Cadet 3

by Commander James Bondage

  They were frozen by the vision for a few heartbeats, and then they all moved at once. Jodie disappeared, a small pink figure submerged in a crowd of tall men in blue uniforms. All four men scrabbled hastily at their belts to unbuckle them, unbuttoned their pants, and tore off their underwear, and soon they were rubbing and pressing against Jodie, now aroused to a state of almost uncontrollable lust.

  “On your knees, bitch,” the Captain barked. “I want to see what a Lieutenant General can do. Let’s see if your whore academy taught you anything at all.”

  Jodie obediently dropped to her knees on the ground, and opened her mouth. The Captain was not particularly well endowed; in point of fact, he had one of the smallest reproductive organs she had ever seen on a grown man. She had to stifle an urge to laugh. The real question here is whether I’m even going to notice it.

  “Take it all, slut!” the Captain ordered.

  Jodie had no problem with it, or with the other men who crowded round her, eager to make the most of this unique opportunity.

  The Captain slapped her face. “Look at me while you’re blowing me, General Cunt!” he demanded. He put his hands on the back of her head and energetically jammed her head up and down as if she were an inflatable sex-doll.

  Jodie had a hunch the Captain would not have much stamina, and her intuition proved to be correct. In a remarkably short time it was over and he staggered backwards, to sit heavily on the desk.

  The remaining three MPs had been waiting impatiently for their Captain to finish so that they could take their turns with her. Naturally, Jodie was familiar with and experienced in all sexual variations from her days at the Academy, and although there were some that she had never learned to enjoy. She had discovered that the trick was to relax as much as possible for some of the more unusual activities, and she now put that knowledge to good use.

  All three men used their small, delicate-looking partner boorishly, slapping her buttocks, face and breasts as they thrust. As Jodie was in fact about as delicate as a T-51 main battle tank, she took this mistreatment in her stride, hardly paying any attention to it.

  The Captain watched the foursome for a while, resting up as he recovered. Then he rose and, picking up the needle-nose pliers, went back over to Robin. While his men were still busy with Jodie, the Captain amused himself with the bound redhead. He started by catching her uninjured nipple with the tool and crushing it mercilessly, leaning in close to study her face as she shrieked and twisted in anguish. When he tired of this game, he moved the pliers lower down, inserted them, and found her most sensitive flesh to capture between their pitiless jaws. As he slowly applied pressure, he smiled at his defenseless victim, turning and tugging the pliers and enjoying her garbled pleas and the frenzied contortions of her lithe, lovely body.

  The Captain put a sharper edge on his pleasure by taunting Robin in her extremity. “It turns you on, doesn’t it, sweetheart? Gets you all hot and bothered, am I right?” he asked. He gave another sudden pull on the pliers. “Feels good, doesn’t it, cunt?”

  Busy with the three soldiers as she was, Jodie was able to observe the Captain brutalizing Robin from the corner of her eye. She burned his face into her memory, vowing never to forget it. You will not have an easy death, Captain, she silently vowed.

  The three men around Jodie were finally satisfied, but Robin’s suffering had given the Captain a fresh interest. He slapped her face a few times, then wrapped his hand around her slender throat and squeezed until her eyes bulged from her head. “I’ll bet you wish somebody would give you a little of what your boss is getting, don’t you, slut? Well, I wouldn’t mind giving you a little ride. You look like you’d like a real fuck instead that lesbo stuff. Yeah, I think I’ll leave you with something nice you can remember, while you’re sitting in a cell in Leavenworth, Captain Bransom.”

  Before he could act on this plan, a heavy thud on the door announced the arrival of visitors. “Open up,” a voice said. “I’m Major Rodriguez of the National Security Bureau. We’re here for your prisoners.”

  Chapter Two: Arlington

  Extracts from: Soldier, Whore, Patriot, Traitor: the Memoirs of General Jodie Lawrence, U.S. Army.

  The real insanity started the day after they put General Cafferson in the ground in the plot reserved for him at Arlington National Cemetery. The weather had been threatening since before sunrise, and the sky had been gray and drizzling all morning. But the clouds did not really open up until we were standing by the open grave, watching the white-gloved Marine Honor Guard go through the ceremonial drill, and fire off the twenty-one gun salute that marked the passing of the leader of the free world, the Chief of the General Staff.

  Robin and I stood together while the rain gathered on the bills of our caps and dripped to the ground in front of us. I glanced over at her face from time to time to see how she was holding up. She had not said a word since the funeral cortege had left the National Cathedral after the service, which was unusual, and I was a little worried about her. I was not exactly a chatterbox that day myself, I suppose. The nation had lost its leader after he had been at the helm for only five years, and Robin and I had lost a friend. Of course, we did not exactly see General Cafferson as a friend when we first met him, back when we cadets were at the Academy.

  It is probably confusing to drop into the middle the story this way, so let me back up a little bit and start over. My name is Jodie Penelope Lawrence. I’m 4 feet, 11 inches tall, with short, wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, a cute, trim little body (if I do say myself) even at the advanced age of 35, and a twisted sense of humor. I was born and raised in the town of Gladwyne, which is an affluent, old-money Main Line suburb located west of Philadelphia. My parents were both from aristocratic, wealthy Philadelphian stock. My mother could claim descent from the original proprietor of colonial Pennsylvania, William Penn, and my father’s ancestors were among the original investors in the Pennsylvania Railroad, all of whom were members of the city’s upper crust. I was brought up as a typical daughter of the Main Line gentry, with the usual private schools, and the lessons in show jumping (horses, that is) and dancing. After that, I was expected to have a coming-out party, make the rounds of the debutant cotillion circuit, attend an Ivy League college, or maybe Bryn Mawr, then marry the son of another blue-blood family, whether from Boston, New York or Philadelphia hardly mattered. I decided shortly after my ninth birthday that the whole Main Line lifestyle was repulsive and boring beyond belief. At that tender age, I had already made up my mind that when the first opportunity presented itself, I would escape to make my own way in the world.

  My chance came when I was eighteen. I read one morning in the Philadelphia Inquirer that the U.S. Army was going to allow women to enlist. It was perfect: nobody in the service would care who my family was, or how rich they were. If I was successful there, it would be because of what I had accomplished on my own, and not because of family’s name, connections or money. Anyway, I had always been interested in the Army and military history. I had read every book in my high school library on the subject, starting with Civil War and the World Wars, and then gone through everything they had at the municipal library, right up the war with China.

  By the time the Philadelphia Army recruiting station opened its doors at 8 AM on the first day women were being allowed to enlist, I had been waiting outside on Broad Street for over an hour. I zipped through the written tests and the physical exam, and took the oath along with three other recruits before lunchtime. When I called home from the bus taking us to boot camp, my parents were shocked but not surprised, if that makes any sense. I suppose they always knew deep down that I was a rebel, and they probably expected me to pull a madcap stunt like this eventually. (The word “madcap” was chosen with care, as it is only ever used to describe eccentric heiresses, like me). Anyway, they seemed to take the news pretty well (much better than my little brother, who was crazy with jealousy), although since both of them had learned since childhood that it was uncouth to display the
ir feelings, it was not easy to tell.

  Boot camp was no problem, and I found adjusting to Army life was pretty easy. The trouble was, it was too easy. There was nothing in it to really challenge me, and practically no room for advancement after I made PFC six months after graduating from Basic. The work was routine and uninteresting, and after a year sitting at a desk poking a keyboard to enter personnel records in the computer system, I began to wonder if I had made the right decision after all. Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I had been an idiot to throw away four years of my life to learn how to be a data-entry clerk, I was called into my Company Commander’s office and informed that I had been selected, along with only 29 other women from the entire Army, to be part of the first class of cadets at the new National Women’s Military Academy at High Point in northeastern Pennsylvania. I was so happy that I committed a gross breach of military discipline and planted a big, wet kiss on Captain Peters’ cheek after he told me the news. (I have to admit, I was glad to have an excuse to kiss him. Carl Peters was a cutie.)

  You have probably heard a lot of rumors about what went on inside the walls of the NWMA. The Army has not officially admitted anything to this day, even after these many years later. They still claim it’s “classified”. Well, as a General of the Army (that’s a five-star General, in case you’re not up on Army ranks) and former Chief of the General Staff, I say fuck that, I’m un-classifying it right here and now. My comrades who went through that place deserve to have the story of what the Army did to them made public at last.

  High Point was a military academy with a difference. The Army had selected its first thirty women for the qualities of beauty and military aptitude to fill the initial class of female cadets. We had to be smart, and tough enough to become competent, efficient aides for high-ranking officers, and we had to be pretty, obedient and sexually versatile to keep the senior officers to whom they would be assigned happy. In other words, we were supposed to be combination staff officers and high-priced whores.

  The Academy was the pet project of the Chief of the General Staff, General Bernard Cafferson. We found out later that the National Women’s Military Academy as it was finally established was the result of a compromise after a long battle: Cafferson had wanted to allow us to enter West Point, Annapolis and Colorado Springs, and compete with the boys on even terms, but he could not get enough support for this plan from the rest of the General Staff, which had opposed allowing women into the Armed Services in the first place. The promise of “personal” (i.e. sexual) services for members of the General Staff was the sweetener he used to get the backing he needed to launch the NWMA.

  The first group of thirty cadets spent eighteen months at High Point before we graduated, not much older, but a very much wiser. The physical training was difficult, but far from impossible, and by the time I graduated, I was in the best shape of my life. The academic requirements were hard too, as they tried to cram 4 years’ worth of material into a year and a half course. It was a challenge, which was what I had been looking for all along, I suppose. But the other part of it, the sexual “training”, was what made High Point hell on Earth for us, the thirty young women (girls, really; most of us were still in our teens), trapped there.

  Our uniforms were made of latex, and were intentionally designed to be skin-tight so that we could not fit underwear beneath (not that they issued us any underwear), and to display every bump and crevice of our bodies. They showed off our nipples, our vulvas, our assholes, everything. Nor were the demeaning uniforms the worst of it. The NCO instructors were issued leather riding crops, and were instructed to discipline us by beating our bare asses with them. They were allowed (allowed? encouraged!) to enter the showers while we were bathing to look at the cadets in the nude. They were permitted to pull open our uniforms and fondle our breasts, vulvas and rectums, as if we were domestic animals, while we were under standing orders to remain still they handled us. The officers were permitted to do the same, and more. They were permitted to use us sexually in any way that suited them: vaginally, orally, anally. If any cadet protested or failed to satisfy any order, no matter how perverted it was, she was punished. They brutalized us in various painful ways, with canes, whips, metal clamps and other devices, which they used on every part of our bodies, and they humiliated us as well. It should go without saying that we were not permitted to communicate any of this to our families or anyone else outside the Academy.

  The cadets were provided with some minimal protection by General Cafferson. (Considering that he was responsible for us being there in the first place, it was the least he could do.) If any instructor or visiting officer went too far in mishandling a cadet by risking serious or permanent injury to her, the General’s wrath would fall on the malefactor. The General knew everything that went on at High Point. (As we found out later, the entire campus was loaded with optical and audio bugs and hidden recording devices.) But that still gave them plenty of leeway to abuse us sexually in all sorts of imaginative ways. This, of course, was the whole point. We were being readied to service the high-ranking officers to whom we would be assigned after graduation.

  I learned how to relax my throat muscles enough to swallow an officer’s appendage, however long it might be and breathe through my nose, while being taken up the ass by somebody else. We all picked up those kinds of valuable skills. All the cadets acquired the ability to masturbate ourselves to orgasm on command, and learned the best way to bring another woman to a climax with our tongues, as part of the “personal services” training at our dear old alma mater. The above brief narrative doesn’t really do the experience of High Point justice. I could just summarize it by saying that it was something like an eighteen month gang-bang, with academics and drill thrown in. But I believe the full story of the inhuman way we were misused by the Army has been covered up long enough, so I am going to devote a full chapter of this book to it. The next chapter will describe the program of the NWMA in detail, and for the first time, name names. If the Army doesn’t like it, I can only say they should have come clean on their own a long time ago.

  The day we arrived, moments after we had gotten off the bus, we were lined up at attention and ordered to watch as one of our classmates was beaten nearly unconscious… [there follows an account of the sexual and physical abuse of the cadets at the National Women’s Military Academy at High Point ]…

  …After reading all that, you will probably think that the Academy was the worst experience of my life. Actually, the NWMA was the best thing that ever happened to me, because if I hadn’t gone there, I never would have met Robin.

  My relationship with Robin Bransom is so notorious by now that it may be hard to believe that before I enlisted, my sexual orientation was strictly heterosexual. I liked boys, and I didn’t try to hide it. The night before I ran away to join the Army, I let my best friend Bobby Arnett pop my cherry in the loft over his garage. It was a mildly pleasant experience, although at the time I didn’t see what the big fuss was about. I didn’t have another sexual experience after that until I got to the Academy, when I was double-teamed (orally and anally) by my Company Commander and my Platoon Sergeant as an example for my classmates, as related in the preceding chapter. That experience did not make me any fonder of heterosexual intercourse.

  Gradually, the regular diet of sexual abuse at High Point hardened us to the point where we could be brutally fucked by our officers until we walked bow-legged, and it all meant nothing more than a brisk workout. I suppose that was the point of the rough treatment: to make us ready to automatically comply with anything and everything the generals we would be assigned to could possibly demand from us. But it had another effect as well: the adversity drew us together, made us proud of the way we learned to handle whatever they threw at us.

  Eventually, the platoon adopted a unit name and a pennant, which told the administration, our tormentors, the way we felt. We called ourselves the “Cadet Cunts”, the favorite unflattering term for us used by one of our Serge
ants. Our pennant was a vagina (a bisected “V”) with “C”s on either side (for “Cadet Cunts”), and we were proud of how rough and tough we had become. It was us, the blood-sisters of National Whore Military Academy (our name for the school) against the world, and we survived by relying on each other against our mutual enemy, the Army.

  In the late fall, when we had to sleep in the practically unheated buildings with nothing more than a few thin blankets to keep warm, we started to spend the nights in bed together with our friends, in our “skin-suits” (our term for our obscene fatigues). When winter came, it got even colder, and Kate Swenson from Minnesota told us about a survival trick they used up in the Great White North: buddies bundled up together in a sleeping bag naked, to share their body heat. I had already been sharing a bed with Robin, who had become my best friend in the first week. We decided to try Kate’s trick that very night.