Fiction by JockBoy

What if the savage world of ruthless discipline you crave isn’t just your fantasy, but your destiny—a sentence you cannot escape? The Discipline Training Institute is calling—and you WILL belong inside.

Wouldn’t it be something if a place like this truly existed—a hidden institute built for strong men like you with unspoken, darker cravings? It always begins the same way: a message appears in your inbox. You are lured into a world where your false hyper-masculinity is shattered, leaving you broken and born anew as something you don’t understand but can never escape.  

This is labeled fiction. But fiction is a fragile disguise. It can conceal what should never be spoken, distort what should be clear, or comfort you while quietly smuggling in truths too sharp to admit. Sometimes a “story” is the only vessel strong enough to carry truth and reality.

There are five parts to this “story”:

Recruitment: You WILL take the first step across a boundary none can resist.
The Trainer and the Trainee: You WILL witness the breaking of wills between hunter and prey.
Training: You WILL be forged in brutality until resistance is erased.
Disciplining the Drill Instructor: You WILL see even the strongest kneel.
Origin Story: You WILL learn the genesis of the Institute in the punishment room, shackled and broken.
You WILL smell fear itself—the rancid musk of sweat soaked into trembling flesh, the sour salt of panic pouring from broken bodies, and the sharp metallic sting of blood hanging heavy in the air like rusted chains. 

And you WILL know this is where you belong. Resistance is futile. This is your destiny.

This “story” is about more than discipline. It is about your need—the kind that first feels like punishment, until you begin to understand it for what it truly is. And if the thought of compliance and surrender makes something inside you swell and throb, then you already know: this is real, and you WILL belong here.

This is only a story. Or so they say. But the Institute is always watching—quietly, patiently.
The fact that this “story” appeared on your device is no accident. Starting to read it was your first test. Failing to look away before the paragraph before this one sealed your fate. It means you have already been chosen.
A message like the one that follows, handcrafted just for you, WILL come. You WILL be unable to resist. And then you WILL submit to the soul-destroying discipline you have always craved. We WILL own you.. 

Dear “Athlete,”

Your browsing history tells the real story: every pitiful masochistic jock fantasy revealed in every pathetic click. Every desperate craving to be bent to someone else’s will, humiliated, and forced into absolute obedience by REAL men. We see you, pussyboy. Despite the face you show the world, you are an ideal candidate for the Discipline Training Institute (DTI). Don’t deny it. We know everything.

Our Drill Instructor Method (DIM) is based on discipline, mental fortitude, and absolute obedience. Your particular class is for “straight” elite college athletes who secretly crave REAL obedience, discipline, and punishment.

At DTI, appearances mean nothing. Your muscles, charm, and popularity count for nothing. What matters is what you do under pressure when every instinct screams to quit or hide, and the only option is to obey. We WILL break your habits, crush your arrogance, and reward genuine effort—because only the disciplined survive.

You may walk in thinking you are untouchable, shielded by confidence and charm. That bubble WILL burst when you hear a Drill Instructor’s voice and realize nobody cares about your Instagram followers or flexed biceps. At DTI, you WILL earn respect only through sweat, pain, and submission.

Living on Site

You WILL live for 30 days in barracks at our isolated desert location, an abandoned military base.

You WILL speak only when commanded. You WILL obey always.

The Drill Instructors are former or current United States Marine Corps Drill Instructors who WILL do to you what the Marine Corps cannot.
Trainees who slack, resist, disobey, or fail to meet standards WILL face extremely painful hogties guaranteed to break you as they escalate.

Group Punishments and Teamwork

You WILL be divided into teams that must operate as a disciplined unit. Individual infractions WILL result in punishment for the entire team. You WILL punish other athletes under Drill Instructor supervision, reinforcing trust and mutual discipline.

If you refuse, you WILL face severe paddling, hogties, flogging, and humiliating public expulsion—live-streamed to prospective recruits.
Despite all the calls for unity and shared sacrifice, you will know in your bones: “All trainees are equal, but some trainees are more equal than others.” Even if you are sometimes treated like an animal on a farm.

Sometimes not the worst but the best WILL be punished.
An arrogant victor WILL be bent over, sweat dripping, ass bared to the paddle or whip until his howl shakes the unit.
Fairness is irrelevant—submission is paramount. Unfairness itself is a tool—teaching submission to authority, not ego.

On rare occasions, flawless performance WILL earn mercy: a sip of water, an approving nod from your Drill Instructor.
These fragments matter only because the rest is agony.

Uniforms: Issued and Maintained as Part of Training

Every uniform is issued by the Institute, symbolizing unity, discipline, and pride. You WILL maintain its standards because failure  leads to immediate, painful  correction.

Uniform includes:

Dogtags with your Trainee number. Trainee number must be memorized and recited on command.

Clean white athletic shoes.
White athletic socks with black stripes, pulled just below the calf.
White T-shirt featuring mantra Obedience is strength. Submission is power. Mantra-stitched jockstrap beneath all gear and worn alone during punishment.
Approved grey shorts or pants with black stripe, fitting neat with full movement.

Discipline Training Institute Speech Code

Trainees shall maintain complete silence at all times except when explicitly commanded to speak.

Permitted verbal responses are restricted strictly to the following phrases, each to be spoken with exact phrasing and respectful tone:

– “Sir, yes, Sir!”

– “Sir, no, Sir!”

– “Sir, no excuse, Sir!”

– “Sir, permission to ask a question, Sir!”

Any deviation from these prescribed responses, unauthorized speech, whispering, muttering, or questioning without permission is strictly forbidden.

Silence is a fundamental discipline. Maintaining silence demonstrates control, respect, and readiness.

Unauthorized speech or failure to maintain silence will immediately draw corporal punishment without warning.

Permission to speak may only be granted by a Drill Instructor or authorized authority.

Trainees will be reminded that speech is a privilege, not a right, and is granted only within the Institute’s strict command structure.

Constant vigilance over speech commands obedience and humility—any lapse is a sign of dissent and will be corrected with the full severity of Institute discipline.

Barracks Life

Drills may end but discipline never does. Your body remains property of the program

You WILL polish the Drill Instructors’ boots. Standards WILL be exact. One scuff or speck of dust WILL mean correction. Correction WILL mean the whip.
You WILL stand frozen at an Instructor’s bunk. You WILL kneel in “unwanted service” until dismissed. You WILL be stripped of sleep. Stress positions WILL replace rest. Your legs WILL spasm in wall sits. Your arms WILL strain in face-down planks.

The barracks reek of discipline. Sweat seeps into mattresses, socks, and uniforms. Musk clings to the air even after scrubbing. Jockstraps hang stiff with salt and groin-stink. Leather whips dangle, heavy, their smell mixing with the tang of polish. Some men are punished by being denied latrine privileges. You WILL choke on every breath as the air thickens.  But one the smell will overpower all the others. Stronger than sweat, stronger than leather— it is the smell of fear.

By the end, the Institute WILL own you. Your body and bodily functions WILL not be yours. Your sweat and tears WILL be ours. You WILL shit and piss only when commanded.
You WILL be drained like prey before Dracula—husked, hollowed, and made ours. 

In unison with fellow trainees you will chant, soft at first  then ringing clear:
“Obedience is strength. Submission is power. We serve, we obey, we endure.”

The slogan is more than words—it is a command, a living mantra embedded deep in the marrow.

Around you, hidden cameras—known only as the Eye—track every twitch, every falter, every fleeting thought of resistance.

No act escapes the watchful gaze of The Eye.  No mind is free.

This is your world, a place where telescreens never blink and loyalty is measured 1984  times a day.
On arrival, you WILL memorize the DTI Discipline Pledge and recite on command:

We are nothing without command.
We are shaped by obedience
Discipline is our strength.
Submission is our pride.
We serve. We obey. We endure.
DTI owns our bodies.
DTI owns our will.
DTI owns us.
We are broken, and rebuilt.
Verbal Humiliation: Sharpening Mental Toughness 

Humiliation here is a weapon sharper than any paddle or whip—a tool to carve obedience straight into your soul. You WILL kneel beneath words that erode every shard of pride, leaving nothing but raw submission.

We press words that crush your manhood into your chest like a boot, weight heavy, leaving no room to breathe. You WILL be broken not only by rope, paddle, whip, and position, but by the sound of our voices stripping pride to dust.
When a Drill Instructor leans in, nose to yours, breath cutting the air, expect venom precise enough to burn into your core:

“You’re not a man—you’re a shell. A body to be used. A cock to be owned. Balls that exist for OUR fists, not YOUR pride.”

“Even your hard cock betrays you. Every drip that stains your jock is proof you’re nothing but a leaking hole for discipline.”

Discipline doesn’t need volume. Even in silence, a whisper will slice deeper than a scream, replaying in your skull until you can’t tell if it’s ours or yours.

Your body is physical. Your pride is fragile. But your mind—that is the true battlefield. Verbal humiliation ensures you surrender it gladly.

Only then does training truly begin.

Corporal Punishment: The Paddling Ritual

Your paddling is no symbol—it’s a searing ritual where discipline meets weakness, enforcing attitude adjustment, collective accountability, and literally taking one for the team.

Paddling comes in sets of ten with a 24-inch, 8-inch-wide paddle drilled for wind-resistance—built to slam mercilessly into flesh.

Before paddling, march in jock only, silently, and announce:

“Sir, this trainee requires punishment to learn obedience, sir.”

Bent over the bench, restrained, take each strike in silence. Groan or cry and earn more.

Muscles bunch, shoulders twitch, cock stiffens despite the fire. Teammates count strokes, cheeks redden, welts stripe into neat bands. At the end, declare:

“Sir, thank you for correcting this pussyboy, Sir!”

Anything less earns another round.

Escalation: The Hogtie
If paddling fails, the hogtie follows.

You will be stripped bare and thrown face down on the cold gym floor while others train relentlessly within sight and earshot. The floor is cold concrete, rough and scarred, dust grinding into your skin. Your knees scrape raw against its grit with every twitch. Your jockstrap gag is crammed into your mouth, sealed tight with layers of tape, silencing every sound but your desperate breathing.

Your wrists are wrenched behind your back and lashed into a crushing double-column tie, rope fibers grinding into flesh. Ankles bound in a vicious figure-eight, yanked so tight your spine bows, every tendon screaming. Each knot is cinched hard enough to cut circulation, yet precise enough to hold you for hours.

Your knees and elbows are bent past comfort into punishing angles, straining ligaments until every heartbeat feels like it might tear them apart. Rope ridges carve into skin, leaving grooves you’ll feel long after release. You’ll beg wordlessly for mercy, but the ropes only grind deeper.

Sometimes, I pause—not out of pity, but cruelty. A firm hand pressed into your back might feel, for a fleeting second, like recognition, even approval.

Wrong, pussyboy.

Then I’ll cinch the ropes tighter, forcing you past the threshold you thought was final.

One of my boosts WILL drive between your shoulder blades, grinding you into the floor, forcing your mouth down to polish the other boot with your gag-stuffed tongue. That’s when the lesson sets in: the only approval you’ll ever earn here is more pain.

When release finally comes, you crawl, trembling, to your knees. The only words permitted:

“Sir, this body belongs to the Institute, Sir.”

Waiver and Liability Release

I, the undersigned trainee, acknowledge and enter the DTI program, accepting intense physical exertion, strict obedience, public verbal humiliation, corporal punishment including paddling, and total physical restraint by hogtie methods producing excruciating  pain.

I agree to accept arbitrary and unfair punishment, punish teammates as directed, accept all risks, and release DTI and its affiliates from liability for any injury, harm, or distress caused.

I agree to comply fully with all commands and directives without hesitation.

By signing, I affirm understanding and voluntary acceptance of these terms, embracing the challenge and transformation demanded by DTI.

Name (printed): ___________________________
Signature: ______________________________
Date: _________________________________

Are you man enough to sign, pussyboy? Remember, we know who you are.

Testimonials

“Sir, your hogties destroyed the man I thought I was. DTI rebuilt me into something I can’t describe—and can’t escape.” — Bob V.

“I thought I was strong until I was hogtied, gagged with my own jock, and made to thank you for the pain. That’s when I learned strength meant surrender.” — Roger R.

“Obedience isn’t weakness; at DTI, it’s survival. When I stopped fighting, I belonged.” — Phil C.

Graffiti Found in the Latrine

“10 strokes = silence. 11 = you beg.” — beside tally marks carved into tile.

“Boot on your back. Tongue on his sole. Don’t resist.” — under a smeared boot print.

“The paddle never misses. Neither do they.” — scratched beneath a splintered rectangle of wood.

“We all leak in the jockstrap. Every one of us.” — under a crude cock sketch, stained.

“Don’t scream. Screams make them smile. And then it never stops.” — scrawled under a stick-figure bent, ass welted in red.

You have read the invitation. But crossing the threshold is not a choice—it’s a sentence.

The next voice you hear belongs to a man who dared to resist, and learned that submission is the only escape.

His story is your warning.
His story is your destiny.

Coming in Part 2: The Trainer and the Trainee.