Georgia had no idea why she had said fuck you to the master sergeant. It reminded her of her earliest days at BGF. Or maybe, said, some part of her brain off in the distance, it would have reminded her, in other circumstances—for example if she could think rationally, something that seemed impossible with the horrible punishment strap coming down across her bare ass.
When her daddies had first put her on the punishment horse in the receiving room at the detention facility, Georgia had shown a good deal of fight. As the master sergeant whipped her, here and now in the dank, South-American heat of the Army barracks, that came back to her not in the form of a memory as much as of a kind of body echo: the tension in her limbs, which had felt new to her that first day at BGF, felt familiar now—though Georgia hadn’t experienced it in the intervening months.
She cried out at the first line of fire across her bottom, at the second, across her upper thighs. She could hardly remember what the master sergeant had told her to do—what compliance she had refused that had brought the strap down with these lashes that wouldn’t count against whatever terrible number the lieutenant had decreed.
The master sergeant’s voice spoke, closer to her ear than Georgia would have supposed. His huge hand—his other hand, the one without the strap in it—came down firmly on her back.
The same way he did with Corporal Kelly, she suddenly thought, feeling her brow crease deeply.
“Bend this, SRD,” the master sergeant barked. “Get that ass up and push it out for me.”
For him? Georgia could imagine Master Sergeant Heath saying that to a soldier: Storm that hill for me, Take out that sniper for me. But had she heard something in his voice that went farther than a simple military command?
Again she thought of BGF, of the way she had supposed she could take whatever those men who had told her to call them Daddy could dish out. Georgia Jones had freely sold her body on the street, and hadn’t minded. She had decided she could deal with a few self-righteous assholes, no matter how tall and well-muscled they might be.
The wooden reform-school paddle had made short work of that idea. She had walked away from the receiving room, to her cell, between two of those daddies sobbing at each painful step. When the time for soothing and penitence had come, the next morning, Georgia had needed fucking so bad that she had begged for their cocks inside her. Never again, at BGF or in the Army, had she received a punishment anything like that paddle. In the interim, it seemed, her bad-girl defiance had recovered.
“Fuck you, Master Sergeant,” she repeated, though the words came out in a sob.
Again she couldn’t say why she had choked out the curse word at the man who had done more to take care of her—and the rest of his platoon—than anyone Georgia had ever met.
The hand on her back tightened, not painfully but so as to suggest to Georgia how thoroughly the master sergeant meant to control her. Through his fingers she felt the rest of his body shift slightly and she knew he must have raised the strap again. Regret seemed to surge through her whole body, because her backside already felt like it had caught fire. Despite what the rebellious part of her brain told her, she began to bend her back and her knees, her limbs trying to comply where her mind refused.
Georgia heard the leather whistle through the air, and then she heard the crack of it across her bottom, low down on the sit-spot, and she felt the searing pain at the same moment. It hurt so much that she tried to rise from the footlocker. She tried to put her hands behind her, to rub the horrible pain away, but Garmin and Thompson held her arms fast.
Her head snapped back, and she looked wildly around at the enlisted men standing at the feet of their cots in front of her. They all had their hard cocks out, just as the captain had suggested, and they were pumping them in their hands as they watched Georgia’s punishment.
The thought flashed through her brain, How could they? but the question found an immediate answer: Why wouldn’t they?
Suddenly Georgia saw it: this punishment hadn’t come from not shining some stupid shoes. Her misconduct went a good deal deeper. She had fulfilled the basic outline of her duty as the platoon’s SRD: she had sex with the men according to the duty roster. But SRD Georgia Jones’ real mission involved building morale in the unit, and in fact if anything she thought she had lowered morale. The men of the platoon had their cocks in their hands because Georgia had treated them the same way she had treated her tricks on the street, like they were lucky to be allowed to touch her nubile body. Now she was getting her naked comeuppance, the punishment strap across her bare bottom, and how could that not turn them on?
Even the master sergeant, the only man in the unit who had truly dominated her the way her BGF daddies had done, hadn’t received Georgia’s full commitment to her duty. She had accepted those screaming climaxes after her spanking as if he owed them to her, when she had learned at BGF that she must thank her daddies when they allowed her pleasure.
The pain from the master sergeant’s last lash built in her backside. She shuddered under it. She heaved a sob from the depths of her chest.
Georgia closed her eyes, and made her body do what the master sergeant had commanded: she arched her back under his hand and she bent her knees. She pushed out her naked, already very sore bottom, for her terrible lesson.
“Oh, yeah,” one of the privates said, behind her, as if he couldn’t help himself.
“That’s it,” the lieutenant said. “Men, go ahead and let this bad girl know you like seeing her whipped. We’re going to put a plug in that ass, soon, too, so there’s going to be a lot to cheer about.”
Georgia whimpered at the officer’s humiliating words, at the ripple of applause that went around the room in response.
Morale. He’s building morale, she thought, trying to close her eyes tighter. I couldn’t do it, so he’s going to use my whipping for the purpose.
“SRD,” the master sergeant demanded, “are you ready to take your punishment?”
Did she hear in his voice, despite the military severity, a bit of tension? As if the lieutenant’s words hadn’t pleased him very much?
“Sir, yes, sir,” Georgia sobbed, her bottom bouncing a little despite her best efforts to keep herself still. The pain of the last lash had started to fade a little, and to her dismay the bouncing, which she had meant to soothe it, if only slightly, made a new heat begin to build, further forward.
Biting her lip, she opened her eyes, because suddenly she found she couldn’t keep them closed. She needed to see those big cocks in the soldiers’ hands. When she saw them, all of them, up and down the rows of cots, she felt her mouth start to water, and another sob welled up inside her because of how very bad a girl she was.
“Give her twelve more, Master Sergeant,” Lieutenant Stevens said.
“Yes, sir,” the NCO responded. Georgia felt his hand move a little on her back, to grip her waist and keep her in place, and then her whipping began in earnest.
All the arousal that had begun to gather in her pussy vanished at the first lash. Helplessly, Georgia writhed against the controlling hands of the men, screaming in agony as the master sergeant delivered the terrible lesson to her bare bottom-cheeks and her upper thighs.
“Please… please…” she cried, but the strap came down at a steady rate, once a second for twelve terrible seconds. No matter how she writhed, the strong hands held her there so that each lash fell precisely where Master Sergeant David Heath wanted to place it on Georgia’s poor little bottom.
“Oh, no… oh, no… oh, no,” Georgia whimpered now, because she heard the strap drop onto one of the cots, and she felt fingers on her punished bottom-cheeks, opening them and putting something cool and viscous between them.
She had worn a butt plug at BGF sometimes, like the other girls. Anal training had represented an essential part of the regimen there. Some of her fellow inmates had been made to have one after a public paddling, but Georgia hadn’t undergone that humiliation herself. That would just have happened in front of the other inmates, though: now, in front of her platoon, she would know degradation of a kind she had never guessed at before.
“Hold on, Master Sergeant,” the lieutenant said abruptly. “She’ll suck my cock while she gets the butt plug.”
“Yeah, Lieutenant!” one man said.
“Woo!” came from the other side of the barracks.
Clapping came from everywhere, and Georgia’s face felt like it had caught fire.
“Yes, sir,” said the master sergeant. His left hand still held her waist, and the fingers of his right were between her whipped bottom-cheeks. Georgia whimpered as she felt them move, gently, against her smallest, most private place. Did the master sergeant know that he was touching her that way? She heard a whine come from her throat as in a flash all of the arousal the strap had driven away seemed to return in a rush: even at BGF she had never responded this way to a man’s touch on her anus, and it made the blood in her cheeks burn even hotter.
Georgia heard footsteps behind her on the concrete of the barracks floor and felt Private Thompson, on her right side, shift a little to let the lieutenant by. She heard the officer unzipping his fly, and she opened her eyes to find his hard penis right in front of her face. Georgia swallowed hard, and turned her eyes upward to look at the lieutenant, looming over her, his cock in his left hand and his right just coming to rest on the back of her neck.
Each of the enlisted men of the platoon got to fuck Georgia once every two weeks. The lieutenant and the master sergeant appeared on her duty roster every Saturday, though because both the platoon’s officer and its NCO were very busy with actual administrative matters, she had only had a single ‘intimacy session,’ as the regulations called it, with Lieutenant Stevens, and none at all with Master Sergeant Heath despite the fucking he had given her after her spankings.
When she had gone to the lieutenant’s quarters for her intimacy session, he had treated her with great respect. They had shared a bottle of wine, and kissed for a long while on his cot. He had given her a blue baby doll nightgown to wear, and asked her not to wear anything under it. Once, during their session, she had seen the fire of dominance in his eyes, when, after fondling her little breasts through the lace for a long time, he had told her to lie down and spread her legs.
Georgia had complied with a casualness that seemed to drive the dominance from the officer, which had—she suddenly realized now, confronted by the purple head and the long hard shaft of his manhood—represented exactly her intent. Everything she had done as the platoon’s SRD had been meant to distance herself from the needs her bad-girl training had brought to light. Looking up into the lieutenant’s brown eyes, she saw the return of that dominance, and felt her hips buck with need against the master sergeant’s grasp.
“Open that mouth, SRD Georgia Jones,” said the master sergeant. “Put out your tongue.”
She shuddered at the sound of her first name in his deep voice, as much as at the little push he gave with a fingertip at her bottom-hole.
“Get your eyes down,” the lieutenant said, his voice thick with arousal. “Don’t look at your commanding officer without permission.”
With a little sob Georgia lowered her eyes to the rigid cock in front of her, and opened her mouth, curling her tongue over her lower lip as her daddies had taught her at BGF. For the first time since coming to First Platoon, she felt like she might have new daddies now, even if they were called master sergeants and lieutenants and even privates.
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