Following release from the Induction Center, with an assignment to Support Services, I found homecoming bitter -- sweet. Before Jerry and I were called up, I relied on Jerry for all our major decisions including how to handle the call up for mandatory National Service. On Jerry's advice, though we could have, we didn't request assignment together.
Former service, Jerry knew how to work the system or so he thought; Jerry told me to shoot for Service Support; he was trying to make Police Services. "That way we could both be returned home together," Jerry assured me. I was in love. I was sure Jerry's plan would bring us home to tussle for the top berth. I loved to ride his jack hammer on those occasions I managed to take him by surprise.
I made Service Support and returned to a home that was hard to get used to: being alone. Everywhere I looked in the house I was reminded of Jerry. Called up with me, Jerry was gone for at least two years in the Marine Corps.
I sighed. Before Jerry and I parted, I promised that I'd stick to girls so that he wouldn't have to worry about spurious issue. "Do you expect me to do it with guys?" Jerry asked.
"No," I shook my head, "stick to the gals but stick it in the wrong hole."
Was this just a joke? In a clinic I had worked in, I had qualified as a Nurse's Assistant. Handling naked women, I found myself admiring the female form as I, whipped the hospital gown off them, to stand them naked on the scales -- to get the correct weight.. Watching flowing brunette and blond hair gently falling on bare shoulders, milky skin, the gentle curve of the back to the sculpted round halfmoons of a firm apple butt would send my pulse in overdrive. Daringly running a finger down her spine to its base, I'd announce the weight.
After I slept a full day at home away, our -- Jerry's and mine -- eh my tenant, Mrs Pye clutching her bathrobe came to our—my door to invite me to dine with her. "Very Kind of you, the smell certainly is more appealing than the canned dog food we were fed at the Induction Point," I thanked her.
"Think nothing of it," Mrs Pye replied, "the food comes from your refrigerator. All the stuff you and Jerry gave me when you were swept up into National Service. When are you to report back to the Induction Center for an assignment?"
"Oh?" I replied, "Temporarily assigned to the Induction Center, so, I'm off—eh—at liberty—until Friday morning 0500h. What happens after I report in? I don't know. When or if I'm coming home again, I can't tell you. So, continue to pay your rent through my account. You get to keep the house so long as the mortgage is paid."
"You came home in the same eh—jeans and eh—top you left in," Mrs Pye asked, "Won't they issue you a uniform?"
"After a week locked up and caged naked, I was so glad to have my clothes returned to me and sent home," I recalled, "I forgot to ask."
Friday morning came soon enough. Up early to shower, I felt my nipples go erect as soon as the cold hit my bare chest. I had gotten used to sleeping naked at the Induction Center.
Showering, letting the water descend on me, I reminisced how Jerry liked to sneak into our shower stall with me and force me against the tiled wall to take me. As if in a dream, I found myself face to the wall. The warmth of his breath was upon my neck; his body pressed against me; hands reach around me to cup my breasts; greedy fingers teased my nips. My heart pounded out a rhythm that echoed in my ears; my breath condensed on the tiled wall.
As I imagined Jerry parting my vaginal lips to toy with my clitoris, I murmured "Stick it in, now." Huffing and puffing, I allowed my fingers to work my clit circling around, tempted by the warmth of my slit, to attack more furiously on the next orbit. As much as I loved to be with Jerry, he'd have crammed it in and cum, rinsed off and left, leaving me with the comment, "work calls." I was as he put it "to top off."
Now, with a phantom lover, I was cumming for the first time since Jerry started to refuse sex after our call -- up notices arrived. "It feels so good," I exclaimed. Just as I could feel the pressure rising in my body signalling the onset of the intensity of the most powerful orgasm I had experienced, I declared, "Oops, the time," I recalled my reporting time.
"How would women compare?" I reflected. I didn't have time at the moment to make the comparison.
Quickly rinsing off and dressing in the same raggy jeans and Jerry's T -- Shirt I had worn to Induction, I set off to walk to the Induction Center. I didn't want to wear decent clothes or drive my car there. I had no idea whether I would be allowed to come home, required to live in the center or packed off on the back of a truck and shipped out.
Upon entering the Permanent Party entrance facing the parking lot on the left side of the building, I noticed 15 people in civilian clothes standing around. A grey uniformed Service Support Specialist checked me in. Looking at her watch, she barked, "0500, Warbler, AW -- 2029 -- ST-- F -- 49651," she, checking me off her list, declared, "you just made it on time." Looking around at the 15 others gathered, she ordered, "OK people, strip off your civvies," A smirk appeared on her face, in a loud emphatic voice, she exclaimed, " -- To you trainees, civvies that's your street clothes -- Fold them neatly. Then, line up alphabetical order starting over here," She pointed to a line on the tiled floor, "with your neatly folded clothes in front of you."
While I undressed, most, arms folded, milled around in shock. The Specialist growled, "You trainees are entering a secure area. To enter a trainee must submit to inspection."
Undressing quickly and clutching my clothes, I looked around. Why were so many were surprised by the order? During in-processing at an Induction Center, all inductees were stripped bare, inspected, fingered by a -- ugh -- lecherous doctor and held naked for weeklong physical and mental tests. Why would these trainees expect reporting in for training to be any different?
Despite the "W" in my last name, I was first to stand on the line. Others were fidgeting with a look of confusion when the Specialist, warned, "To refuse inspection is disobedience, Article 90. It's a crime! I need to see schlongs swinging and slits sprouting smiles."
At that the internal door swung open. In strutted, Gunnery Sergeant Abby Meyers, her dress pumps clicking as she strode onto the tiled floor. From the look on her face and the creases in her uniform, I could tell she meant to make an impression. Despite her short size, Sergeant Meyer projected an imperious presence in her class A Marine Corps Service uniform. Muscles filled every inch of her drab lime green matching jacket and khaki shirt. A thick neck strained behind her green neck -- tab. Powerful legs emerged from a drab lime green skirt planted firmly in gleaming spit shined black pumps. Ignoring me she addressed the Service Support Specialist, "Problem, Turnkey, here at the sally port?"
"No, Sergeant Meyers," the Specialist replied, "just a bunch of swinging schlongs and bouncing boobs that haven't woken up to the fact that they ain't civilians no more."
"Listen up, people," Sergeant Meyers bellowed. When her voice quieted the clamor, Meyers continued, "I have to see the Station Commander. When I get back, anyone who isn't naked, legs spread, and bent over for inspection will find their heads shaved and loaded bare assed on a Deusenhalf on your way to -- out of Service Support to the joys of unloading bedpans and changing diapers in Humanitarian Services. Any questions?" Meyers looked around. "There being none, carry on. Warbler," she looked around as if she hadn't taken notice until I raised my hand, "Find a locker, stow those clothes and come with me."
When the door opened to admit me to the facility, I found myself in the shower that we had used in induction. Playfully sniffing my hair, Meyers with feigned surliness snapped, "You smell clean enough to see the Station Commander." Planting a kiss on the back of my neck, Meyers whispered, "You promised your guy promised an interesting form of loyalty: go with the gals."
I felt a tingle when Sergeant Meyers firmly laid her hands on the crests of my hips, powerful fingers gripped my waist. I sometimes felt that during induction bumping up against other girls when we crammed under a spigot together. Fleshy breasts bouncing off my nipples. Full hairy bushes brushing my trimmed pubes. How would Sergeant Meyers compare to some of the soft babes forced into the shower with me during induction? There was no time to find out.
"In a few minutes," I reminded Sergeant Meyers, "The showers will fill with inductees. Wouldn't they like to catch you out of uniform?"
"Plenty of time later," Meyers sighed, "Hurry along. I need to scrounge up some clothes that look like a service support uniform for you." As we reached the door, Meyers commented, "Unfortunately, permanent party shares the showers with the Inductees. We're about to open the cages to allow the inductees to shower. You wouldn't want to end up back in pre - classification testing."
Passing down a hallway with cages on either side -- men on my right, women on my left, I took notice that the naked inductees bare bodies clinging to tattered blankets were beginning to stir. "Supply and Demand, Trainee Warbler," Meyer, looking in the cages as we walked by, commented, "at other Induction Centers, too many, people qualified for Service Support and the other centers dumped all the trainees here. The trainees, you saw this morning will be subject to a physical training for a few days to a week and tested before we decide which ones get retained and which get caged pending shipment. Some, maybe, most will end up back in the cages to be shipped out to Humanitarian Services."
At the counter, Sergeant Meyers told the grey uniformed female quartermaster's clerk, "I need a class C service support utility uniform, low quarters and underwear for this trainee."
"I got three uniforms for 15 trainees scheduled to report in today," the clerk responded.
"Now once you'll issue Warbler one," Sergeant Meyer sent the clerk to retrieve a uniform, growling "you should have two left."
When the clerk placed the clothing on the counter, I noticed that the panties had been dyed grey; a suggestion of an original pattern was partly visible by the waist band of the panties.
Raising her eyebrows, the clerk commented "Recycled. We take plenty of undies off inductees. We dye them and reissue them. Only certain types of outerwear inductees bring in here can be converted into uniforms. Consider yourself lucky to get clothed. If you're here for any length of time and hopefully for your own sake you will be, you might have to buy a class A dress uniform, and a Class B uniform. I'll scrounge up a PT uniform for you -- later if you need one."
Meyers growled, "Trainee Warbler, I advise you to dress before someone else grabs that uniform."
Sergeant Meyers pointed me toward a corridor guarded by a marine private who stood when Meyers approached. "This is Trainee Warbler," Meyers explained, "Captain wants to see her."
Passed through, we walked down a brightly lit tiled hallway. On either side, I peered into oversized closets where occupants in various stages of dress, from bottomless to topless, looking into small mirrors hanging onto the iron post of their bed, were putting on uniforms. "Billeting, we got them all! four men and/or women in grey for service support, drab lime green for marines, blue for Air Force, dark blue for Army, navy blue for navy and coast guard, all crammed in a windowless utility closet," Sergeant Meyers noted, "Hard to get dressed without colliding into your bunkmates. Captain regularly calls me to break up fights."
"I don't see White for Humanitarian Services," I commented.
