Fiction by JockBoy

[TOP SECRET // DTI-OPS]

Acquisition File: QB‑117
Classification: ALPHA‑RED TARGET
[DTI-QB117-SEC1] SURVEILLANCE DOSSIER

Compiled By: Collegiate Acquisition Branch
Source Reliability: HIGH (Informant: Coach R.H. – compromised under threat of exposure)

PHYSICAL PROFILE:

Exceptional size and contact-sport build, with upper and lower body musculature surpassing elite collegiate benchmarks.

Commanding physical presence and posture that demand respect.

False public image crafted around perceived power and leadership,

In communal showers, his prominent physique and penis size become focal points of silent envy and scrutiny.

Uses appearance to dominate teammates

OBSERVED BEHAVIOR:

– Extends stress drills deliberately.

– Responds calmly to reprimand; re‑volunteers squad for corrective punishment.

– Marginal notes found in training playbooks highlight endurance mantras (“We endure”).

PSYCHOLOGICAL SUMMARY:

– Projects a false “Alpha” image masking reliance on external discipline

– Displays attraction to correction, revealing a key psychological vulnerability.

– Derives conflicted enjoyment from hazing others.

– Uses dominance to conceal vulnerability and craving for strict discipline.

– Need for control coexists with need for submission.

– Exhibits a fragile character prone to psychological manipulation despite outward strength and confidence.

– Needs to belong. Craves punishment to demonstrate obedience to superiors.

 

DIRECTIVES:

– Deploy advanced keystroke & comms interception package.

– Extend audio / locker‑room monitoring.

– Sustain leverage on compromised coach. Explicitly warn: video evidence of hazing & illicit sexual behaviour with players during “extra training” private session behavior will be released if cooperation falters.

STATUS: Classified ALPHA / RED TARGET — Acquisition Ready.

[DTI-QB117-SEC2] RECRUITMENT MEMO

From: Recruitment Bureau – DTI
To: Candidate QB‑117
Subject: YOU HAVE BEEN IDENTIFIED — ALPHA NOTICE

Candidate,

You have been formally identified for recruitment into the Discipline Training Institute. Selection is based on intelligence gathered from your coach, surveillance intercepts, and corroborated records of your concealed compulsions surrounding domination, submission, and hierarchy.

The Institute is a closed authority system. It strips away illusion and pride, remakes the body under relentless endurance, and imposes absolute obedience without exception. All men, regardless of strength, are broken and re‑forged in the image of Discipline.

Directive: Reply to this encryption thread with the exact words: “I obey.”

Failure to comply will worsen your status and not alter your destiny.  Surveillance remains active. Your response is mandatory, and will be logged as evidence of readiness.

— Recruitment Bureau, DTI

[DTI-QB117-SEC3] CANDIDATE RESPONSE

To: Recruitment Bureau – DTI
Subject: Formal Response

I obey.

[DTI-QB117-SEC4] INTERNAL PROCESSING MEMO

From: Recruitment Logistics Division, Central Command;
HQ Doctrinal Bureau
To: Training Command, Discipline Training Institute
Subject: TRAVEL CLEARANCE & CLASS COMPOSITION — Candidate QB‑117

AUTHORIZATION: Candidate QB‑117 cleared for secure transport. Date of induction set for 15 SEPT 2025, desert base facility (isolated coordinates).

CLASS COMPOSITION OVERVIEW:

Athletic Cadre: Selected collegiate athletes (QB‑117 designated keystone).

Military Detachment: Former Marines slated for doctrinal realignment.

Civilian Intake: Surveillance‑flagged non‑military candidates.

OPERATIONAL STRATEGY:

Cohort design emphasizes instability by contrast.

Directive to Instructors: Fuel rivalry; alternate punitive focus across groups.

Rotate punishment/reward asymmetrically — provoke suspicion, fracture cohesion, eliminate peer solidarity.

OBJECTIVE:

Obedience must be divorced from camaraderie or previous identity.

Allegiance anchors solely to authority.

This applies equally to DTI present or former USMC Drill Instructors. They will themselves be punished for favoring Marines trainees at triple the punishment they should have inflicted in the first place, per DTI doctrine:

– Recruitment Logistics Division // AUTH VERIFIED
– Recruitment Doctrinal Bureau // AUTH VERIFIED

Bro:
Can’t write long. Not supposed to. They’ll take this if they find it. But you need to hear. You need to know.

I thought the email was a joke. I laughed at it. “Discipline Training Institute”—please. I walked in with my star‑athlete grin, chest out, cocky. It lasted less than one sunrise.

The barracks smell like discipline. Sweat soaked into beds. Detergent that never hides the musk. Polish sharp in your nose. Damp straps hung like flags, sour wet.

At my bunk: white shirt, striped socks, white shoes gleaming, and the jock on top. Always the jock. It’s not gear—it’s the leash they fasten your body with.

Day One—I smirked. That was enough. They dragged me out—bench, wrists pinned, paddle swinging. Sounds like a gunshot, crack splitting my ass. Squad counting:

“ONE! TWO! THREE!”

My cock ran down my leg, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t hide. Then the rope—hogtied, gag rammed in with my own strap. Face down. Boots stomping, squad drilling around me while I drooled into the concrete. They laughed:

“This is what happens to arrogance.”

And they were right.

Day Two—every mistake cost everyone. One slip, twenty‑four men on their stomachs, puking in sweat. I slipped. Again. Gag back in, hogtied in dirt, cock grinding the floor while my brothers gasped through push-ups. Thought they’d hate me—but no. Just hollow eyes, because they knew they were next.

Day Three—humiliation became the game. Small inspection “errors”—sheet corner out, sock sagged, fold off. Dragged out, stripped, corrected in front of the line. My gear sloppy → ten blows counted back in unison:

“ONE, SIR! TWO, SIR!”

Cock stiff, leaking, body twitching, heat across my ass. Then—on my knees, thanking them, voice breaking. And sick—so sick—but truth: I meant it. I thanked them because they knew what I needed better than I knew myself.

Day Four–Five—the Parade. The gym. One bent to the bench, striped red, then walked down the line bare, cock wet, welts screaming open. We all held planks, eyes locked. Couldn’t look away. His pain was ours, branded into our chests. By lights‑out, the graffiti on the wall—“The paddle never misses. Obedience is freedom.”—rang like gospel.

Day Six—they drilled us in kneeling, in chanting, in thanking every blow. I caught myself wanting someone to slip. Craving it. Hungry to watch them broken.Trainees who performed poorly at today’s events ate their meals from dog bowls on the floor, lying prone, hands cuffed behind their backs, lapping food like animals while Instructors circled, mocking every twitch.

Day Seven—we were gone. Twenty‑four men who walked in with pride, bent as one. Kneeling rows, heads down, cocks dripping against straps, voices chanting thanks. No rebels. Just property.

Me most of all.

I don’t belong to me now. I’m theirs. Paddle preached it. Rope sealed it. Humiliation carved it. I can’t fight with what’s left—I don’t want to.

So hear me, brother. If that mail lands—don’t laugh. Don’t think you’ll dodge it. You’ll be bound, stripped, whipped, paraded. They’ll burn your pride out of you, crack you in front of your own. And when you collapse, you’ll thank them too.

I can barely breathe writing this—I’m scared they’ll catch me. But I can’t stop. Because I want you here. Come. Know what it will be. Know it’ll hurt. Know it’ll end you. But when you kneel beside me, sweat flooding the cement, ass striped, cock leaking—you’ll finally understand.

And you’ll never leave.

—T.

[Recovered Letter: Classified Transmission]

From the Desk of Head Instructor, Discipline Training Institute

Candidate—

You will never receive the words T tried to send you. They were confiscated. He broke the first and most sacred rule: unauthorized communication. He dared to imagine that old scraps of self still belonged to him—scribbled pride, whispered sentiment. He dared to imagine he was outside my reach for even one moment.

Understand this: every page your “friend” thought he smuggled is now mine. I read every trembling word before I burned it. I watched as he dripped guilt onto the paper, as his strokes grew frantic in the dark, imagining he was carving a message of resistance.

He is not the cocky athlete you knew. He is nothing but strap, sweat, welts, obedience. He has been gagged with his own attempt at rebellion. Rope has silenced the tongue that tried to plead. His fellow squadmates bore witness to what happens when a trainee believes he can hide something from me.

He wanted to warn you. He wanted to beg you. He wanted to draw you here with his humiliation. That much I allowed him to think he could do. Now I will tell you the truth, clean and stripped of his weakness.

One week inside these walls erases years of arrogance. The paddle speaks louder than lectures. Rope holds firmer than words. Sweat and punishment salt away whatever scraps of ego boys like him drag in with them. And when I am finished, every one of them kneels in unison. Cock hard. Eyes down. Mouth grateful.

You wonder what happened when I found his letter? He was bound, face to the mat. The entire squad was summoned in silence. Twenty‑three men were forced to watch as their brother’s flimsy rebellion burned in my hand. Ashes fell across his back as I swung the paddle down. Each stroke was counted out loud by those he betrayed with his scribbles.

His sweat and tears stained the floor, but his voice—cracked, broken—still managed to chant thanks. That is how you’ll know he’s mine: when even punishment for punishment’s sake tastes like devotion on his lips.

Why am I telling you this? Because you were the ghost reader in his mind. The “friend” he thought he could reach through his shame. He wanted you here. I want you here.

And unlike him—I don’t need to beg. His mouth is on my boot as I write his.

When that email finds you, and it will, you have two choices: delete it, or answer. Either way, know this—I already own the part of you that hesitated. I already hear your fear. And I already know how easily that fear will fold into obedience.

Your friend is not sending you letters anymore. He is on his knees, chanting with a soaked strap and marked ass.

Every fiber of him is remembering the strikes, the ropes, the humiliation, the smell and taste of submission. The mantra is running through what’s left of his mind:
We are nothing without command. We are shaped by obedience. We are broken, and we are rebuilt…

If you walk through my gates, you will learn the same.

And when you kneel at my command, when I strip the last grin from your face, when you finally thank me for the privilege of being broken—you will understand what he never had the chance to explain.

—D
Head Instructor
Discipline Training Institute

Your true journey begins when your body becomes the battleground. Brace yourself: every sinew in your body will be reshaped, every instinct punished until only obedience remains. Resistance will be crushed beneath relentless discipline in Part 3: The Transformation.