Nothing to complain about

It's good to know that I'm not the only one who gets a secret perverted smile every time he hears the phrase "Boot Camp." The military can be so sexy. If it wasn't for all that 'people shoot at you' stuff, and if it worked the way fantasies do.... well, this particular bootlicker might just find himself enlisting.

Alas, reality continues to refuse to conform to my fantasies. So I'm stuck with just writing the fantasies. Today's is for someone else, someone who seems to share a lot of the same interests. Hopefully, he will enjoy this entry...

Nothing to Complain About

            At first, it felt unfair. He wasn’t the only one who was late to reveille. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t finish the course in time. Hell, he wasn’t even the slowest. And just because he wasn’t winning any of the hand to hand combat sparring sessions didn’t mean anything. It’s not like he was getting his ass kicked. And it’s not like he was complaining.

            He never complained. John was very proud of that fact. No matter how many extra miles he had to run, no matter how many extra pushups he had to do, no matter how many hours he spent scrubbing floors or polishing boots or sweeping warehouses, he never complained. Not once.

            But he still thought it was unfair. Why was Sargent Wilson always riding him so hard? Scrubbing the head with a toothbrush, he found himself blushing at the very thought of it. After all, truth be told, he wanted Sargent Wilson to ride him. All the guys did. Well, some of them wanted to ride her, but the idea was the same.

            It’s not easy to be a woman in the military. You have to be twice as tough, twice as much of a badass. And to be a drill Sargent? They were already twice as rough and tumble as everyone else. No, John was pretty sure that however it might happen, and whoever it might happen to, Wilson was always the one doing the riding.

            She cleared her throat, the first warning he got that she was even in the room. He sprung to his feet and jolted to attention. He almost snapped a solute, but knew she wouldn’t appreciate it. What was the old joke? She actually worked for a living.

            She walked slowly around him, looking him up and down, searching for a defect. John knew his posture was perfect, knew his position as flawless. She’d made him stand at attention for a full night without pause, without sleep, and without the benefit of a full uniform. He’d been freezing, but he hadn’t stood at anything less than perfect attention since.

            Her jaw was set firm, her lips in a perpetual frown. She’d probably have to smile to have a neutral expression on her face; John didn’t know, since no one had ever seen her smile. Rumor had it that she couldn’t do it.

            “Why are you here, soldier?” she asked.

            “To clean out the head, drill Sargent!”

            She stood in front of him, her hands behind her back. “With that little thing?” Something about the tone of her voice made him wonder if she really meant the toothbrush. “All by yourself?”

            “That is what you told me to do, drill Sargent!”

            “While the rest of your unit is out on maneuvers. Out doing something actually useful.” She stepped right up to him, almost close enough to touch him. Her head had to tilt back to make eye contact, but it still felt like she was looking down on him. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

            “It’s not my place to complain, drill Sargent.”

            She raised an eyebrow at that. “Not your place, soldier?” She stepped back and walked another circuit around him. “You know your place then?”

            “My place is wherever you tell me it is, drill Sargent.”

            She laughed. Usually, when Sargent Williams laughed, it meant very bad things were about to happen. “I like the way you think, soldier,” she said. Her voice was soft, like the edges of her normal clipped down had been sanded down a bit. “And you really do think that way, don’t you?”

            “Yes drill Sargent.”

            “Katie,” she said.

            John reeled a bit. “Excuse me, drill Sargent?”

            “My name,” she said. “It’s not drill Sargent. It’s Katie.”

            “But—But you are my drill Sargent.”

            She stepped around where he could see her again. She shrugged. “When I’m on duty, yes,” she said. She took off her hat and shook out her raven hair, leaving a shaggy frame around her face that curled down to her chin. “But I’m not on duty right now. This is not an official visit, soldier. There’s no one else here but the two of us. The whole camp is out on maneuvers.”

            “Why- why didn’t I get to go?”

            She laughed. It didn’t sound as harsh as before. “Is that a complaint?” she asked. “Did I finally get you to complain?”

            His shoulders snapped tighter and his jaw clamped shut. “No drill Sargent. Not a complaint. Just a question.”

            “You didn’t get to go,” she said, “because I pulled a few strings, shuffled a few papers, and dropped you through the cracks.”

            “What?”

            “As far as the people out on maneuvers are concerned, you’re there somewhere. On someone else’s team, following some other assignment. Shuffled around enough that no one will notice that you’re not there.” She stepped back then and smiled at him. Actually smiled. Her frown perked up at the corners, making that smile crooked and a bit menacing. But it was definitely a smile. “I’ve got you all to myself.”

            John didn’t know how to respond to that.

            She looked him hard in the eye. “I may have misread you,” she said. “And if so, then I’ll apologize and let you get back to work.” She looked around the showers. “You could probably spend the rest of the day in here, if you really want to. But if I did read you right, then—“ she let the thought hang in the air until John stopped staring straight ahead and actually turned his head to look at her, seeing that smile more than just out of the corner of his eyes.

            He saw her standing there, her legs braced a little bit apart, her hands stuffed down the back pockets of her camo pants. She wasn’t in her normal uniform. Her arms were bare, the Corps tattoo clearly visible on her shoulder, the purple heart ink sticking up from the tank top. Her pants were tucked tight into her boots. She was still technically in uniform, but this was as informal as John had ever seen her.

            “How did you read me?” he asked.

            “You’re someone who never complains,” she said. “You take abuse without question, you follow orders like you were born to do it, and you don’t seem to care when someone beats you a little bit. Either you’re a perfect soldier,” she locked eyes with him, “or you’re submissive.”

            “What?”

            “Submissive,” she said, her voice soft but firm. She took a quick peek down, then smirked in his face. “As in ‘looking to submit.’ You like the idea of someone else being in power.”

            He shook his head, though the heat in his cheeks was almost certainly betraying him.

            She laughed, back to the cruel laugh he was used to. “Then look me in the eyes,” she said, “and tell me that the idea of me making you brush your teeth with that toothbrush, after you’ve used it to clean an entire bathroom, doesn’t turn you on.”

            He cleared his throat, hoping to have some strength in his voice. “It doesn’t,” he said.

            She glanced down again. “Your voice says no,” she said. “And badly, I might add. But the erection says other things. Doesn’t it?”

            John swallowed hard and blushed even deeper.

            She gave him the gentle laugh again. “It’s okay,” she said. “I want you to be submissive. I’d much rather that than have you just be a mindless drone of a soldier.”

            “Why?”

            “Mindless drones get killed,” she said. “I’d rather you be a free thinker.”

            “Submissives don’t get killed?”

            She shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is what happens next.”

            John could feel the sweat sliding like ice down his spine. “What happens next?” he asked.

            “One of two things.” She held up a finger. “Either you tell me I’m wrong again, I take your word for it, let you get back to work, and never mention any of this ever again.” She raised a second finger. “Or.”

            “Or what?”

            She smiled at him, all the cruelty in the world dancing through her eyes. “Of you get down on your knees, right now, and lick my boots.”

            “What?” He almost laughed with the question, not sure he believed what was being said.

            “You heard me,” she said. “It’s your choice. I’ll give you five seconds before I’ll have to assume that I was wrong about you.” She kept his eyes bound tightly in her gaze. “One.” She raised an eyebrow. “Two.”

            He was on his knees before she got to three. He winced a little at the jolting impact; he hadn’t meant to kneel that fast or that hard. But he didn’t complain. He never complained.

            “Good boy,” she said. “Now lick.”

            She pushed one foot forward a little bit, just a few inches. John put his hands on the floor and lowered his head towards her foot, inhaling the scent of soft leather. He slid his tongue out of his mouth and cautiously ran it along the leather, leaving a path of saliva behind.

            Her other foot flashed forward, kicking him in the side, just below his floating rib. He grunted in pain and nearly fell over.

            “Do it like you mean it, bitch,” she said. “I expect to feel your tongue.”

            He nodded and forced his jaw to relax, then bent back down and pressed his tongue against the leather, pressing it into the well-worn grooves and creases caused by constant wear. He felt the little breaks where the leather had bent one time too many, felt the little pits and scratches gained from hikes and runs. He slid his tongue over the edge of the toe piece, pressing under the tiny fold of the seam, then up to wear the grommets started, licking underneath the beginning of the laces before moving around the side and sliding his tongue over the bump of her ankle.

            “Much better,” she said, her voice nearly a purr. “I’d almost think you’ve done this before.”

            He licked up the long strip of leather at the back, then back to the heel and around to the instep of her foot.

            “This may be your first time,” she said, “But it definitely won’t be your last.”

            John couldn’t help but smile at that, and continued to press his tongue as hard as he could up and down the front of the boot, flicking it at the leather tongue of the boot between the crossed laces. He licked around the lace that tied around her ankle, sliding his tongue above and below, aching to get at the leather he couldn’t reach.

            He was half way through the second boot before he realized that the soft moaning sound he was hearing didn’t come from the Sargent. The moaning came from him, from deep inside. Licking her boots felt so right. So perfect.

            “Yes,” she said, bending down and running a hand over his shorn head. “That’s right where you belong, isn’t it?”

            He made an affirmative sound, finishing off the second boot, leaving the leather shining in a way that polish never seemed to achieve. Without being told, he pressed a reverent kiss on the toe of each boot.

            She laughed again.

            “Definitely where you belong,” she said.

            And he had no complaints.