Burnt

After reporting for duty in the Induction Center, I discovered I had descended into a strange new world with its own vocabulary and customs.

"Burnt" is a mil-speak term I heard from the day I reported for Induction. Burnt meant fucked. Though Service Support only 'rated' as 'quasi -- military,' in bureaucratese "persons accompanying the armed forces in technical support capacity," it, having adopted the peculiarities of mil-speak as a lingua franca, was no stranger to colorful language. "A proud fucking civilian gets fucked, a member (MOS) gets burnt," Sergeant Meyers laughed at inductees complaining of sunburns during physical training.

Assigned after induction to the Induction Center, I reported for duty with my supervisor Marine Gunnery Sergeant Meyers at 5AM. "Now," cautioned Meyers as we waited to be admitted to 'The Shack,' the name we had for the Induction Center, "at home we're friends -- very good friends. There we're Amy and Abby but in here, I'm the boss, you're Warbler Assistant Clerical Specialist, and the image must be preserved. When you speak to me, it has to be, `yes Sergeant, right away.' And consider yourself lucky you didn't get burnt." Hands on those broad hips, with an air of command, Meyers thundered, "Understood, Warbler."

"Yes..." I snapped, "Sergeant Meyers."

Yes, I had to regard myself as lucky. It had taken some getting used to some peculiarities about life in the services: women calling each other by their last names as they cursed up a storm in the corridors. "Miller, what a front -- hole!" Even the cusses were unique, but yes, considering the alternatives, I had to regard myself as lucky.

Though inducted into Support Services in a new program of National Service designed to curb unemployment among younger people, I hadn't been burnt. I avoided ending up piled naked onto the back of a deuce -- n -- half (mil -- speak: military truck) for shipment to god -- knows -- where to empty bed pans assigned to a hospital or a nursing home as cheap labor by Humanitarian Services.

After spending a little over a week naked going through physical training under the blazing sun, I was sent home with instructions to return four days later. My muscles ached, my sun-burnt body blistered, but I comfortably nestled in my own bed and for the moment worked an eight-hour shift thanks to the advice my husband Jerry gave me before induction in navigating the system.

"Get up," I joshingly pouted as Sergeant Meyers undressed out of our uniforms, mine a grey utility Service Support uniform, "shower, get dressed, come down her strip down to shower and put on a ugh—PT uniform, such as it is ... nothing more than granny panties dyed grey and a bra."

"Consider yourself lucky," As Meyers carefully hung her olive-green service uniform in her locker, she reminded me to fold my utility uniform carefully. A reflective expression came across her face. She inquired about my husband, "Have you heard from your husband Jerry, yet? He was prior service -- Marine. Do you know where the corps sent him?"

"Not yet," I deliberately teased Sergeant Meyers by allowing my bare breasts to heave with a sigh.

"Postcard ain't come yet?" Meyers shook her head. "For someone like Private," Meyers stressed the word 'Private' with a sneer, "Jerry Warbler former service, who should have known how to play the system well enough to re -- up and reclaim his rank, why did he risk ending up in grimy work of emptying bed pans in Humanitarian Services? How can you be so lucky and your guy such an idiot?"

I shook my head. Indeed, I had been incredibly lucky, not only did I sleep in my own bed, I was driven to `The Shack' by my rent paying tenant Sergeant Abby Myers in an official van. I had learned much about the system and mil-speak from Jerry. Now, Abby Meyers had replaced my husband Jerry as my `Rabbi,' shepherding me through the system. At her recommendation, I will soon be returned to school to complete an advanced degree in Industrial Psychology at Government expense.

Meyers looking at Support Services Trainees reporting in their street clothes grunted, "They get to work out all day naked until Mistress Front -- Hole, (mil -- speak Female Commander) our Captain decides .. y'know..." Her voice trailed off.

Yes, indeed I hadn't been expressly told but I didn't need to be told: they would be burnt. Studying the crush of the beet -- red faces of the trainees milling around, I was aware too many inductees had qualified for Support Services. I surmised the Captain, Mistress Front Hole, intended to reclassify excess numbers as Humanitarian Services. "Luck of the draw," I observed the ranks of sunburnt faces and necks. "Luck was not with this batch of trainees. Yesterday, was a bit overcast, rare for this region in summer. Yet, if their butt cheeks are as blistered as their other cheeks .."

"Pays to have `factory -- set color,'" Sergeant Meyers teased me.

"I notice your cheeks are burnished a bit scarlet," came my repartee with a look of innocence as I stood dangling my breasts in front of Meyers. Hands on my hips snapping the elastic band of my panties, I shot her a suggestive smile as I readied to drop the panties.

Feeling under her eyes, Meyers looked into the mirror on the door of her locker. "Hmm—you might be right, Warbler."

"Those cheeks too, Sergeant!" I retorted.

Shaking her head with a half-smile, Sergeant Meyers chided me, "Too bad they removed flogging as a punishment from the Articles of War."

With Sergeant Abbie Meyers` assistance, I wouldn't be burnt. I had avoided the fate of the crimson faced trainees: reclassification. Many of the Service Support Trainees reporting in likely would face reclassification and shipment out. Watching the trainees milling around, ignoring the Support Services Clerk's order to undress. "Pretty," I had to think for a second for the correct word "`route -- step' (mil -- speak disorderly) for people who've been through induction."

I had been fortunate. Thanks to Sergeant Meyers I would not be reclassified. Why had she intervened?

Sergeant Meyers wanted two things: to get pregnant and to return to school to secure an appointment to the officer corps. Shacked up with me, Sergeant Meyers would get my help in pursuing a degree in Industrial Psychology.

"With all the money being spent on `Special Projects,'" Meyers thought aloud, "motivational psychology is in high demand."

Also, time away from the service in school created another opportunity for both of us. She wanted a child. So, did I.

Employed at a Fertility Clinic, before it went bust in the downturn, I, at Jerry's insistence, took severance pay in the clinic's equipment. Having stockpiled Jerry's sperm, I could make her objectives possible -- and mine too.

Now, in the shower, we had to deal with the crush of trainees reporting in. "Without space to house the inductees selected for Support Services," Meyers recalled, "Captain had been simply sending people home to await further orders. Some haven't seen the inside of The Shack in six months, some a year. They think like PFCs (mil-speak Proud Fucking Civilians) who can give the head front -- hole (boss) a ration of sh-e-e-ee-t (mil -- speak grief)."

I wondered, who among the faces I was studying would end up piled naked on the back of a Duce -- n -- half and shipped to Humanitarian Services? "Luck, yes, it's a question of luck."

"Your luck depends on the needs of the service at the time you report for induction," Sergeant Meyers grunted. In her uniform, Meyers was a determined bull dog. Naked, Meyers presented the profile of a fireplug, short and squat broad of hips with DD breasts.

When during my induction, Myers accused me of calling her fat. "Fat, no; wide hips, yes." I had told Meyers that when I worked in the Fertility Clinic, the Doctor preferred girls wide of hips for surrogacy. "Easier to get the baby out when s/he's ready to make a debut."

"Hmm, Warbler" Meyers, holding her hand under her chin, thought aloud, "you may prove useful."

In the shower, my eyes were drawn to the half -- dollar sized rings of the areolas around her nips. Brushing me as she reached her shower head sent a thrill through my body. "Quick, hop in the shower. I need your help in the exercise field. Mind the inductees while I evaluate the trainees. Captain wants the decision on reclassification today."

Standing naked under a spigot next to Meyers, I felt the stares of trainees burnished a glowing crimson fall upon me and Sergeant Meyers. In walked a burly female Marine Sergeant who nodded to Sergeant Meyers and growled, "Silence! Ok, listen up Front -- Holes! Those of you who are ladies and those who are not will get your clothes off and stand in line for inspection before showering...I give you one minute while I take a tinkle. When I come back, I expect to hear no sound louder than balls bumping into each other or Front -- Holes sucking up exhaust as appropriate ..."

The echo of the booming voice of the Sergeant faded away, but the shock reverberated. Suddenly the room filled with the stench of body order as slowly, the stunned trainees were 'cluster -- fucked,' frozen in place waiting to see who would be first to comply. After a full minute, a male trainee removed his boots and dropped dungarees, leaving him standing in boxer shorts. Others reluctantly followed his lead.

Looking over trainees undressing, Meyers focused on a female trainee who plucked the straps of a pastel sun dress off her shoulders. Letting the sundress slip to her hips, the trainee bared her blistered body from the waist up. Sergeant Meyers inspecting the trainee, remarked, "At least the trainees need not worry about tan lines."

Another casually dressed trainee kicked off her clogs, untied her halter top, and yanked her jogging shorts down. Her shorts bunched up around her ankles. Exchanging embarrassed smiles with a naked man -- her husband or boyfriend, perhaps -- standing next to her, she grasped his shoulder to prop herself up. He held her hips while she squatted to yank her shorts off.

Still another female trainee sighed. With a deep breath, she reached behind her back to unhook her bra. Sliding the bra off her arms, the trainee adroitly dropped her bra and with a slight of hand covered her breasts.

Looking at women clutching their milk buds (mil speak breasts) and men cupping their shlongs, I declared, "It's hard to believe these trainees are the same people who were forced to strip as they went through induction, slept naked on a concrete floor, and worked out nude for a week under the burning sun, out in the muddy training field." I paused studying a tall, thin man summoning the courage to yank his T -- shirt over his head revealing a smooth hairless chest. "They seem too edgy, to have been processed through Induction."

Glancing with a smirk at trainees uneasily, hands on hips clinging to cotton undies, Sergeant Meyers commented, "interesting collection of fashionable thongs in a riot of colors, pretty in pink, ardent red, passionate purple ..."

"And yummy yellow," I suggested as I studied the females presented to me in an array short stocky girls with bouncing big boobs, slender girls slight of chest, tall statuesque girls well endowed. "Why haven't they adjusted to life at the Center?"

"No space, no uniforms, insufficient provisions, Captain sent the people selected for Support Services home to await further orders," Meyers explained.

"But I had a reporting date," I protested.

"Captain received orders from higher headquarters to direct the trainees to report," Meyers informed me, "That order created a jug-fuck (mil speak bottleneck) which you see in front of you. Still Mistress Front Hole (the Captain) was given no space to house trainees, no uniforms to dress them, no provisions to feed them, and no work for these people to do."

"Last night, trainees went home," I took note. "Wasn't there a risk they might not come back?"

"A trainee running off," Meyers shook her head, "is a deserter who may end up in jail. Not our worry, a deserter is off our books." Tapping my arm, Meyers nodded toward the entrance, "Dress before the Sergeant returns and throws us in this Cluster -- Fuck (mil-speak mess)."

Reciting my identification number, "Warbler, AW -- 2029 -- SSS -- F -- 49651, Assistant Clerical Specialist" and checked off by the Clerk, I was buzzed through gate. Admitted with Sergeant Meyers, I found myself in a locker room adjacent to the fenced in area where the inductees were held. It was only a few minutes after five, Zero -- Dark -- Zero -- Zero in mil -- speak, but some were already up. Blankets covering bare shoulders, two trainees watched from behind at the cyclone fence which confined them.

The stupidest things come to mind. How would my husband Jerry the engineer describe the female bodies that caught my eyes? I had to share this with Sergeant Meyers. "Presented a full frontal view, my husband Jerry would lend an engineer's perspective. `Caged females draw focus of onlookers' eyes to the arc of curly hair stretching across the lower abdomen between the groin creases with the vaginal portal as the vortex."

"An engineer, sh -- ee -- ee -- t," Meyers exclaimed as she bent over, allowing her DD boobs to dance in front of me while she pulled up her camouflage shorts, "If Private Warbler had disclosed an engineering degree, we might have demoted him to Captain in the Army."

Once Sergeant Meyers put on in her camouflage gym shorts and sports bra and I donned the improvised Service Support work out uniform, women's underwear dyed grey, the color of Support Services, we set out to rouse the female inductees and escort them into the muddy training area.

Entering the training ground, I realized how barren and exposed to the sun these grounds were, even in the early morning, right after sunrise. My own skin was still baked a deep tan from my week as an Inductee. The skin of some of the white female inductees was broiled to a deep crimson. Were they as afraid as I had been as an inductee of complaining and being examined eh -- finger fucked -- a second time by the disgusting SS Doc (mil speak Support Services Doctor) who openly bragged about cumming during rectal exams as he examined inductees?

In the training ground Sergeant Meyers set the inductees about the grounds warming up.

On the other side of a six-foot paneled fence separating the female training ground from the area reserved for men, we could hear deeper voices as male inductees began to run through the paces. Sergeant Meyers' booming voiced blared out a warning: "Listen up front holes, or," Meyers leaned forward speaking with mock gentility, "ladies all if you prefer, for those of you who have husbands, boyfriends, brothers, cousins, or are simply interested in studying male anatomy on the other side of that fence, there is a penalty for curiosity: Tell 'em, Warbler,"

Meyers called on me, "I was your training non -- com. Sh -- ee -- ee -- t! How many times did you pull that punishment when you were induced?"

"50 pushups and 10 timed laps around the exercise area, Sergeant Meyers," I belted out my response at the top of my lungs. "I drew the penalty at least once or twice a day."

"Sh -- ee -- ee -- t! Exercise paid off," Sergeant Meyers exclaimed, feeling the muscles on my forearms, "Look at those legs. If she goes orgasmic with those tree trunks wrapped around her guy, she'll crush his ribs. Everyone, drop down for as many pushups as you can. Warbler, lead the way. You do 50."

"Yes, Sergeant Meyer," I fell to the ground and started the pushups. I got kicked in the butt twice and ordered to start counting over. "It left an impression when I booted your bare butt. Start over, Warbler."

"Yes, Sergeant Meyer, thank you, Sergeant," I responded.

"OK, Front Holes," Meyers ordered, "on your feet -- 10 laps. We have to make the guys on the other side of the barrier cum watching your boobies bounce as you pass by."

Passing the fence on the run, Sergeant Meyers growled, "Ladies, chests out. Give the guys a sample of what they've been missing." The result was an outburst of infectious enthusiasm -- Was there an element of exhibitionism in allowing our breasts to bounce with pride? -- The pace quickened. Breasts were thrust out like a pair of eh -- bayonettes.

Sergeant Meyers started the inductees into that training song, sung during runs, "Look out hun // here we come // bare assed girls // on the run."

Watching the spring in the step of the other gals as they defiantly thrust their chests out as they passed the barrier between male and female training grounds, I found the feeling was contagious. Could this be the herd instinct to merge yourself in a mass?

The training tune continued, "Singing lips // swinging hips // dangling tits // give it a whirl!."

My top, saturated with sweat, I was tempted to rip my soggy, drenched sports bra off, but was deterred by a warning glance from Sergeant Meyers. Running alongside me, without any signs of sweat or strain, Meyers reminded me, "Image, Warbler, image."

What had Sergeant Meyers told these Inductees as she had told my class, when they complained about being kept naked, "Consider yourself re -- born, naked in this new world. You'll start out equal. You must prove yourself worthy of a status."

The training theme continued, "On they press us // with the message // no frills, no curls // no frills, no dresses."

After two hours of grueling pushups, sit-ups, crawling on our bellies, sweat ran down my cleavage and my crack; my cotton panties were saturated. Passing the guys sneaking a peek by the fence for the last lap, the girls concluded the jingle with a tease, "A real treat // our fleeting feet // flag unfurl // just for fun // to watch you cum."

Called forward by Sergeant Meyers to stand in front of bodies sprawled in the mud, glistening with sweat, chests heaving as they panted, I was told, "Let them catch their breath. Then run them through it again."

Two hours later, I was standing hands on my hips watching the inductees sprawled laying on their bellies in the mud. Due to the midday heat, I had just given the girls a 10 -- minute break when Sergeant Meyers staggered into the training field.

The sun was directly overhead when Sergeant Meyers returned, bathed in sweat, hair frizzed out into a mushroom shape, like old fashioned afro. Rarely did I see a bead of sweat appear on her forehead, much less the rivulet that dripped through her cleavage.

"I need a shower," Meyers sighed, "I really pushed the trainees as far as I could to get as many as I could classed for armed services. Many did, surprisingly, but I got some shrinking violettas (mil-speak: weaklings) that," Meyers looked suspiciously around to make sure no one was listening, before she continued, "refused to complete the PT Test. I can't reclassify even into Humanitarian Services. Good material for," Meyers lowered her voice, "I'm afraid, 'Special Projects'." Meyers exclaimed, "They want to be burnt. When they laid on the ground, I got the Captain who summoned SS Doc."

"And the Doc had them bend over and spread their sunburnt butt cheeks for a finger fucking," I suggested. "So, they're going to be shipped out to the joys of emptying bedpans in Humanitarian services."

"No worse!" Meyers exclaimed. "After conferring with the Captain, SS Doc," Sergeant Meyers informed me, "determined the girls required hospitalization. See a classified person, even in Humanitarian Services has rights. The obvious one is the ETS (mil-speak end) date. Come that day, you go home. A `patient' leaves 'Special Projects' when SS Doc says they're well."

"Special Services, the rumored medical experimentation?" I wondered aloud.

Righting herself as another Sergeant entered the exercise field to take over, Meyers nodded. The high pitched voices of the inductees running around the training field fell into song, "beating feet // bitches in heat // in a swirl // a real treat // 'cause we're so sweet."