I posted this as a prompt on dirtypenpals, but since my last “crosspost” seemed to be somewhat liked, I figured I could post this one here as wel, as it actually sort of works a mini story in its own right.
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Astra’s military has always been a rough environment, even for the most seasoned of warrior seeking for a steady regimen.
Violent abuse, both for disciplinary action as well as mundane training, is the King’s Battalion’s worst kept secret. Humiliation and degradation can really break down a soldier’s spirit, until it is like soft and wet clay, ready to be molded into a subordinate that throws themselves into battle as fodder, if need be.
Hazing runs rampant, too, especially for the new recruits, and the smaller ones. The ones who already can’t fight back. It is sickening, but such is military life, is the standard response.
Maybe it is…
I’ve known very little but abuse for the first few months as part of the infantry. Not because I am weak or a snitch or… many other things. No, I just happened to be a *”girl”* in a men’s world. An Elven girl at that.
There aren’t many women in Astra’s army, maybe two percent or so, and 99% of those couple of women aren’t out in the field, like me, protecting the borders from whatever lurks in the Great Green or fend off warring empires.
Naturally, I had to prove myself double at every corner. Be it mental or physical, my competence has always been in question. And when you have a larger bust or toned legs… oh, but *of course* “the boys can’t control themselves”, so a bit of sexual misconduct was *expected.* There weren’t many days where I didn’t have to try and cool my boiling blood.
Obstacle course? Of course *someone* would grab my ass accidentally.
Training under an orcan spell? Of course *I* was the first to be drenched in my white cotton attire, involuntarily becoming the sole wet t-shirt contestant for the men to gawk at.
A position for squad commander opened up? Of course it went to a male soldier, the guys *just can’t* concentrate with an attractive woman leading preperation.
One of the boys got a little drunk off-duty and rubbed their *throbbing* cock against my ass while I was cataloguing our inventory? Well, that’s just how the guys are!
But I dug my way through. I carved my path. I *stayed*.
When I look in the mirror, I’m proud of what I’ve become, as a person, as a soldier, and as a woman.
I’m strong-willed (and just straight up strong), confident, know how to protect myself and others. I’m competent and loyal, and I take my responsibilities seriously, and fulfill them dutifully.
And, yes, thanks to all the training, I’ve got some *bangin’* thunder thighs, buns of steel, a pair of large, perky tits (thanks mom, I know I got those from you!), and abs carved by the finest artists in all of Astra. Okay, maybe that’s a little too far… I’m not quite as hulking as the Orcs’ women, or even the more brutish of our men, but I’m fit as the heavens, okay?
And while I know that most of the men linger a little longer in the showers when I’m there, and their rods grow stiff even after the most exhausting of units, and… And while I know most of the guys talk behind my back about how they’d like to thrust into…
Uhm…
Where was I?
…
Oh, yeah! Look, I know most of the guys strip me with their eyes. I’m one of few girls around, and even fewer look like me – sorry to brag – and nobody ever taught these soldiers basic decency. But I *know* they respect my ability nonetheless. When shit hits the fan out in the fight, they come to me for help. They consult with me, and plan with me, and our commander utilizes my full potential.
I can’t beat the way men have been raised for centuries, I can’t beat biology, and I can’t beat the military’s systematic abuse. But I *can* triumph in spite of it.
Or at least… I could, once
Yesterday, there was an incident.
You see, the men went out drinking, and when they returned, I was on guard. And they *wanted* me to play along.
“Hey, sugartits,” one of them yelled at me from across the yard. I could feel my cheeks flush red, not with shame or flattery, but with anger at his words.
But still, I kept composure and stayed where I am.
“You’re always so tense, Alexandria, why don’t you relax sometimes?”
“Yeah, I bet you could use a good fucking to mellow out.”
And they laughed.
I just remained silent, taking deep breaths.
One of the men grabbed his crotch, and I could see the outline of a sizable shaft press through the fabric of his trousers.
“I bet a tough girl…”
“Uptight slut,” one of his friends chimed in.
“… like you’s a total freak in bed. What you like, Alex? You into being tied up?”
Now my face flushed with anger *and* shame. It’s none of their business, and submission in bed does *not* make me weak.
“Leave me alone.”
I mouthed the words with deflated lungs, my hands balling into fists.
“Come on, don’t be like that. You’re an elf bitch, anyways, you’d make a good cumdumpster.”
His words are scorching my insides; not all that long ago, female elves were subjected to sexual servitute all throughout the empire, without any laws protecting us from men raping us in the streets. Of course, the citizen and officers always turned a blind eye to public indecency when it came to that. Elves are whores and made for sex, as far as they are concerned.
The bastards.
Much to my chagrin, I could feel that my worked up state caused my breathing to shift into extremes. Shallow, rapid little huffs, and then deep inhales followed by heavy sighs.The latter of which made my chest rise and fall, and strain a little too much against the unreasonably tight uniform I’d always been assigned.
“C’mon, just let us get a peek at those and…”
I could feel it. A hungry, predatory stare that soon became physical; unkind fingers digging into the sole softness my body was offering.
*He was grabbing my tits.*
It took only a second for me to grip his wrist, and twist, a pathetic cracking sound crepitating beneath his skin, followed by the sound of a genuine cry of pain.
His friends backed off with angry surprise, looking at his clearly dislocated bones, and my glowing face. I’ve always had a nice, clear complexion, neither pale nor tan, but now my freckles were disappearing in the deep red that spread across the bridge of my nose and cheeks, my golden eyes flickering between them, like a cornered animal scanning for escape, and well-groomed, curved brown brows furrow in anger and… a sense of….
*intimidation.*
“You’re a fucking asshole, Capper, you know that?”
I didn’t really know what I was saying or doing in the moment. I just reached and grabbed the bulge he teased me with before, and closed my fingers as firmly around his cock as I could, trying to hurt him, *really* hurt him, just *crush* his stupid organ so he’d never do this again.
My body was hovering above his, in what *felt* predatory, but I know now *looked* a whole lot more…
*…sexual.*
“What is going on here, Soldier?”
The cold voice of our Senior Chief echoed across the earthen yard, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
His sigh was so *dismissive* and airy, like he couldn’t take what he saw seriously, and it made me absolutely dread the words that’d exit his mouth.
“This is the fourth alteration of… *this* nature this month, Soldier.”
It was true. We had returned from an eight-weeks excursion, and prostitution had been penalized for soldiers just recently. Naturally, sexual frustration was at an all-time high within our rows, and I was the almost sole recipient of these primal urges, leading to more conflict with improper undertones than I cared for.
“I’m sorry, but it’s time for your correction, Soldier. Tomorrow, after sunrise in the Front Field. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
And so I headed towards the bunks, the echoes of jeers and taunts splitting the darkness of the night. I didn’t even undress, I just slid under my sheets and buried my face in the pillow, until I passed out in a haze of embarrassment, disappointment, and anger.
I’m awake now, but I’m still irritated; irritated at the men, irritated at the unfairness of me being punished, irritated at not knowing what my punishment even is, and irritated at my reflection looking back at me, disheveled.
My large eyes blink back at me from the mirror, a small mouth with plump lips smouldering like a heartbroken teenage girl, and a scrunched up button-nose flaring its nostrils in anger. My foxy mane, a deep brown with glowing streaks of red, is tousled and unkempt, fine strings of red glowing in the faint light, unfitting of an exemplary soldier such as myself.
I do what I can to fix myself, but prioritize punctuality over presentability in what can’t be described as anything but a judgement call. I strip my creased shirt and throw it under my blankets without much care, and *rip* a clean top from my drawers, spilling the other shirts in the process. I adjust my wrinkled bra straps in the process, until they neatly rest against my flesh, flat and proper.
When I step out into the Front Field, I feel the chilliness of the morning taunt me in my light attire, making me regret trading away my messy but cozy shirt.
The climate is nothing compared to the white-hot heat flushing my face when I lay my eyes on the dozen rows of soldiers lined up, their gazes drilling holes into me. The Chief emerges from the front row, a grim expression glueing his brows into a chronic glare.
“Soldier, there have been more than weekly occurrences of sexual violence in our base, you at the center of each of them. I understand the struggle of a minority female soldier” – No, you fucking *don’t.” – “but it is not acceptable to violate a soldier’s body in the way you’ve done last night. So, I’ve conferred the duty of determining a suitable punishment for you to your victim’s father, the Grand Chief.”
My insides freeze solid. I can *feel* my stomach coil into knots, icy clumps sinking to the bottom of my torso like an anvil.
“S-Sir?”
I can see his grin in the back row, even from here; his teeth seem canine, how they peek through his curled lips, all along the side of his face, like a maniac. *Of course* the guy who thought he could just grab me was the entitled brat of the Grand Chief. *Of fucking course*.
“Soldier, your punishment is this.”
He gestures with grandeur towards a most peculiar contraption. A sort of two-wheeler, largely bare-bones and simplistic, but locked into place. Instead of the saddle, a phallic shape is mounted, glistening wet in the velvety pink light of the rising sun.
I swallow audibly, and shuffle, little backwards steps greedily shoveling distance between myself and that… *thing*.
“Sir, with all due respect, this is… I can’t, please…”
I *beg*. I never begged before. Not in years. Not since I’ve been here.
I feel small. My trained body and steeled resolve are suddenly and *dauntingly* worthless, and a sense of repressed paternal chastization stabs my sides in the most disarming manner imaginable.
“*Please*, Sir.”
I can hear snickers and hushes in the crowd, fingers pointing at me without any shame, as long as the Chief’s back is turned to them.
*Cowards.*
“Soldier, there is clearly some sort of sexual aggression in your mind. There’s no use giving you a cold shower here, or a day in the hole. You know how we work here.”
His voice cold, yet seething. My heart is *racing*, pounding so bad I can feel my blood rush through my temples and behind my ears, furthering the sense of drowning that has crept into my mind.
He wasn’t lying.
When a soldier was caught stealing, they had burned his hands in a bonfire.
When a soldier was giving up a unit and his broke down, they’d hang him up and beat him until he never dared to let himself collapse again.
When a soldier was refusing orders, they whipped him in the rain, naked, until he was compliant.
So, now, when they judge a soldier to have an issue with sexual aggression, they make her ride it out in front of everyone…
*What?*
“Please, Sir, lock me into the hole for a week. Two weeks! No food, no nothing but…”
“Strip, and on the seat, Soldier,” he barrages over my protests, a bark with cutting disdain for talking back.
I can feel the heat that had risen into my face creep a little higher, and melt into salty droplets, little wet streaks gliding down my high, proud cheeks.
My hands don’t feel like mine. I can feel them slip the tank top off of me, in the same way the guys do their own, the fingers grabbing at the seam in the back of neck hole, and pulling it off in a forward pull, exposing my plain, black bra.
Next, the pants. I’m shaking so bad, the rolled up bottom legs are like tripwire.
The feel of cold air and scorching vulnerability cake in a thin film of sweat and terror on my exposed body, but my hands continue to move on their volition.
Maybe my body knows that, if I didn’t cooperate, they’d simply do it themselves, with additional punishments piling up. Or maybe my brain’s just too paralyzed to route impulses into autonomous movement, instead simply *obeying*.
I pull off the tight fabric, and feel my breasts fall into place, heavy and unbearably in sight. I can hear commotion in the rows. My pink peaks are hardened, not out of arousal, but courtesy of the cold morning air, but they don’t are about the why.
My lips are quivering, and I taste salt as my tears glide against my slightly opened mouth, but my commands are not fulfilled yet.
Mercilessly, my hands snake downwards, two thumbs resting underneath the seam of my panties; they’re nothing to write home about: Plain, black, practical, a little bit of flesh revealed – hip cleavage is what they call it – not for seduction, but simply as a result of my built curves.
My own fingers betray me as I feel myself tug at the stretchy band, and eventually pull down. I’ve always been shaven bare, and I know most of the men knew already. The showers are shared, after all, the low number of infantry women not warranting separate sanitation.
Still, this is different. I’ve felt them stare before, in the shower, or when I change in the bunks. But this is peeling layer after layer for their viewing pleasure. This is offering.
*Presenting*.
Giving them my body.
My arms are by my side, stiff and unmoving, hands balled into shaking fists. My head is hanging low and my eyes are glued to the floor.
“In your place, Soldier.”
“Yeah, in your place slut!”
There’s no reaction from the Chief towards the heckler, and suddenly the whole ordeal feels even less legitimate, like he’s approving of his men feasting on my involuntarily debauchery.
One leg awkwardly lifts over the metal frame, the device’s stored coldness radiating against my thighs, spawning a plethora of goosebumps. My entrance is only an inch above the artificial cock, and I can feel my legs toe-in, desiring themselves to close off any access to my sex, as if to initiate a last-ditch effort to protect my shame.
“Mount it, and cycle till you’ve come.”
This isn’t happening.
It can’t be.
*Oh, dear Lords!*
It’s so demeaning. My teeth are biting down into the soft flesh just below my bottom lips, and my brows furrow into a wave of weakness, as I slide down on the lubed up toy.
I feel invaded and whored out.
My eyes threaten to close against my effort to remain stone-faced, ultimately turning my features into an erotic struggle that likely entices the men rather than discourage them.
“Cycle!”
I hear the Chief’s voice through a liquid barricade, the blood rushing through my head now almost deafening.
My legs slowly move, one knee bending, while the other straightens out. One foot pushing down, while the others lifts.
It *moves*.
*I* make it move.
It is *fucking* me.
*I’m fucking myself*.
For *them*.
My chest is rising and falling notably, supple flesh shaking whorishly. My heavy-lidded eyes are coated in an opaque blindfold made of closing lashes and tears, as I pant like a bitch in heat, the long shaft sliding in and out of my cunt rapidly.
I’m *wet*.
I can feel it run down my thighs, and the shame of knowing they can see it burns up my insides.
I *hate* the heat with which my cunt is clenching again and again.
My fingers wrap tightly around the handlebars, as I remain mounted on the disciplinary prick. I can feel my hips buck and roll, pushing out my ass, and I see spectres of their fingers pointing at me, wolf whistles sounding somewhere in the distance.
The worst part is how my body revels in the attention. In the degradation. In the exposure.
My brain short-circuits
Shame, anger, and lust melt with self-loathing.
*Am I nothing but a useless slut after all?* *Where is my self-respect?* *Am I nothing but a little needy cunt?*
I feel my vision fade completely for a moment, like a frame cut out.
My back is straightening, then arching, then arching further, *even further*, arching into a perfect curve, my ample hips like a continuation of the device’s handles; so very *grabable*.
My shoulders have shifted backwards, hands lifted off the bars now, and my arms in that reptilian mid-air position.
My breasts perk up, their buds undeniably at attention. I can feel my hands shoot up, cupping my breast in primal instinct, shielding them from *their* view; then I feel my fingers *knead* the flesh.
*I need this.*
My legs twitch.
M exposed midriff is tensing tightly, and in perfect synchronicity with my servile whines and whimpers, enough to pronounce my abs until they cast gentle shadows against my sweat-coated, glistening skin
I cease to cycle, the built momentum continuing to thrust the cock into my gushing slit.
I *cum*.
*Keep cumming…*
*Fuck…*
*Mmmh!*
Finally, the waves subside, my body limp and defeated.
Defiled by a machine.
Plundered.
Exploited.
Raped.
I can hear muted whispers and gasps of the men. I can almost feel the throbbing within their underpants. Blood pumping.
*More* pumping.
Maybe I should just… accept that I’ll never be one of the boys…
Maybe I’m just… one *for* the boys…
Just an elf slut…
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/8cphvu/submission_of_a_soldier_f_fantasy_nc_exhibitionist