains, if you want that watch so goddam much you’re going to fucking pay for it. STRIP!”
When I was totally bare-assed, the sergeant produced a pair of handcuffs and cuffed my wrists behind my back. After bending me double with a couple breath-taking punches to my gut, he hollered, “On your knees on top of that footlocker, asshole.” Still winded by the blows to my belly, before I could grab enough air to gasp, “Aye, aye, Sir!” the sergeant’s knee connected with the crack of my ass sending me crashing into the footlocker. After I had scrambled to my knees on top of the box, the third hat stuffed my sweaty jockstrap into my mouth and then slammed my forehead down onto the top of the box with a sickening crack, leaving my bare ass sticking up in the air for whatever punishment he had in mind for it. As he bound my ankles tightly together with a webbed belt, the sergeant told me that a good ass-whipping would be just the perfect punishment for an uppity recruit who had also been caught stealing.
From past experience with my father, I had a pretty good idea of what I was in for when the sergeant went to the closet and returned with a black leather belt. Unlike the webbed “war belts” worn by the assistant D.I.s, this was one of those special leather belts which is worn only by the top hats as a symbol of their authority. After doubling the belt, the sergeant took his position behind me and said, “Now, cocksucker, you’re going to buy yourself a gold watch and I hope you’re going to think it’s fucking worth it when I’m finished with you!” The sergeant’s muscular right arm turned out to be every bit as lethal as my father’s, and I had to bite down hard on my sweat-soaked jock to keep from cracking, which was something I was determined not to do. I would see him in hell first.
When the sergeant had finished whipping me, he tossed the belt onto the rack and walked around to the other end of the footlocker. After jerking my head up by the ears, he ripped out the gag and delivered four stinging slaps to my face. Bending over so we were eyeball to eyeball, he informed me that, from then on, my smug, self-satisfied, know-it-all ass belonged to him and that he intended to keep on whipping it until he had broken me of acting like such a fucking big shot. “To look at you, one would think you was the fuckin’ Commandant of the whole damn Marine Corps. But you are wrong, scumbag, ‘cuz you ain’t nothin’ but a big piece of Texas-sized shit and don’t you ever forget it, cocksucker.” Then he told me something I had already figured out: that these little discipline sessions were strictly between him and me, and that if I ever said a word to a soul I would regret it bigtime. “In other words, motherfucker,” he sneered, “you can fuckin’ forget all that horseshit you heard from the big daddy about reporting us if you feel you’re being mistreated.” Then he added with a smirk, “…Because you’re not being mistreated. You’re just being disciplined and there’s a big fucking difference.”
I couldn’t help noticing that, all the time the sergeant was chewing my ass, the unmistakable bulge of his erect penis was pressing firmly against the front of his trousers. What was even more disturbing was the fact that, in spite of all the pain and humiliation, my own cock had become hard as a rock. This was confusing the shit out of me because, although I could recall having gotten erections while beating the pledges being initiated into the Young Roper’s Rodeo Club back home, I couldn’t remember ever having gotten one while being on the receiving end. I was also working overtime trying to deny the idea that the sergeant’s hard, masculine body might be having anything to do with my problem.
At the sergeant’s orders, after he had unbound my ankles, I backed my aching body off the box and onto my feet where I was made to stand at attention with my hands still cuffed behind my back. Unfortunately, there was no way I could hide the hard-on which was now bobbing up and down in front of me. Picking up the belt again, the sergeant began to slash at my stiff prick while screaming that, not only was I a “thieving, arrogant, know-it-all motherfucker,” but I was “a fucking goddam cock-sucking queer” as well. As the third hat rubbed his crotch obscenely, he told me that, at our next session, he was going to have a special treat for his cock-sucking, fairy maid. With this, he brought his knee up into my groin which scored a direct hit on my balls which instantly had me doubled over in excruciating pain. I was pretty badly shaken by the time the third hat let me dress and sent me back to join the platoon, and I was real aware that I was getting some curious stares from the troops.
After that, for the remainder of my boot camp career, I got “front and centered” regular as clockwork once a week for another session on the foot locker.
Even though the third hat’s gold watch had reappeared on his wrist two days later, nothing was ever said about its magical reappearance—which came as no surprise to me since I had suspected all along that he had just used the watch as an excuse to bust my ass. I don’t have any idea as to how he explained his taking me off alone to the other drill instructors, although it may have been as simple as telling them that I needed some private one-on-one discipline. This would not have seemed all that unusual given the fact that the most common form of punishment dished out to recruits was known as “quarterdecking,” which consisted of taking a man out to the pits and putting him through some real strenuous IPT (Incentive Physical Training).
In our subsequent sessions together, my first duty was always to see that the door to the D.I. shack got locked, even though the sergeant always chose a time when the barracks would be empty. This was just an added precaution to insure privacy since, after whipping my ass, the sergeant would invariably drop his trousers and skivvy-shorts and shove his big uncut prick into my mouth. Since I had no hair to grab, the sergeant would use my ears as handles as he fucked my face. Sometimes he would make me suck his cock until he had pumped his salty load down my throat. Other days, he would pull out after he was good and hard and fuck my ass while I was still kneeling, cuffed and bound on the footlocker.
The beatings I could handle, but there was something really infuriating about being sexually violated and used like a goddam woman or slave which, I suppose, was exactly what the sergeant had in mind. I had always prided myself on being able to take my punishment like a man, but this shit was unbearably humiliating. Nevertheless, I had been brought up always to submit to authority and, while this probably kept me out of the brig—either from deserting or trying to beat the living shit out of my sergeant—it did absolutely nothing to relieve the feelings of hatred and rage I felt toward him. The whole thing was so fucking unfair.
As for my perpetually rosy red ass, I refused to lie about it. The couple of times it got mentioned, I just blew it off without really explaining anything and nothing more was ever said. I suspect that most of my fellow boots were smart enough to figure out that the third had had a thing for me and was fucking me over. But, besides that, most of them probably thought I had it coming, anyway.
The truth is that I managed to keep the troops from ever seeing the evidence of the worst beating I got which happened the night before my platoon’s graduation from boot camp. Unfortunately, for me, it was the third hat’s turn to sleep over in the barracks. As I think back on it now, the thrashing I got that night was probably brought on by the sergeant’s utter frustration at not having been able to break me during our previous sessions.
I woke up in the middle of the night with the third hat’s big hand clamped tightly over my mouth. After being quickly hustled out of the sack, I was marched, still wearing only my T-shirt and shorts, out of the barracks and over to a windowless, soundproof office in an empty building nearby. As soon as he had bolted the door from the inside, the sergeant turned on his heel and said, “Okay, motherfucker, get out of your shorts, but leave your skivvy-shirt on ‘cause I’m going to give you a little graduation present to remember me by.”
Pulling some strands of rope from a desk drawer, the sergeant jackknifed me over the back of a heavy wooden desk chair and tied my wrists and ankles tightly to the four legs of the chair. As soon as he had made certain my bonds were secure, the sergeant yanked my skivvy-shirt up and over my head until the back of it formed a hood which stretched tightly over my face. Before covering my head, the sergeant had picked up the black riding crop he was going to use on me and had taken sadistic pleasure in demonstrating its attributes. Without a doubt it was one of the nastiest crops I’d ever seen. Most of the ones we had used on the ranch had little black flicker-type leather flaps on the ends which were relatively harmless. By contrast, this sucker, in addition to being unusually pliable, had a six to eight inch braided stinger cord attached to the end. I knew I was really in for it when the sergeant announced in a flat, cold voice: “Now listen up, motherfucker, and hear me good. This is the night I am going to break your bullheaded ass. It is going to happen and there is not a goddam thing you can do to stop it, so the sooner you get this through that thick skull of yours, the easier it’ll be on you. Just remember that the degree to which you get hurt tonight is going to be in direct proportion to the length of time it takes you to shed some real tears of remorse. You read me, motherfucker?”
Although I had been taught all my life to be obedient, I was more determined than ever that this son-of-a-bitch was not going to break me. If my own father hadn’t been able to do this, I sure as hell wasn’t going to award the honor to any fucking asshole D.I. Consequently, my stubbornness caused me to make a foolish mistake. I said, “Sir! No, Sir! You may do anything you wish to me, Sir, but you are not going to break me, Sir!”
I could scarcely have done anything more stupid if I had pulled the pin on a live grenade and shoved it up my ass. Enraged, the sergeant raised the crop in the air and started slashing at my ass and upper thighs. As the stinger cord bit viciously into my flesh, I realized that, this time, whether I liked it or now, the sergeant was the one in control and that what he wanted to happen was very likely going to happen.
When, finally, he came up for air, the sergeant laid the crop down and walked around in front of me. Temporarily peeling back the T-shirt from over my eyes, he jerked my head up by the ears forcing me to look him directly in the eye. “Haven’t you gotten the picture yet, turdbrain?” he sneered. “I’m gonna keep whippin’ your sorry ass ‘till sunup if necessary, or until I see some tears of genuine repentance—whichever comes first.” Then he added, “And I’ll also be expecting to hear you tell me how ashamed and sorry you are for having been such a conceited, arrogant, motherfucking pain in the ass to the whole fuckin’ platoon.”
With that, the sergeant picked up the crop and announced that we were going to start all over again. Only this time, instead of being allowed to brace myself with my teeth clenched tightly together, I was made to shout out the count with, “Sir! One, Sir! Thank you, Sir!” as the blows came raining down at such a rapid rate that I was barely able to keep up.
After another twenty-five searing cuts of the crop, I was starting to lose control of my voice and was trying desperately to kick my bound legs in a futile effort to relieve the pain. Finally, at thirty, I completely lost control. “Please, Sir! Please stop,” I screamed almost incoherently. “Negative, motherfucker,” the sergeant hissed breathlessly, landing another cut on my ass. “You haven’t had enough ‘til I hear you say, ‘Sir! You have broken this worthless piece of stupid, arrogant shit. I am truly ashamed of myself and am sorry for my past behavior and I thank you for teaching me a much-needed lesson in humility, Sir!’”
Rather than stopping the whipping to give me a chance to say what he wanted me to say, the sergeant lapsed into a frenzy and began slashing at me harder and faster than ever. Sensing that he had gone completely berserk and was on the verge of chopping my ass up into hamburger, I finally surrendered and through clenched teeth managed to choke out those god-awful, humiliating words. To my dismay, the whipping did not stop even then. Instead, the sergeant began to beat me even more furiously than before. As embarrassing as it is to have to admit it, by the time he abruptly stopped beating me, I had totally lost control of my bladder and had splattered the back of the chair and the floor around me with urine and had soaked the T-shirt covering my face with tears.
The third hat did not make me suck his cock that night. Instead, he left my head covered, dropped his pants and skivvies, and slipped his spit-lubed prick up my mangled ass. When he had finished fucking me, I was allowed to slip my shorts back on. After cleaning up the puddle of piss with my own shirt, I was made to wear it as I was marched silently back to the barracks. I had been ordered to shower immediately and to put on clean skivvies so there would be no need of publicly exposing my pulverized ass to the troops in the morning.
As my tormentor turned into the door of the D.I. hut, he paused just long enough to whisper “Happy graduation, cocksucker.” It was then that I realized why the sergeant had been unable to stop beating me even after I had broken down and “confessed my sins.” From the large wet spot on the front of his trousers, it was obvious that he had worked himself into such a state of sexual excitement that he had come in his pants while whipping me.
The next morning I, along, with the rest of my platoon, looking splendid in our new uniforms, graduated from boot camp and were finally recognized as full-fledged Marines. As I glanced up into the bleachers where my proud parents were sitting, the satisfaction I should have felt was somewhat dulled by the pain still throbbing under my trousers. I had been careful to wear two pairs of skivvy-shorts to keep any bloodstains from seeping through. Even though I was no longer under his jurisdiction, the malevolent stares of the third hat coming my way through his mirrored sunglasses were more than enough to keep me seething with hatred. You can bet your sweet ass that I didn’t shed any tears when, a few months later, I learned that he had finally managed to get his ass in a sling over an incident involving another recruit—some mama’s boy who hadn’t been so reluctant to risk bucking the system.
These experiences in boot camp made me determined that I would never again allow myself to be on the receiving end of anybody’s abuse. This was probably the single most important factor which influenced my decision to put in for the MPs, a maneuver which ultimately resulted in my being assigned as a guard in one of the USMC’s nastier brigs. Thanks to my father and my sergeant, I had accumulated a real shitload of simmering anger which desperately needed venting. As fate would have it, I was about to stumble upon a very convenient outlet for my rage. Brig duty. And it was like locking up an alcoholic in a liquor store.
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