Basic Training Bitch


Back in 1966, during the Vietnam War, my college deferment missed the deadline, and I got a draft notice. Damn!

I went through the processing center in Salt Lake City and got stamped as “Acceptable.” They gave me a date to show up at the bus station for the ride to a new life as a soldier. Damn!

When I learned the basic training fort was near the ocean, and since I had a couple of weeks before Basic Training began, I told them I would travel to the camp by myself to spend a few vacation days at the beach before reporting in. And trying to decide if I wanted to make a run for the Canadian border.

I got a room in a motel in the town near the fort and spent my last few days as a civilian swimming and sunning myself on the sand. Getting drunk in the bars at night. Never could quite bring myself to slink off to Canada, but I added a few brands to my collection. Branding is my hobby.

The first Saturday at the beach, I lay back watching all the skin when I noticed a great, big guy walk by and spread out a towel nearby. I figured he was 10 or 15 years older, and was he ever an ugly fucker! Physically he was gigantic, muscular, very masculine — a man’s man. He stood about 6’4″ and I guessed a good 200 pounds.

But his face. Ugly face. Ugly face! A pug nose like it had been broken or something. Bushy brown eyebrows on thick brows; massive, square jaw. Thick lips. Brutish forehead. His brown hair was cut very short, like a trucker or some wife-beater redneck type. He looked like a cave man with a crewcut.

He was built like a brick shithouse — awesome, broad shoulders. A big chest with jutting pecs like overhanging cliffs. Big aureoles maybe three inches across, and his nipples stuck out like little fingertips. Not an ounce of fat. A hard belly with a six-pack of defined muscle. He wore a blue boxer-type swimming suit.

What a stud. The longer I watched him, the more I decided to make a play for him. Get myself another brand.

Maybe a little more about myself here would explain the situation a little better:

I stand 6’6″, and I’ve always been big. I was a big kid, and working on my father’s ranch all my life, I got even bigger. And I was pretty strong.

In school I got into football and wrestling and joined a kung-fu dojo. I got good at it — black belt by the age of 16. Ever since I was a tiny child, I got my own way with other kids, and long before I got to high school, I figured I deserved it.

About that time I discovered I liked boys better than girls. For one thing, boys were easier to control: a boy could hit, wrestle, fight, and horseplay with another boy — not socially forbidden, actually encouraged! — so I did. And one thing always led to another.

I loved to overpower the other guy to the point I could pull down his pants and jam my hard pecker up his tight, panicked asshole. The screams and crying added to my pleasure: total conquest.

After plugging a few guys, I discovered something interesting: when I forced my way into a guy’s ass, I could go two ways — (1) the usual, lunge, pound, and cum, leaving him crying and collapsed in complete defeat, or (2) fuck him slowly — break him in gently, and that took a little experience to learn.


fuck usually meant the kid would go the other way whenever he saw me coming. But those I gave the

astonished me by letting me do them again whenever I wanted.

One other thing: I was the big guy, the king, biggest guy in the school, even bigger than the teachers. And I liked other big guys.

To fuck a little guy wasn’t fair. Too easy. No challenge. No sense of conquest.

I always went after the biggest guys I saw. I “specialized” in breaking the big ones. The maximum buzz was to subdue a big linebacker, to feel him fighting it but finally giving in to my cock sliding in and out of his ass.

My favorite part was to feel him snap, to feel him relax, maybe even to lunge back at me with his hips. He was mine when he gave in to the pleasure. Surrendered to me.

After a

, the guy would always be available. Never turn me down. Drop his pants for me any time I could get him alone. Almost a dozen of the biggest guys in my high school would meet me anytime to feel my cock stretching their asses.

I even had a coach in my harem: Coach McIngim made the mistake of walking into the showers to wash up late one afternoon while I was the only one there. I decided I liked the look of him — brick-shaped torso, chest and belly covered with coarse blond hair, nice cock, big, chiseled cockhead.

About the time he said hello, I grabbed him and threw him off-balance. To cut a long story short, I overpowered him in the showers, even though he outweighed me, and before he knew it, I had him pinned against the wall, kicking his legs apart with my knees, and working my cock into his ass-crack.

I had learned the technique: the first time, go slow, very slow. It hurts, so the longer I take, the more he can stand it — and if I get him to canlı bahis enjoy it, he’s mine.

Coach McIngim was easy. He struggled and fought, cussing me and threatening to call the cops, but as he leaned against the shower room wall, breathing hard, his arms pinned by mine and his legs spread apart, my hip motions wiped my cockhead up and down his ass-crack, searching, hunting, nudging until I felt something give way.

Poor Coach McIngim, we had only the shower water and some soapsuds for lube. He fought, trying to wrench away his hips, but I was young and horny, and I was stronger.

I kept myself clamped onto him, pressing my cockhead against his asshole until he screamed, and I forced it open. He was damned tight, but gradually I wriggled my cockhead inside him.

Again, to cut a long story short, slowly, inch by inch, I sank my cock into him to the balls then slowly withdrew it — and just as slowly sank it in again.

It always works. If you can keep the first-time agony from overcoming him and turning the rape into a 100% turn-off, his guts will adjust and stretch, and sooner or later, he will give in to the pleasure — and the rape becomes a gimme. When they surrender, they always say the same thing: “Oh, God!”

Coach McIngim snapped. “Oh, God!” I knew his asshole was delivering pleasure instead of pain, and after that he broke quickly. Soon I felt him go into an orgasm, and when he climaxed, his cock actually spouted coach-sperm chest-high against the shower room wall.

“Now you’re mine, Coachie,” I murmured behind his ear. “You just cummed from my cock in your ass.”

He was breathing hard, his heart thumping. “Yeah,” he gasped, “oh, yeah!”

Then he gave in completely. Still leaning against the wet wall, he bent over and spread his legs wider, giving his ass to me in any way I wanted it.

I knew he was still in near-ecstasy, coasting on the long, sustained high of my fucking, so I let myself go and went after my own climax. I forgot anything gentle and jackhammered him with vicious lunges. I knew I was bruising his ass, but he was too far gone to care. He wanted it. His mouth hung open, drooling.

When I finished and stood back from him, pulling out my cock and watching the stream of my jizz running down his leg, he looked back at me with a pitiful little smile. “Fabulous,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Again. Do me again.” He sank to his knees and slumped over into an exhausted pile of naked male flesh.

And I got an idea! I ran to my locker and got my keychain. On it was a miniature aluminum bottle opener and a small cigarette lighter. Holding the bottle opener with a washcloth, I heated it with the cigarette lighter.

I knelt behind Coach McIngim, and with a sudden lunge, I jammed the fiery hot bottle opener against his ass on the inside of his thigh right next to his still-drooling asshole. As the flesh sizzled, he let out a scream and jumped away, but it was too late.

From my days branding cattle on my father’s ranch, I knew the brand would last — a little hook-mark like the check a teacher puts on a student’s English essay. “You’re mine, Coachie. Carrying my brand.”

And I’ll be damned. The horny old bastard started getting a hardon in spite of the searing pain near his asshole.

Coach McIngim was a sometime, anytime thing as long as I was in high school. I fucked him everywhere: in the locker room, on his desk, in the swimming pool, on the team bus. Once or twice I even made him service other guys on the football team.

From then on, I branded every man I turned into one of my bitches. I got a couple more big high school guys, then I graduated. I check-marked a couple of big cowboys on my father’s ranch, but then the Army got me: “Greetings from the President!” I was drafted.

As I watched the ugly man on the beach, I decided to break in a new beach-bitch, my first brand outside my home state. Toward the end of the afternoon, the man got up and threw his beach towel over his shoulder. I got up as he started trudging back along the path through the bushes to the distant parking lot.

When we were out of sight of either the beach or the road, I walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t hurry off so soon. We should get acquainted.”

He turned and threw a punch at my face, but I blocked it easily and grabbed his arms. With a hip-block, I got him off balance, then I got a grip around his waist. He threw me back, and I let go, but as I did, I gripped the waistband of his swimming suit, and as he weight of his body pulled away, it ripped and came away in a strip of blue nylon as he fell.

I dived on him and got him in a headlock. I hooked one arm under his knee and pulled up the leg, rolling him up into a ball. He was helpless, gnashing his teeth and swearing. “Goddamn bastard! . . . I’ll . . . kill ya!”

When I moved between his legs, releasing his head to let him fall back, he kicked and fought like a Patton tank, but I had a good grip on either bahis siteleri knee, maneuvering them over my shoulders and gripping his thighs with all my might. For as viciously as he fought, straightening out his torso and writhing, he couldn’t shake me off, and slowly, powerfully, unceasingly my hips moved closer to his.

I love to overpower a man. To pit my strength against his. To feel him exert his full energy against mine — and be forced back.

That guy was tough. Toughest I’d ever met, and once or twice he had me worried. One strong son of a bitch!

But I got him. Finally on his back, his legs raised, feet in the air, his was asshole aimed at my crotch, and for all the fury of his fight and the rage of his struggles, he came to know there was no escape.

What a fight! I knelt between his upraised legs, and in spite of his writhing, I wiped my cockhead up and down his ass-crack, as usual. He fought like a madman, wrenching away his hips, desperate to escape, but I got my cockhead against his tight asshole, and I pressed.

“Annghh!” he croaked, and I knew it hurt. He was damned tight, but gradually I forced my cockhead inside him, and I held it there to let him adjust. “My cock’s . . . in your ass, man . . . Got your cherry.” He wrenched and struggled.

“I know it hurts . . . always does the first time . . . the more you struggle . . . worse the pain . . . relax . . . you’ll get used to it”

After a few minutes I pushed in a few more inches. Again he stiffened in pain, and again I paused to let him feel his ass-ring slowly rounding out to accept me.

“Goddamn bastard,” he gasped, “I’ll kill ya if it’s the last thing I ever do!!”

“No, you’re going to be begging me for it.” I sank in another couple of inches. “Relax, man. You’ve now got a man’s cock up your ass. It gets easier now.”

I could tell he was in pain, and I think in sheer self-defense he gradually relaxed a little — his asshole loosened its vice-grip around my cock momentarily, then again and again, and I slowly slid in a couple more inches. He was panting, staring up at me, his eyes dark with fury.

I gave him another jab, then another, and another, and finally, “I’m in you, man. To the balls. Your ass is now mine.”

Since he was relaxing (or trying to) and our body-angle (his legs spread wide and my cock up his ass) put him at a disadvantage for self-defense, I leaned forward, bringing my chest over his and gouging my cock in even deeper.

“Evil,” he hissed. “Goddamn unnatural!”

Then I played the Ace. A man’s first cock hurts like hell going in, but once his cherry is busted, the out-stroke is exactly the opposite — pure pleasure! I slowly began to pull out, and the man sucked in his breath with astonishment. Slowly, sensually, my prick slid over his asshole (taut as a banjo string), generating electric jolts of pleasure with every millimeter.

“Oh, God . . . oh, no!”

I tantalized him with a long, slow withdrawal, then I started the in-stroke again — slow, seductive, commanding his body to respond. His mouth fell open in a daze. Happens every time. Never knew his asshole could bring such pleasure. I could almost hear him snap.

I thrust in and out again, in and out, in and out, and sure enough, his struggles ceased, his eyes closed, and his breathing grew labored — but from lust, not anger. Suddenly his hands dropped from trying to scratch and punch me, and they clenched helplessly in the sand, knotting up balls of dirt, trying to get a grip.

I began to command his body, regardless of what his brain wanted. His hips were lunging back at me, working with me, matching my strokes. His body obeyed me, and he was powerless to resist.

He lay under me in a terrible enjoyment, his mind on fire with contradictions. “You want it,” I croaked. “You’re going to be my bitch. I’m going to fuck you . . . and you’re going to beg me for it!” I like to twist the knife.

“Never! I’ll die first!!”

The mind is the last thing to go. I fucked him in short, deep, violent strokes, driving into him with passion, jabbing as deep in his guts as I could possibly reach. His eyes stared into mine with hatred, but also with growing wonder and excitement. As my length retreated from him and pushed back in, his torture reached a peak. I knew his orgasm was trying to start, but the poor man was forcing it down, trying to save himself the humiliation of cumming for his new master.

But my cock showed him no mercy, sliding back and forth, fucking away his last defense. I looked down and saw his balls pull up tight to his groin — sure sign of an approaching climax — and I kept up the pace, fucking him, teaching him a new experience, building up the agony of an approaching orgasm, fucking away any escape.

Then suddenly I stopped.

Panting like a racehorse, he looked up at me with astonishment.

“Say it, man,” I said in a low voice. “Say it.”

He shut his mouth angrily . . . but his hips lurched bahis şirketleri against my cock, trying to sink it in again. Still I held back.

Panting so hard he could hardly talk, he reached down with both hands and pulling his legs even farther back, spreading them, opening himself up even more. “Okay . . . bastard . . . you got me . . . go ahead . . . FINISH!”

I slid in. Slowly. Tantalizing him. I stopped again. “Say it.”

“All right, all right, you goddamned bastard! FUCK ME!!”

I let myself go, lunging into him with full-length rams, slamming our pelvic bones together, out of my fucking mind. He had one more step to take, and I could see it coming. I drilled his butt with his eager cooperation, working toward my own climax, and after another maybe 10 minutes of hard fucking, I gave him some verbal nudges to push him over the edge.

“Now I got you,” I gasped, “Gonna fill your ass with my cum . . . and you’ll be my bitch!”

That flipped his trigger. Confuse and jostle a man to the point his orgasm comes from his asshole, not his cock, and his thinking changes. He’s a bitch from then on. Never seen it fail. If I can get a guy to cum from my fucking, not jacking himself as we go along, he’ll turn into a total cum-slut.

My big guy felt his balls pass the Point of No Return, and as his orgasm grew, I knew his last independent thought faded away in a forest fire of submission. I could almost hear my chains clang shut around him.

As he fell into the abyss, sinking forever into the glory of his orgasm, his eyes dilated with lust and stared into mine. “Take me! Oh, God, do it! DO IT! MAKE ME A BITCH! FUCK ME!” A strange man’s cock set fire to his asshole, and his cock spurted his white dick-liquor all over his chest in gigantic globs.

That did it for me. With a final ram I let nature take over, slamming my hips against his, driving my crank into him so deep he had to feel it in the back of his throat, and I wallowed in the glorious, delicious thrill of my jizz pulsing out into his hot guts. God, I love the first fuck in a new bitch.

I lay against him in ecstasy. When I could finally talk, I murmured in his ear. “Feel that? My cum is in you like a signature.” He wriggled slightly. “I own you, man.” He opened his eyes, but the hatred was gone. They were filled with wonder.

I lurched my softening cock in his tender ass. “You’re my bitch. Whenever I want you.” He gasped but said nothing. His asshole clenched around my cock. With affection.

“Whenever I want you, right?”

He signed the contract. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah.”

Finally I softened too much to stay in him, so I pulled out. A slither of my cum ran out of his ass. “Tighten your ass!” My voice was hard. “That’s my jizz in there! Hold it in until it soaks into your body!”

As I watched, his stretched-open A-hole clenched shut. His head fell back, his eyes closed. Still in his afterglow. He didn’t hear what I was doing between his legs until–

“YEOWCH!!” He leaped away from me, but right next to his asshole was the burned flesh of his check-mark brand.

“My brand, bitch. Whenever you look at your ass in a mirror, you’ll see who you belong to.” I stood up, picked up my swimming suit, and pulled it on. “Your ass is mine, bitch. From now on, you will cum only from feeling my cock in your ass.” Then I strode away. I never expected to see the guy again.

All the “your ass is mine” speeches were for effect, to burn away any thoughts he might have of withstanding me and going back to “normal.” For the rest of his life the man would go through his days watching for “the man who owns my ass.” Just chalk it up to one last little torture. I chuckled to myself. What a dork he was.

I signed in at the fort the next morning and joined the millions of men who had gone through the paperwork, medical exams, shots, uniform issue, boot fittings, and finally the trip in an Army truck to the Basic Training company.

The instant we got there we were met by screaming sergeants, raving at us to run here, run there, pick up this, put down that, and general pandemonium. When they finally got us into a sort of formation, our drill sergeants introduced themselves.

My jaw dropped when my platoon’s drill sergeant started barking at us: “My name is Sergeant Lowen! I do not like you! You do not like me!”

Sergeant Lowen was a great, big guy maybe 10 or 15 years older than I and he was one ugly fucker — gigantic, muscular, very masculine — a man’s man about 6’4″ and a good 200 pounds. And an ugly face with a pug nose, bushy brown eyebrows on thick brows, and a massive, square jaw. He looked like a cave man.

My bitch!!

I stood at attention as he walked through the ranks, inspecting the troops. When he came to me, I saw his mouth drop open in shock then instantly snap shut. He read my name tag. “Private Galman. Any experience with the military, Galman?”

“Well, I didn’t think so, but I guess I had some yesterday.” I lowered my voice. “I met a bitch.”

He looked at me grimly. “I’ll bet you did.” And he walked on.

Later in the day I got a notice to report to the drill sergeant’s office. When I walked in, he was alone, sitting behind his desk.

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