This story is a fictional account containing fictional names. For the military readers with the same name and rank that view this story, I assure you that this is entirely coincidental.
My name is Master Sgt. Fuller, United States Air Force. At 33, I'm probably one of the youngest Master Sergeants in the Air Force, and had one of the most interesting experiences during basic training, at least for me. At the time, I'd only had one steady girlfriend, for whom I left upon departing for boot camp. This particular experience was about fifteen years ago, but is as fresh in my mind as the blowjob I received last night from my wife.
It was about 4:45 in the morning, and everyone had scrambled out of their beds and stumbled downstairs at the sound of Reveille blasting over the P.A. speaker. It was another clear, but humid morning on Lackland Air Force Base. The sound of TIs (training instructors) could be heard in the distance, already marching their formations to that familiar cadence....."HUT, two, three, four.....HUT, two three, four....."
Disorganized and still half asleep, our little gaggle of recruited airmen fell into formation. This was our fifth week in basic training. We were wearing our attire for calisthenics, but we were about to go into the chow hall for breakfast. Then she appeared. She was a bitch. She was our TI, Staff Sgt. Hatchell. Behind her back, we all called her "the hatchet." She was a misfit and backbreaker, and had a reputation for chopping recruits off at the knees. Her methods were sometimes extreme and unorthodox. She broke the more "recruiter-friendly" rules of boot camp to instill core values, but she still managed to fly under the radar and not get found out. Her being one of the few female TIs on the base, she probably had some unspoken pull with the higher-ups.
She was average height for a woman, with a lot of attitude. She was far from a bombshell, but doable. And once you've been sex deprived, things start to look good. She had a pointed nose and a pale face, which stood out against her dark brown hair. Twenty-seven years old, she was bucking for her next stripe, which she failed the exam for twice already. We died laughing when we heard about that, since she was such a bitch, but at the same time, we'd joke about how she wasn't getting any nookie and that being another reason she was so bitchy. We'd pick at each other, saying that she'd pick on us on particular occasions because she wanted to fuck us at the time. She enjoyed being in charge and taking her anger out on us.
We went in and quickly ate breakfast, then fell back into formation outside. This was going to suck, because doing PT (physical training) after breakfast was hardly ever a good thing. We'd lose our breakfast on the two mile run or damn near pass out from indigestion. Some of us would line up at the port-a-potties along the street or act like we were tying our shoes, just to give us a break from running, but all the TIs were hip to that trick. She would yell, "Airman Fuller, move your ass!" I was mildly intimidated by her, but when I or my comrades didn't immediately comply, some very much bigger male TIs would step in and back her up. That would nearly make me piss my pants.
This particular time, I very much admired her current state. I found this to be somewhat strange, because I felt that she really wasn't my type. Her back had a patch of sweat that trickled down to her ass, and a thinner strip continued down the crack of her shorts. Her nipples were rigid on her medium tits, like an extra pair of eyes. She never obeyed the rules for wearing standard issue underwear. She must've been wearing a paper thin bra and a thong in this instance. She wanted guys to get hard as they ran the two-mile. I know she caught me staring after she chewed me out for stopping at the port-a-potties. She just curled her lip in a smirk and continued her run, yelling at other recruits.
Later that day, we had a surprise inspection with the squadron commander. We had the reputation of being one of the sharpest flights in the squadron, so he wanted to see for himself. Sgt. Hatchell called us to attention, and she and the commander made their rounds. After a few minutes, they made it around to me. My uniform was crisp, and my boots were so shiny you could see the reflection of satellites floating in space. The squadron commander complimented me on my appearance, and then the hatchet added her two cents:
"Not bad. And about this morning.....I saw you looking. While I was showering, I couldn't help but get off on your adoration. My clit is so swollen right now."
Was she crazy? If the commander only knew what she was whispering while he was preoccupied with inspecting the airman next to me, he'd go ballistic. This was what she thrived on. Pushing the envelope and getting so close to the brink of being reprimanded but barely scraping by. Why someone would endanger their career by playing these games is beyond me. She continued inspecting with the commander as if nothing happened, leaving me stirring inside my underwear.
The following day, we had drill practice for upcoming graduation. Sgt. Hatchell arranged for the TI of our neighboring troops upstairs to march both his and our troops to the drill field. I had no idea why she did this, because she seemed well and able to march us herself. But I was about to find out why. She had all the troops head downstairs to fall into formation.
"Fuller, you stay your ass here, we've got to talk," she said. Recruits nervously glanced in our direction as they left the dorm, fearing that I might wash out. Washing out sucked. Depending on the severity of the offense you committed, you were set back a few weeks. It's like a TI hitting the reset button to your training to a particular week. But I did nothing to warrant being washed out.
After everyone cleared the dorm, she went inside the TI's office and partially closed the door. She was in there for what seemed like forever, although it was only about a minute.
"In here, NOW!" she commanded.
