Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

BELLY OF THE BEAST: Pt 5 The Magic Word

Barefoot, clad in a scratchy white shift and men’s boxers held up at my waist by a safety pin, I appeared at the checkpoint outside the shack, officially The Reception Center behind the wheel of the government vehicle Sergeant Meyers and I had been issued to transfer rejects to Health Services.

“Warbler,” the guard on duty exclaimed, “You’re overdue. I have instructions to bring you before Captain Front Hole right away.”

‘Captain Front Hole’ was one of those terms I found difficult to adjust to since my induction into National Service, a couple of months ago.

A couple of months ago! Time flies such as it will. It is hard to believe that only a couple of months had passed since the massive call – up that swept me from ‘normal’ life — It feels like an eternity.

Front hole was one of those words I learned in mil-speak but might wish I hadn’t.

My friend and companion who had volunteered to accompany me on the ‘Survival — Escape — Evasion’ exercise, sturdy, stubby SSG Abagail Meyers had explained, “Front Hole’ is a female in command. We couldn’t very well call her the ‘Old man.'”

It was hard not to laugh along with Sergeant Meyers. From the tip of her tongue would slide off the expression that defined the situation.

There was only one final test that stood between our — Meyers’ and my release from active duty (REFRAD) to return to school to study Industrial Psychology: survival, escape and evasion. Sergeant Meyers put her trust in me by volunteering to shepherd me through the exercise. “Circumstances,” Sergeant Donna Meyers advised, “require an adaption of our usual drill dropping you off naked in the wilderness with a comrade to escape capture and find the way for you and your companion to return to home station. It is possible that the adapted form of this exercise might be tougher. Regardless, it’s an integrity test of faith and trust.”

Yet, I managed to return to the Reception Center. And what about Meyers who volunteered to help me? I came back without her.

Returning alone to the Reception Center several days overdue, I was ushered into the Captain’s quarters, an oversized closet with olive green aluminum walls. “Ma’am,” I reported, “I managed to escape confinement by at the Health Services facility (HHS) on the sixth floor at St Stephen Martyr Hospital (SSM) and recover government property, the deuce-and-half at the cost of my personal property and Sergeant Meyers’ and Sergeant Meyers herself.”

The Survival, Escape and Evasion Exercise (SEEE) was a test of wits, faith and trust. I felt — Heck I knew — I had failed — Sergeant Meyers had not been liberated. Having volunteered to accompany me on this exercise, Meyers was still confined on the sixth floor of the hospital facility. The opportunity came to me to flee. No heroics were involved. I simply walked through an unguarded exit. Health Services Facility (HHS) personnel standing guard over the exit deserted her post to spend the night at her home a few blocks away from the hospital. “Certainly, no Marine potential there,” I told Captain Front Hole.

Even sitting cross — legged in her dimpled cotton underwear in the privacy of her own quarters on her own ‘rack,’ Captain was stiff and formal. Her brunette hair was rigidly tied back in a bun. “And Meyers?” Captain Front Hole, sitting cross-legged with her electronic notebook in front of her, prompted me.

I gulped. My own words struck at me. Was I any better? I thought of myself, not the team or the mission. I left Meyers behind when I scooted scot – free. I had not brought SSG Abbie Meyers home. I had failed to keep faith with Meyers and justify her trust in me. “Ma’am, Meyers is held,” I responded, “in a Health services (HHS) Psychological experiment by power. Meyer’s become a prisoner of her own device. Meyers is held on the 6th floor of a psycho drama by the power the HHS director has given Meyers over others on the Sixth Floor ward,” I replied.

How was it possible that Meyers was taken in by an illusion? Meyers was one of the smartest persons I knew.

Both Meyers and I had been taken while we delivering rejects from the shack that house the Induction or Reception Center. Meyers had put up such a fight when HHS personnel attempted to force her to strip off her uniform that they had to seal her away in isolation. Meyers was held naked, isolated inside a padded cell when the hospital director solicited Meyers, “I need a good drill sergeant to motivate the dregs the Induction Centers send Health Services.”

“A handful of Certified Physical Therapists, a RN or two, Health Care Associates, and other untrained personnel,” Meyers chuckled, “aren’t equal to the task of whipping these people into some kind of shape.”

“Sounds like Meyers is where she’s needed the most. And your concern?” the Captain asked.

“Ma’am, I fear it may be a dead end for Meyers,” I answered, “She’s giving up her only true love, the corps. Meyers had hopes of getting Kadıköy travesti a degree to qualify for promotion to Marine Lieutenant.”

“Warbler, happily, the hysteria with which National Service was aggressively forced upon people like you under 40 has abated,” the captain sitting in her sweat — stained, olive green underwear on her sack in her quarters in the reception center spoke softly. Many of my own Marines still held beyond their ETS (Estimated Termination of Service — ie release) date by the declaration of a National Emergency would kill for the REFRAD (release from Active Duty) papers I’m authorized to hand you.”

I shook my head. There was much I did not understand about my months in Service Support fulfilling a national service obligation. The draft which swept up me, my husband and many others sent me into a strange world of acronyms, euphemisms and inconsistencies where women called each other politely by their last names; otherwise the girls addressed each other as cunts. Smiling, Meyers taught, “Cunt means tough, powerful.”

My husband Jerry would belt out a dirty little ditty, as he forced my legs apart to intrude. “Blood bubbling // Back stooping // Void stretching // Port unlatching.” Breathing heavily Jerry posed a rhetorical question: “Who has the power, him who penetrates or her who allows it? Women can be as sassy as men are brassy.”

Meyers asked me, “what powerful man would dare insinuate intact men into their inner circle? They collect cunts. Cunts survive when the world turns upside down; nice girls can’t survive the dislocation of an upheaval.”

Supposedly all this dislocation would alleviate a tidal wave of unemployment and boost private sector wages. When separated, many young couples stood to lose much of what they had houses and cars,

“Likely,” Captain continued, “many inductees will be released unconditionally from service obligations in the days, months and year ahead — without the ordeal of the survival — escape and evasion exercise you have completed. Command sent me more service support people than space to accommodate them. The result for many classified for service support was a trip to an induction center, a week in detention for testing and classification and a return home to await instructions.”

“If it had only worked out so easily for me and my husband Jerry,” I sighed, “I classified as service support, assigned here at the shack, and allowed to live at home. Jerry, because of former service, made it back into the Marine Corps and was sent away eh–the correct term was shipped out.”

“Well, Warbler as it stands at the moment, you made it back to the Reception Shack, successfully completing the survival escape and evasion exercise without loss of government property,” The Captain, leaning forward in her loose fitting dimpled sleeveless T shirt, revealing two rock solid small breasts planted on a muscular chest, congratulated me, “Now that you successfully branch qualified in Service Support, I have orders releasing you to return to school to complete your degree in Industrial psychology. Exit Time Suitcase, you can be out of here.”

“– and Sergeant Meyers?” I asked, “How can I just go my merry way, shove Meyers out of my mind, and leave her confined? Ma’am, I haven’t kept the faith in a corps member and the trust she placed in me. I can’t take leave Meyers behind.”

“A marine would not,” the Captain insisted, “but you’re not a Marine, Warbler. Service Support personnel, like you, can’t be held to our high standards of keeping faith and demonstrating trust.” Offering me discharge orders with her congratulations, Captain urged me, “Treat this as mission accomplished, Warbler. You’re eligible for official release by your service support branch.” Tilting her head with her brunette stretched taut across her scalp as if considering something, Captain added, “Now, Warbler, you’re free to go.”

“Can’t I go back and retrieve Sergeant Meyers?” I pled.

“If Meyers tough as a bull dog has been transfixed by power, how can a puny little thing like you force her to come back to reality?” Captain’s voice trailed off.

When approached by her captors, Meyers, though naked with bulbous breasts fastened to a muscle-bound torso, was as composed and confident as if she were in her pressed dress uniform with bold yellow stripes and two rockers.

Power is an aphrodisiac. I remember the look on Meyers’ face. Held naked in a padded Isolation cell, Meyers dictated the conditions upon which she would accept responsibility for training. “Training personnel would be my Department,” Meyers thundered, “Even Dr Velour, Health Services director at St Stevens Martyr (SSM) must obey me.”

I was shocked. Before Meyers’ captors accepted the terms Meyers dictated, holding Meyers required force, strong orderlies, locks and secure walls. Now the power to run this training exercise conferred on Meyers bound her to confinement on the sixth floor more effectively than the strongest Kadıköy travestileri chains.

“If only there was a magic word,” I lamented, “to release Meyers from this trap.”

“I see — I take it you and Meyers had something going on.” Was the captain was probing or did she already know?

Likely, Captain knew. We lived in a fishbowl, fully exposed. With a pained smile, the Captain, opening her notebook to the nude photos taken of me on induction, in front of me, continued, “Separated from your husband you promised to stick to girls. It’s an interesting way of expressing loyalty.”

“That’s correct ma’am,” I agreed, “open, honest, nothing to hide.”

From the time of appearing at the Induction Center, the shack, for induction, I found myself fully exposed to an extent which would be considered intrusive in the workaday world. At reporting in Meyer’s fierce black eyes fell upon me. Her penetrating glare made me feel that my clothes were burnt off and I was already standing at the head of the line naked before the order rang in my ears, “Warbler, Amy Serial number AW — 2029 — UU — F — 49651, strip bare ass naked, Inductee Warbler, everything off including your undies, if you remembered to wear them. Hand each item you remove to the guard.” As I pulled my husband Jerry’s grey T — shirt over my head and unsnapped my bra, I watched the guard turn the shirt inside out to inspect the seams of T — shirt and caress the cups of my bra.

Unshod, pants off, thong dropped, I was struck with Meyer’s question: “age at menstruation, last period and first act and most recent intercourse, number of partners?” I took a breath before I acknowledged “14 or 15 first period, Sergeant Meyers, last period two weeks ago, first act of intercourse 17, last act of intercourse,” I sighed, “one month ago, one male partner.”

Briefly giving me the once over, Sergeant Meyers entered her appraisal in her notebook, “clean but a little raggy, underarms shaved clean, pussy hairs trimmed, legs sheered, hmm odd for a first timer.” Looking at her electronic notebook, Sergeant Meyer asked. “You lost a job as an Industrial Psychologist.”

“… In a fertility clinic, Sergeant Meyers,” I interjected.

Taken aback, Meyers hesitated for a moment before she continued, “I’m sure you have some interesting stories to tell…”

“Psychological profiles, Sergeant Meyers,” I corrected her.

Eyes widened, pushing her chair back as if she was going to rise up to reprove me, Meyers took a breath before she resumed, “I see the degree in Industrial Psychology, but I see no PhD.” Meyer’s penetrating black eyes seared through me. When I didn’t respond, an annoyed tone entered her voice, “Well do you?”

“No, eh–Sergeant Meyers,” I replied. “I didn’t complete the degree.”

Making a note, Meyer muttered, “Too, bad. Warbler, I could have released you pending direct appointment into Support Services. Fertility clinic, hmm. We’ll talk further about this, Warbler.” Gruffly, Meyers dismissed me, “But right now, I got more Daddy’s girls to process.”

Even if I hadn’t guessed from the expressions of other uniformed personnel assisting Sergeant Meyers, I would later learn that I had violated military etiquette. subordinates do not so blatantly interrupt and correct a superior.

Given the faux pas who could have foreseen that Sergeant Meyers would have hatched a plan for the two of us to return to school? These plans could now be foiled by rival bureaucracies working at cross — purposes.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler,” I asked the Captain, “If you simply gave me my discharge papers, allowed me to go home and retrieve Sergeant Meyers in the morning?”

“Still, once discharge is issued, I have no authority to allow you to return — to perform duties, like retrieving Sergeant Meyers,” Captain resolved.

“I suppose it would make too much sense.” Frustration filed my voice. I wrung my hands.

“Unless…” Captain began. When I pressed, the Captain added, “you could ask for a branch transfer to the corps. Your PT scores and rifle range scores would qualify you. The risk is Health and Human Service’s (HHS ) request for a permanent change of station (PCS) for you — permanently — and its request to hold Meyers pending conclusion of an exercise… Approval of change of station orders transferring you to Health Services before you get back here to the Reception shack to accept your discharge orders could lose you the release to return to school. You’d could find yourself committed to remain in HHS.”

“And if Meyers is held by Health Services (HHS) past her scheduled release date,” I inquired.

“Meyers would,” the Captain replied, “lose the grant to return to school.”

There was much that baffled me about quasi military life during my months in Service Support fulfilling a national service obligation. It was the convoluted manner in which decisions were made and executed. “Wouldn’t it be easier,” I asked the Captain, “if you Travesti kadıköy just held my papers, delayed recording my discharge, and allowed me to return to HHS to walk Sergeant Meyers out of a trap?”

“We have certain procedures the Corp established to conduct its business,” Captain was firm, “These rules are intended to protect you, me and The Corps,” Captain paused, “Now, a request for a branch transfer to the corps might keep you out of a permanent change of station (PCS) transfer to the Health Services hospital at SSM St Stephen Martyr.” She turned to me, “Might, might not. You take the risk, Warbler. I have a shipment of Rejects going out 0-dark-thirty to tomorrow. The only place I have for you tonight is The Cave’ behind the wire with Inductees. With cinderblock walls and a concrete floor, the cave is the coolest part of the facility.” Sighing, Captain warned, “Last chance, you can take your discharge and walk out the front door of this shack.”

I remained firm in my resolve, “I must keep the faith and retrieve Sergeant Meyers. Ma’am, there’s no other choice.”

“The humidity in the shack tonight is unbearable!” Captain declared, “I’m headed to the showers. Join me. We’ll cool off together. I’ll escort you to the detention area. It’s the only place I have to house you tonight. I’ll ship you back to HHS at zero — dark — thirty with the rejects. “

This was another anomaly of my time in National Service. Communal showers were a social occasion. Captain’s implicit invitation was more of a command performance. Even more so than in communal showers of school or gym, washing off among the girls in the shack were an occasion to pass useful information and engage in ‘networking,’ make deals, do some back scratching, or even pass scuttlebug (rumours).

Entering the shower, shucking off her sleeveless T – shirt and panties, Captain commented, it’s good to free myself of these sweat stained undies. Flexing her muscles, Captain, presenting with a golden full body tan, attributed her impressive appearance to daily taking the time to slip away out in the patch to lead by example, working out in the patch with the inductees and urging them on.

Lifting the shift over my head, I snickered, “HHS inspector stole my bra when she strip searched me. She and her partner tickled me good when they felt up my nips, but the HHS shift they gave me itches my tits.” I deliberately massaged my nipples.

As the Captain let down her luscious brown locks, I chuckled about my promise to my husband Jerry to stick to girls. Who could have guessed Sergeant Meyers would be the lucky lady to measure up as a substitute for Jerry? I felt a tingle when Sergeant Meyers first laid her powerful hands on the crests of my hips, powerful fingers gripped my waist. A strap – on dildo dangled from her crotch.

I first felt same — sex attraction during induction bumping up against other girls when we crammed under a working spigot together. Fleshy breasts bouncing off my nipples. Full hairy bushes brushing my trimmed pubes. How did powerful Sergeant Meyers compare to the soft belles forced into the shower with me during induction?

Before the command performance for the Captain in the shower, I had left attraction to women other than Meyers to the imaginings. Now I was engaging with another woman to get permission to liberate Meyers. Meyers herself had not kept the relationship exclusive.

Often, although Meyers and I lived and showered together at home before reporting in, Meyers would sashay around on tippy – toes to great another Sergeant. Was I jealous when I watched Meyers reach around her colleague to lather a lower belly and accomplish penetration with the soapy washcloth?

Imaging pleasant moments with Meyers stroking her strap – on dildo in the shower at home, I found myself plunging a bar of soap inside me lathering my vaginal lips and clit.

Lathering the Captain’s back with a soapy wash cloth, Captain prompted me to opine on the difference between men and women on relations in the shower.

Reflecting on shower sex, “I guess at the root of the difference is anatomy. Woman prefer sensuous, sloshy sex because the dousing in sudsy water probably activates the neural circuits sending pleasing tactile sensations in electric waves from the rubbery skin to the brain.”

“And guys?” The Captain pressed.

“Sudsy, rubbery skin makes penetration less pleasing to the male. Men need friction for an erection to expand to its maximum extent possible,” I bid the Captain to bend over so that I could work the her butt.

“How would you solve the problem?” the Captain questioned.

I paused for a minute to think. “Allow women to have shower sex; permit a man watch. He can work up the friction on his own.”

The Captain smiled, “You one bad cunt.” After a pause to attempt to turn to a serious tone, Captain asked, “Why do you suppose HHS requested your transfer?” Captain gasped as my fingers entered her front hole.

“As a playmate for the director. I’d be stuck there for the 10 years I pledged Support Services to get discharged to return to school,” I grunted.

“And yet you’d willingly blunder your way out of your discharge and a government paid degree program, all that to try to rescue Sergeant Meyers?” Captain asked.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32