Fiction by JockBoy
I never thought I would answer a letter like that. The envelope was plain, sealed with a black insignia. I turned it in my hands, feeling its weight pressing down, tightening an unseen band around my chest. Fear or craving—I couldn’t tell which—compelled me to open it.
The Discipline Training Institute was no gym, no boot camp. It was a crucible—a furnace—to strip men bare, to burn off their pride and forge obedience in scarred muscle and shattered will. Its creed was clear: absolute obedience. Relentless effort. No excuses.
At first, I couldn’t see why Collins—the friend who knew my every laugh and bruise—had pushed so hard. But now I saw: he had walked its fires. The letter he sent, a desperate lifeline, never reached me. Instead, his will found me here.
I saw him standing across the cracked desert tarmac, and recoiled instinctively. The transformation was colossal. Once muscular, now monstrous. His muscles rippled beneath the pristine khaki uniform of a Drill Instructor—immaculately cared for, pressed to razor-sharp creases, every button and insignia gleaming with polished precision. The uniform clung tightly to his broad frame, fabric straining at the seams that outlined every chiseled contour. His black boots were so meticulously polished they reflected the harsh sun in blinding bursts as each deliberate step echoed like a warning against the cracked concrete.
Then he crossed the space between us—no longer friend—his cold eyes obscured behind dark lenses, boring through me.
My breath caught. My knees stiffened. Was he predator and I prey? What had become of our friendship?.
His voice sliced through the dry air, sharp and uncompromising. “You’re mine now.”
In his hand gleamed something more chilling than any weapon I’d ever known: a paddle. A plank of drilled and beveled oak, heavy and precise, built to sting without mercy.
My knees hit the tarmac as he raised the paddle high. The shadow it cast was a promise of pain to come. The first strike cracked against my flesh with the sharpness of a gunshot. Heat radiated from the blow, burning through me in waves. I swallowed the urge to scream, barely suppressing a groan as the second strike fell, landing with cruel accuracy.
“Count,” he barked.
“One,” I gasped, voice cracking.
The blows kept coming, relentless and rhythmic, each one searing my pride as much as my skin. I could taste the salt of sweat mixed with the sting of burning flesh. My body trembled, muscles locking and releasing, driven by pain and something darker—a surrender I didn’t expect to crave.
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered after 20 strikes, voice ragged.
He nodded once, cold and approving. I craved the approval, hoping I could use it to reclaim our friendship. Could this really be Collins—the man who had shared locker rooms and finish-line triumphs with me? What had become of him… and of me?.
.The pain wasn’t that bad. I had endured worse in a few timid dungeon sessions. What wounded me most: I realized there was no space left for memory of camaraderie. Only discipline and obedience.
The first day dissolved into kneeling. Pain bore down, but every jolt carried echoes of our old races—how we pushed side by side, laughing through exhaustion, daring each other to win. That energy had warped into something unrecognizable. Pride had leaked away, pressed flat beneath the weight of obedience.
For a breath, I saw compassion stir behind his eyes—a ghost of friendship. But it vanished, sealed behind iron hardness. I bent further, my lips meeting the grainy leather of his boots. The bond tilted. Equal no longer. Drill instructor and trainee now He was the master. I was the subject.
Bootlicking grew into ritual. He sat above, one boot proffered while the other held firm, commanding stance. Black leather shone, another symbol of his authority. Its sharp scent blended with the stink of my sweat and my fear.
Each lick scoured away the man I had been, writing submission in its place.
His words broke me harder than any lash:
“We were once equals. Now you kneel. Every lick proves you belong to me.”
My reply came in a whisper, cracking with shame:
“Every lick proves I’m yours.”
I said it not proudly. Not gladly. But inevitably.
Day Two arrived with a bark that split the air.
“Attention! Parade Rest! Kneel!”
Obedience came instantly. Hours of stillness stretched, knees gnawing into the ground, muscles spasming to hold. Every hesitation was met with correction—a paddle strike, rope’s bite, or the sudden weight of his boot grinding my head against the floor.
Water rationed at command. Sleep denied. What remained was repetition, hammered until thought eroded: Stand. Kneel. Hold. Submit.
I remembered our late-night runs, lungs set aflame, him always pushing me to another stride. That same drive, repurposed. Not victory now, but surrender. Not racing by his side, but collapsing beneath his watch.
By the end, I no longer felt like myself. I was reduced to posture, correction, endurance. Strangely, there was relief in it. Day Two taught its hardest lesson: discipline as erasure.
Day Three began in silence. No bark, no paddle, only the slow measure of boots on concrete. Then the ropes. My wrists yanked back, elbows twisted to screaming pitch. Ankles lashed tight in figure-eight binds. My body hoisted and pinned, contorted until all I could do was endure.
He bent close, voice a rasp of heat in my ear.
“Every nerve,” he murmured, almost tender, “every muscle—belongs to me.”
It was not cruelty but closeness that shattered me. The tone was the same that once spurred me forward, goading me to outrun, to endure. To hear it again—used to break me—pierced deeper than any strike.
Then came contradiction. A hand on my shoulder, steadying, almost… kind. Cruelty was expected; kindness was devastation. The smallest reminder of what had once been between us cut sharper than all the rest.
Something died in that moment: rivalry, camaraderie, equality. In their place rose hunger. Pain translated into craving. Shame melted to need. Against myself, I longed for more.
Day Three did not simply teach obedience. It taught dependence.
The days blurred—inspections scouring every detail, hours spent licking boots until my jaw numbed, hogties stretched until each muscle quaked and the smallest twitch brought punishment. His voice grew colder, his timing sharper. Each command became liturgy, repeated until resistance bled dry.
By Day Seven, I was hollowed. My body ached raw, skin welted, muscles locked, cock leaking without restraint. I knelt before him, chanting mantras of submission while the memories of races and triumphs inverted into fuel for obedience.
When the flood finally spilled, it was not merely submission but confession. My voice trembled as I whispered:
“I… I want to become a Drill Instructor. I want to be like you.”
He smiled—cold, predatory. For a breath, the ghost of my old teammate flickered in his face. Then it vanished, sealed behind the uniform.
“The DI program runs six months,” he said. “What you’ve endured was nothing. We’ll begin with a four-hour hogtie now.”
Heat surged in me, body betraying discipline with uncontrollable erection and spill. Punishment loomed, yet desire drowned caution.
Memory of flesh seared by paddle, ropes gouging skin, boots pressing skull—all of it surged into craving. His verdict fell:
“Two hours PT. Two hundred strokes. Then hogtie.”
Shame pooled, but joy bloomed in equal measure. I shivered with ecstatic anticipation. The claws of the Institute had sunk deep. I was branded property. From now on, every bruise, every scar was doctrine written in flesh.
I no longer feared pain. I welcomed it.
And someday I will pass on the pain to you, Mr. Pussyboy Metalbond reader, getting hard right now. We all have our place in the hierarchy. And your place is beneath my boot, begging for the paddle, the whip, and the hogtie as you finally submit to the discipline you’ve always needed.
Months later, when I found the manual, my hands trembled. Nothing he had done—every insult, every silence, every flicker of memory he let me see—was improvised. It was scripted. All of it.
The Discipline Training Institute Manual: Section III – The Cycle of Transformation.
Doctrine:
Friendship is leverage. Ritual binds deeper than chains. The Natural Order is eternal.
Stages:
– Brotherhood Broken. A crushed friendship is more potent than any wound.
– The Body Shattered. Ritual follows pain; pain alone is hollow.
– Ritualized Submission. Repetition makes creed of choice.
– Psychological Reprogramming. Words rebuild the wreckage of pride
– Confession. Only voluntary admission completes obedience.
– Transformation. The cycle ends when the broken man hungers to enforce.
Final note: Even those who wield the paddle, even those in boots and uniforms who have earned respect through their own sweat and pain — even they remain prey to the hierarchy. The Institute consumes all.
Part 3 was my breaking. In Part 4, the hunter himself shall kneel.
