Belly Of The Beast Pt 04 Seduction

At each turn I faced a test. The only clue I had was the code word `faith and trust.' "You're at a portal," my friend burly Sergeant Abby Meyers told me as we sat in a deuce-n-half at the service entrance to St Stephen Martyr Hospital Center (SSM), "where one thing becomes another. Whether you should pass depends on you. The test is one of integrity. There is little I can do to prepare you for the challenge -- except to accompany you on the exercise." Seconds later, Meyers, after a hug and a soulful kiss, jumped from the cab of the deuce -- n -- half to escort Rejects we brought from the Induction Center for physical evaluation. When Meyers didn't return to the vehicle, I entered the Hospital to find her.

How did the code `faith and trust' work? It was easy to say as Meyers had so gingerly exclaimed, "The entire Corps works upon the twin pillars of mutual trust and absolute faith." Exactly what did that mean? My husband Jerry, returned to the Marine Corps when he was caught up with me in the call -- up to National Service designed to cure youthful unemployment, used to compose cute little ditties as memory devices. How did the one about codes go, "A code is expedient, on the surface seeming, perfectly innocent, while concealing, a hidden message."

In the fairy tale, the code word that opened the magic door was `open sez -- a -- me.' My magic word was `faith and trust.'

Looking out the window at the ground 60 feet below, I wondered just how would the words `faith and trust' open a magic portal to escape the sixth floor of St Stephen Martyr Hospital Center where I found myself? I had two weeks to accomplish what seemed to be a monumental task, locate my Sergeant, recover property belonging to the Induction Center and make good my escape. All I had to unlock the puzzle was the code word `faith and trust.'

How did my husband Jerry talk of `faith and trust' in terms of the Marine Corps? "It's more than an oath we swore // it's a seduction // by an all-embracing institution // a new religion we adore."

Now, I was following Dr Eda Velour on her rounds at SSM. Dr Velour, my former boss in civilian life, was now Commandant of the National Service Section of St Stephen Martyr Hospital Center. Colonel's silver leafs bounced on the shoulder boards of her white lab coat.

Before the economic crisis, I had worked for Dr Velour at her private fertility clinic. Indeed, I made it to the top salary rung when I was showcased naked on stage paraded before Dr Velour's wealthy clientele with other women as potential surrogate mothers. What would I have done if I found myself pregnant with someone else's kid in my belly when Dr Velour bailed out and the clinic closed in the recessionary economy?

What did Dr Velour do for or to whom to merit such an august position?

Just a day ago, I was Amy Warbler Serial number AW -- 2029 -- ST -- F -- 49651an Assistant Clerical Specialist assigned to the Induction Center which processed inductees into the four branches of Mandatory National Service. My Sergeant, 'Gunny' Abby Meyers, a squat, muscular bulldog marine, and I were counting down the days to REFRAD, release from active duty, `getting short.' Sergeant Abby Meyers and I had two weeks left before release from Mandatory Service to return to school.

Yesterday morning on the drive from home over to the Induction Center, Meyers acquainted me with the by -- words. `faith and trust.' "The Corps rests on two articles, your husband may have told you: trust in each other and faith in the Corps."

Without warning, yesterday morning I was put to the first test. When Sergeant Meyers and I reported for work at the Induction Center, Meyers abruptly ordered me to strip and shower, secure my tan service support uniform and new black boots. As I disrobed under Sergeant Meyer's watchful eyes, I quipped, "Didn't you have enough fun in the shower at home?"

With a warning glance, "On duty," Meyers whacked my bare ass as I handed over my neatly folded tan utility uniform, "it's Gunnery Sergeant Meyers and my word is law; at home it's Abby, but it's still advisable to do what I say; in bed, you better be good. You get the idea. Today, you owe the Center a PT Test. You know the rules."

Placed to wait, without explanation, naked behind the cyclone fencing where female Inductees where held pending classification, should I fear, I might have wondered, reclassification into Humanitarian Services -- to provide in the high -- sounding hype of the era necessary human services? That was a euphemism for Humanitarian Service`s real function to serve as cheap help emptying bed pans and cleaning floors in hospitals and nursing homes.

Noticing me shivering, a cute blond named Sally invited me to cuddle with her under her blanket. After taking and passing the PT Test, Meyers returned my tan Service Support uniform and shiny black boots with the reminder "Faith in the corps and Trust in your comrades." Feeling the soft khaki in my hands how could I have anticipated that such was the first of many tests?

By contrast to my comfortable khaki service support uniform, the material in the White Humanitarian Services Frock I was given on capture yesterday was rough. I felt a little strange as my boobs bounced around under my loose white frock as I followed Dr Velour, a Medical Corps Colonel, on her rounds through the wards where a few of the Rejects, personnel confined naked on the 6th floor of St Stephen Martyr's Hospital (SSM) were participating in mandatory physical training under the half -- hearted direction of white frocked Health and Humanitarian Services (HHS) personnel.

"The HHS personnel are a motley of Certified Physical Therapists, eh -- Health Care Associates and even a RN or two. Looking at them, you can see why," Dr Velour explained, "I need a good drill sergeant like your Sergeant Meyers to whip these people into some kind of shape."

I nodded stupidly, resisting the temptation touch my nipples rubbed raw by contact with the cheap abrasive fabric of the frock. Even at home with my husband Jerry before the call -- ups, I either wore a bra or went topless in our rooms. While at the Induction Center pending classification, I was held naked with other female inductees behind a cyclone fence. After classification in Support Services, I returned home and wore my own undies under my khaki Service Support Uniform.

The underclothes, along with my tan Service Support Uniform, I wore when I passed through the portal in the basement of SSM and was taken prisoner were confiscated. Issued an Health and Humanitarian Services Uniform which included as undergarments only a pair of men's boxers, I was informed, "It's a uni -- sex uniform which serves multiple gender identities."

"Hmm," I quipped, "A politically correct compromise. Top for women; bottom for me."

"To obtain feminine undergarments," I was told, "you have to buy them."

Thus, in the interest of equality of the sexes, only a few minutes into my duties of the day, I felt my nipples irritated by the coarse cloth of the frock. I couldn't wait to chuck the frock.

"When formality of attachment to my command is effected, you will retain your rank -- Assistant Clerical Specialist." Dr Velour indicated, "Until further notice you are restricted to this floor and other locations on hospital grounds, I may send you to. Is that clear?"

Restriction was the least of my problems. At the moment, I was caught in a conundrum between two rival bureaucratic empires. Whether I was a prisoner or on a mission was a matter of perspective. Taken prisoner by Humanitarian Services scrounging for trained personnel, I was on a Survival, Escape and evasion mission assigned me by the Induction Center where I was assigned. The danger is, warned burly Gunnery Sergeant Meyers beforehand when she volunteered to accompany me on the exercise, "the `aggressors,' the people who take you won't know it's a game. Expect resistance that may not be playful."

When taken in the basement entrance to SSM, yesterday, the inspection of my person was by no means playful. Recesses of my body were felt up by Mr Whiskers from my arm pits and under -- boobs to my inner thighs.

"Are you going to continue to hide that key?" Whiskers asked, "to the truck you parked outside".

Part of the faith I had to keep was the property entrusted to me by the Induction Center when I drove Rejects over to St Stephens Martyr Hospital (SSM).

When I played dumb, "Key to what truck?" Whiskers pointing me to the palm prints painted on the wall commanded me to face the wall and lean into it. Assuming the position, I turned my head to look at him when I inquired, "Haven't you had enough fun already?"

Whiskers in a deceptively soft voice vowed that the fun was just beginning to come. "Of course, if you turn over the keys to the deuce -- n -- half, you parked outside ..." Whiskers smiled at the sound of the screeching noise as he donned latex gloves. "Hope you're not allergic."

Only a couple hours earlier, I myself had to conduct an internal exploration of a Reject's insides.

After passing my PT test and keeping my classification in Support Services, I was assigned to transport Rejects to SSM Hospital Center in a deuce -- n- half. The Rejects were inductees who laid down in the mud and refused to take the exam. Among the inductees led out of the center naked and hands bound behind her back struggling to jump in the back of the deuce n' half was my blond pigtailed companion Sally who had shared her blanket with me. Turning to me with a scowl, Sally boasted, "My funeral--ha--I'll be sleeping in my own bed tonight. Do you know where you're sleeping?"

At the Induction Center's commander's unvoiced direction, I was ordered to search the prisoner. "Even though she's naked and restrained?" I questioned. With a nod, I was instructed to proceed.

Bent over the edge of the bed of the deuce -- n -- half, face down, breasts flattened against the bed of the truck, and legs spread, Sally protested, "I'm not criminal."

"Sorry, Sally," I apologized as I inserted my thumb of my gloved hand up her rectum and stretched the web of my hand across her perineum to penetrate her vagina with two fore fingers.

Gasping as I entered her, Sally belligerently snipped, "You cunt."

"Hmm, correct appraisal of my lack of confusion over gender identity," I retorted as I deliberately took additional time exploring her inner recesses.

At the Induction Center's Commander's nod, the search procedure was terminated before I could make Sally cum.

When I was taken by the `aggressors' at SSM's entrance and searched by the purported trans-man Mr Whiskers, Missy and another conspicuously inattentive genuine female were assigned as chaperones. Their unabashed disinterest drew extended restrictions with painful consequences for married women with children.

At the moment, the `aggressor's' resistance with me took the form of restriction. When I nodded agreement to the restriction, Dr Velour continued, "You're new. So, any violation of this order will result in reduction to hospital status much less pleasant condition than that you now enjoy."

I realized from the loose chatter exchanged between Health and Humanitarian Services (HHS) personnel who should have chaperoned the search procedure after my capture, Velour handed out restrictions for the slightest infractions. Indifferent to Mr Whicker's abusive conduct during the search, Missy a tall brunette consoled a co -- worker about a restriction imposed for a few minutes late reporting. "Restriction and indefinite bed check! Indefinitely stuck inside this chamber of horrors means loss of your quarters allowance and potentially your house -- Dr Velour may run a ramshackle hospital, but she knows how to swoop in on distressed property. Count on Dr Velour to know how to turn up the misery index. They don't call Dr Velour the sadist of St Stephen's for nothin'!"

For me, the restriction would be quite a loss. The rent the government paid me for housing Meyers and me away from the Induction Center where we were assigned was generous enough to float my house. Losing it would be devastating. Worse my 10-year extension would put me here in St Stephen's Martyr Hospital (SSM) under Dr Velour's thumb for a decade instead of released to return to school. I could inherit the worst of both worlds. I had to adhere to my original mission assigned by the Induction Center, recover Sergeant Meyers, a 2.5 ton deuce-n-half, the property assigned to us, and get away.

"On the terms of your restriction," Velour asked, "are there any questions?"

"Certainly, the conditions of my restriction here are not wholly unpleasant," I replied.

Rescue from Mr Whisker's attempt to rape me came at a price. Following the rather degrading reception at St Stephen Martyr's Hospital (SSM), I replaced Mr Whiskers as Dr Velour's aide and playmate in her quarters. Landing in the impressive private spa in Dr Velour's handsomely decored private suite proved most amenable.

Luxuriating in glass paneled octagonal shower with jets sprayed comforting warm water from each pane. In foggy mist, the warmth of Dr Velour's bush brushing up against my butt and the whisper in my ear, "Relax, Amy. Passing through the necessary procedures in coming through portal into SSM can be a harrowing experience," alerted me to the price of these comfortable surroundings was Dr Velour's attentions.

I chuckled. I thought of a ditty Female inductees would chant behind the wire at the Induction Center. "Passing through the portal // former rights withdrawn // humbling the haughty and the proud // modesty cast aside, fully disrobed // bending them all // body bent and bowed // insides opened to be explored // egos experience crushing // persons reduced to nothing."

"Like old times -- in the fertility clinic -- eh," Velour spoke in reassuring tones as a soap-soaked sponge soothed my back.

Awaking me in her soft canopied bed with Dr Velour, Dr Velour playfully flicked her index finger on my nose. Rising, Dr Velour invited me to shower with her, "Just a quick rinse -- off, as quickly as we can manage to make it." A pleasant cage is still a cage.

As Dr Velour proceeded on her rounds, she chuckled at the words, "not fully unpleasant."

"Aside from the men's boxer shorts, loose in the front and tight in the butt, not designed for a -- eh genetic woman's rounded shape, we aren't issued bras. I'd like to know where I can get some bras," I decided to speak coarsely, "The Cheap fabric of the Humanitarian Services frock is irritating my tits."

I was somewhat surprised by Dr Velour's response. Instead of solicitously offering me some of her cast -- off bras, she recommended, "Check in Whisker's draw -- under my bed. He might have some kept some there -- to preserve the legitimacy of his claim to trans -- man status. His mufti, eh -- off -- duty wear, would have identified him/her/it as male. In hospital status for testing to see if testosterone poisoning figures in his eh -- abuse of privileges, Whiskers, your predecessor as my personal aide, won't need bras anymore."

While Whiskers was subjecting me to abuse, Missy, the chaperone, directed her concern to warning her co -- worker against slipping away to break restriction, "You never know when Dr Velour might just pop up." Bent over at the waist, I closed my eyes to await Whisker's poke and the injection of his warm, unwelcomed man juice when Dr Velour's timely appearance forced Whiskers to break off contact, leaving his cum sprayed on the back of my legs.

After upbraiding Missy and her co -- worker and imposing additional restrictions of liberty, Dr Velour reduced Whiskers from her personal assistant to Hospital status. To me, Dr Velour asked, "Satisfied?"

Rescued from abuse yesterday, I found myself today on rounds with Dr Velour. "I've chosen to see Sergeant Meyers first. I assume you won't be satisfied until you're reunited with her. So, let's check in on Sergeant Meyers, shall we?" Velour asked as she entered codes into an electronic lock. The door slid open. "Sergeant Meyers," Velour, carefully addressing Meyers by her title, called out to the short, squat, black woman, compact packed with bulging biceps and muscular legs as sold as tree trunks, doing jumping jacks in a padded cell, "I've brought a friend to talk to you. Perhaps, this will help us come to a resolution of your status here."

Ignoring the request, Meyers continued her jumping jacks counting them out audibly, "496 -- 497 -- 498."

"If you'd prefer, Sergeant Meyers" Velour suggested, "We can come later at a time more convenient to your eh -- exercise schedule, if you wish."

"499 -- 500 -- 501," Meyers finished chanting. "Warbler," Meyers screeched an order, "your muscles look a little flabby. Drop down and give me 50." Before I knew it, I had handed Dr Velour the electronic notebook and was on the floor counting out push -- ups. Though naked with bulbous breasts fastened to a muscle-bound torso, Meyers was as composed and confident as if she were in her pressed dress uniform with bold yellow stripes and two rockers.

"That was the point I wish to discuss with you," Velour advised Sergeant Meyers, "I need a drill sergeant and I have you. You can assist me or," Velour's eyes lit up, "remain in this padded cell," with a smile, Velour added, "Your choice, Sergeant."

"I am busy supervising Warbler," Meyers answered. To me Meyers roared, "Those last few were sloppy, Warbler. Give me 25 more." Holding her hand up, Meyers refused to converse with Dr Velour until I completed my push -- ups. "On your feet Warbler. What is your greatest disappointment?"

"Sergeant," I knew I had to work the magic words into my response, "I only know what I heard // faith and trust is the word // proudly screaming evermore // semper fi to the core!"

I noticed Meyer's eyes light up at the magic words.

"A good tune to run trainees to," Meyers approved of the ditty, "From a Service Support member no less.".

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant," I responded.

"Warbler, you've seen the floor is there anything out there I could build a cadre out of?" Meyers asked. Advised that there was a handful who enthusiastically participated in daily calisthenics, Meyers ordered, "Collect up those who show potential." To Velour Meyers brazenly asserted, "The hospital inherited the worst of the worst: rejects not even willing to cooperate to qualify for the minimal physical and mental standards of the Humanitarian Service."

"I don't need you to tell me that," Velour jousted with Meyers.

"Perhaps," Meyers acknowledged, "but in order for me to whip these folks into shape, I need the answers to three questions: What benefits can I offer those who cooperate? What punishments can you impose on those who don't? What purpose do you have in mind with your end product?"

Turning to me, Velour imperiously dismissed me, "Leave us, Warbler. Sergeant Meyers has given you a task. Accomplish it."

"Training personnel would be my Department. I give the orders, without interference." To me, Sergeant Meyers growled, "And everyone is to obey them and like it," Meyers paused, before growling, "Including you, Dr Velour." Turning once again to me, Meyers commanded, "Now, you may be about your duties, Warbler."

"Yes, `faith and trust,' Gunnery Sergeant," I replied as I pivoted on the ball of my foot and exited the room.

Outside the rubber room, I met Missy, the tall brunette who was supposed to have supervised Mr Whiskers when he strip searched me at the basement portal to SSM. Missy managed to giggle through her praise of sergeant Meyers, "Your Sergeant Meyers is incredible. A naked patient confined to the rubber room can lay down the law to her majesty."

Sergeant Meyers certainly knew how to play the system. So had my husband Jerry who was swept up with me in a draft to curb youthful unemployment during one of those periodic economic collapses. Perhaps, Jerry played the system too well. Following his instructions, I had drawn a local assignment in Support Services to the Induction Center. I might have qualified for Armed Services and shipped out with Jerry when he was returned to the Marine Corps.