Belly of the Beast Pt. 01

Into the Belly of the Beast PT 1: Nut House

It zero -- dark -- thirty when Sergeant Meyers and I tiptoed down the stairs of my house. I held my new black boots in my hand. I was afraid of the squeak disturbing my elderly tenant. We were leaving for the Induction Center where I was assigned as a Clerical Support Specialist much earlier than usual. I didn't want to wake my elderly tenant.

Suddenly, the door to Mrs Pye's first -- floor apartment flung open. Startled, I shrieked, "Mrs Pye, the only time I ever saw you dressed up was the day Jerry and I got married. Didn't you wear a gown to my wedding in a bar?"

Though old Mrs Pye was keen of wit in her retort, "It is 3:45 AM," glancing at her watch, like her a relic, a simple tic toc, Mrs Pye reminded me, "Besides, you've forgotten I dressed up at your closing. Remember, I sold the house to you and Jerry."

"Those were happier times," I declared with a sigh. When political tumult led to economic collapse, the politicians invented National Service to reduce unemployment and curb unrest extending the net on unemployed people under the age of 40.

"Much has changed," declared Mrs Pye, "even you."

"When my husband Jerry and I were drafted into National Service, Jerry was shipped out but, thanks to Abby," in a feigned whisper I noted, "eh--she prefers to keep things official. So, address her by her title: Sergeant Meyers," Looking at Sergeant Meyers with a tired smile, I patted her on the back. Strangely, I felt Meyer's muscular body rear up and go rigid.

A sheepish expression appeared on Meyer's face as she looked away. "At home, Abby's OK; on duty," Meyer's voice became firm, "it's Gunnery Sergeant Meyers and my word is law, understood, Warbler."

"Yes ma-am," I quickly corrected myself, "I mean, Gunnery Sergeant." In navigating The Induction Center, with Abby's help -- I learned how to address the hierarchy: Center Commander was ma'am, the NCOs (Sergeants) were Sarge, others were addressed by their last name. It had taken me a while to get used to addressing other women by their last name.

"It is comforting to me knowing that you girls remain nearby, assigned locally," Mrs Pye diffused the tension of the moment.

"As it stands, I assist eh--Sergeant Meyers at the Induction Center, processing inductees." I added with a smile, "Otherwise 'War is hell.' I sleep in my own bed, get driven to work, albeit earlier than I might like, by my boss."

I released a wistful sigh. Love and fun, sex -- ercises with Jerry, sweaty bodies grappling for the upper berth ended the day Jerry and I got those notices to report in for National Service. Left behind, I faced a future without Jerry, hopefully only for the short run.

"Leaving early. Are you being shipped out, too?" Mrs Pye, clutching her robe around the deep wrinkles of her neck, asked anxiously.

"I'm no longer free to go where I please," I admitted. "Fortunately, in two weeks I'm slated to be released from the asylum--The Induction Center--to return to school to obtain my advanced degree in Industrial Psychology--We work in a nut house; psychologists are needed there."

"Our Captain has ordered a couch for her office so that we can wash her brains out," Meyers, shaking the sleepiness from her head, interjected, "once we get our degree."

Mrs Pye announced in a tired voice, "So, I have nothing to fear. I worry every morning you girls leave that you won't be coming home."

"Why worry? As long as you pay your rent, the mortgage gets paid," I reminded her, "no swat team shows up here to drag you out the door to plant you in an old age home, manned by people inducted cheerfully and forced to serve delightfully as Humanitarian Services personnel" I added sarcastically, "-- Oh, all this is designed for your own good. Other people always know best."

Suddenly, I encountered an unusual experience -- a mind link, a non-verbal communication, perhaps. I looked at Mrs Pye and she at me and we exchanged the same thought at the same time. It was a vivid image of police breaking down her door, rifling through her possessions, stealing her valuables, dragging her bodily from her home, plunking her in an old age home, where she's stripped naked for a medical exam, antique wristwatch stolen by the examining nurse and humiliated by being placed on display for student nurses giggling, looking through her, and chatting about weekend plans to get laid.

My husband Jerry used to praise me for this hidden talent. "In the Marine Corps, I learned to trust my instincts. From the very moment we met, my instincts told me that you could always read my mind."

"Jerry," I reminded him, "You walked in on me from your rooms in the back. You were looking for a bar of soap to take a shower on a hot afternoon. I was naked and you had a towel wrapped around your waist. It wasn't hard to figure out what our instincts told us to want."

"You cast a spell," Jerry assured me.

With Mrs Pye in the foyer of my house, I broke the spell, "There's no end," I sighed, "to the fucking over you get from someone who thinks they're doing good. Someone up to no -- good gets what they want and leaves you alone. Do-gooders can keep fucking you as they loll about basking in the after -- glow of their own moral superiority."

Mrs Pye winched at my use of foul language. I had picked up some handling the Inductees. On the other hand, Meyers, different from many of her peers, preferred to stay aloof from foul language. She had privately corrected me, "You shouldn't bring yourself down to the level of an Inductee."

Politely nodding at Mrs Pye, Sergeant Meyers prompted me with the reminder, "We have quite an ordeal ahead of us today and we need to report in at 0400."

Aghast Mrs Pye clutched her robe and glanced at her wristwatch. "Gosh it's 10 to 4am. I better let you two girls go about your business."

"It seems we have to scramble to get to the nuthouse," were my parting words.

"Amy, dear," Mrs Pye pointed to the boots in my hand, "perhaps you should put your eh--foot gear on before you go."

Laughing, I checked my cell phone. "Hmm," I called after Mrs Pye, "That tic toc keeps pretty good time. It's actually 0351h or 9 minutes to four."

As we walked to her vehicle, Meyers stated, "The Corps rests on two articles, your husband may have told you: trust in each other and faith in the Corps."

"I did surmise that the corps is a religion," I replied.

Laughing and shaking her head, Meyers quipped, "I love the way you put things, the words you use. I have to put my faith in you and trust you can pull me through college." No further words were spoken.

I knew something was up when Meyers drove over to the "Shack," the Induction Center in silence. Did I imagine a block placed between us? Only a few minutes ago we were frolicking in the shower. Abby had me pinned against the tiled walls of the stall shower, planting kisses from my neck down my spine to my right cheek then up to the small of my back to slobber my left cheek. Jerry had never tried anything like that. I moaned, "Keep going, Abby." Then our bodies were melding together; now she banished me from her thoughts.

I owed to Sergeant Meyers that despite induction, my life went on unchanged -- without my husband Jerry. Other than wearing a uniform and keeping my hair cut short I went to work, came home and woke up in my own bed. All that I owed to Abby.

I might have banished my misgivings except once inside the Center I was abruptly ordered to strip and shower. Looking around, Meyers reminded me to secure my boots in my locker. "Marines," Meyers examined my boots as she stowed them away, "protect each other's property, but not everybody here is a Marine."

Placed to wait, without explanation, naked behind the cyclone fencing where female Inductees where held pending classification, I wondered whether I should fear reclassification. Noticing me shivering, blond, pig tailed girl who gave her name as Sally invited me to share her blanket. "Your name?"

"Warbler," I replied.

"Like the songbird?" Sally was amused. "How did you come by such a name?"

"It's my husband's name," I replied, "I go by his name."

"So, it's your last name?" Sally was intrigued.

"Around here," I advised, "Women are addressed by their last name. Sergeants and officers are addressed by title and last name. Oh, it makes things impersonal, but it also recognizes that your status as a person: only a slave has no clan name."

"Personal, but impersonal," Sally shook her head, "this is a nut house!"

"It's etiquette," I replied, "you'll get used to it."

"Somehow, I don't think so," An anger entered her voice, "I take personal everything that happened to me around here since I reported in for induction." Sally catalogued the outrages, "forced to strip upon reporting in, a medical examination consisting of a finger-fucking by a doctor who boasts of wearing a condom during the exam, locked up naked with other women and run like lemmings through physical training."

"Stripped to bare skin," I observed, "plucked of plumage, personhood, individuality swept away."

"This is a nut house," Sally looked me over, "Yesterday you were running naked inductees like me through the paces in PT. Today, you've been stripped naked and locked up bare assed, like everybody else, for reclassification. I guess you never expected a demotion when you reported, this morning. Did you, eh--Warbler?"

"I go where I'm told to go, stand where I'm told to stand and do what I'm told to do," I replied, "until I'm told to do something else."

Looking around the cage, Sally cackled, "Some intend to just quit, lay on the ground, refuse to take the test."

Other women, huddling together behind the wire under coarse grey blankets agreed with Sally in the chant. "Lie on the floor, you're out the door!"

My comment "if there is a grade lower than bed pan duty in the nursing homes manned by Humanitarian Services, you may find out" drew snickers from Sally and those who agreed with her.

"Join us! Hit the floor," chided Sally, "and you're out the door. They can't punish everybody" Bundled bare butt to butt, with her under her blanket, I detected a tremendous pluck, misguided, but fierce nerve and courage, nonetheless.

"Think of it," I assured Sally and others in the audience, "if it were that easy would there be any guards on the other side of the fence?"

I was somewhat surprised to find Mistress Front Hole, the Marine Captain, our station commander, on hand to personally watch the tits flap and the bare butts bounce during the female Inductee's PT test. Even more startling, the Captain made no comment on the number of shirkers who simply laid in the mud and refused the test. Her narrow sharp eyes saw everything. She was calculating. Calculating what?

I managed to shame a few Inductees to get up on their feet to complete the test. Meyers, taking the test with me in her camouflage T -- shirt and shorts, asked, "Why do you encourage the shirkers who'd prefer to wallow in filth?"

"I helped you train many of these girls. I would have failed them unless I forced each Inductee to do her best," I replied. Meyers nodded to the Captain, as if she and the Captain were silently talking though me.

After showering, as I dressed in my tan Service Support uniform to assist Meyers transporting the Shirkers to the Hospital for evaluation for retention or discharge, Meyers returned my boots with the reminder "Faith in the corps and Trust in your comrades."

The Captain was on hand in front of the Induction Center when eight shirkers were marched out to the truck naked and hands bound behind them. When Sally, who was among the shirkers, boasted that she'd be home sleeping in her own bed. "Where will you sleep, fool?" Sally sassed me. Should I, without protest, simply execute Sergeant Meyers' order to search the girl who a few hours earlier had willingly shared her blanket?

Meyer's glare brooked no protest. "Search a naked bound girl, Gunnery Sergeant?" I requested confirmation. Proceeding as directed with a nod, I forcibly bent Sally over at the waist, chest held down against the bed of the truck.

Positioning Sally's right leg on the bed of the truck and the other flat on the ground, I had Sally's lower extremities stretched to their outer limits to allow my gloved fingers easy access to her vagina and rectum. The other seven in the shipment looked away. Red faced, Sally taunted me, "You bitch, you were a shivering wreck this morning and I shared my blanket with you."

Sally grunted when I plunged gloved fingers deep inside her. When I ordered her to cough, I felt a fierce, burning rage, but controlled anger. Answering her protests, I reiterated my fairness in dealing with her, "I was fair with you. I encouraged you and the others to comply, cooperate, and complete the test. I did what was required of me; Sally, you did not do what was required of you."

After boosting the naked Shirkers without further incident into the back of the 6.5 ton Deuce -- n -- half, I was permitted to take the wheel, a privilege Sergeant Meyers reserved to herself. "I trust you know how to work a clutch," Meyers warned me, "I'd hate to have my guts churned after that big breakfast we had."

When Meyer expressed surprise, I recalled, "My husband was a Marine. Do you think he'd make anything as simple as driving a car easy for me?"

"Good, next stop is the range," Meyers advised, "You need to qualify and the Center may have deemed five of the Rejects salvageable. They're being dropped at the range for enhanced training."

"And what if our cargo has to tinkle during the delay?" I asked.

"War is hell," Meyers observed, "they can squat and ..."

"I get the idea," I rubbed Meyer's solid muscular shoulders. She was anxious. What troubled her? Our vehicle ran smoothly; cargo was secure, "that you think I can't handle weapons" I assured Meyers, "Jerry never took me to dinner, but he did like the range -- before the government tried to confiscate weapons."

I received no reply.

When Meyers ended the session at the range, I pled for more time on the range, but our delivery took precedence. On our return to the vehicle, the guard informed Meyers that Sally had wagged that foul tongue once too often. "Obviously," Myers decided, "this Sally needs to be punished. Cut her from the shipment to the hospital." Gritting her teeth, Meyers ordered, "I'll take one of the men instead."

Meyers shrugged when I tried to find out what troubled her. "Sweetie," I whispered, "you sure you're, OK?"

"Just remember," Meyers cautioned me, "Keep faith with your comrades, trust the corps, follow your instincts. You'll need all the strength and character you can muster to confidently face opposing forces." Meyers drew a deep breath, "Or you may find out what level lies below Humanitarian services."

Once again, Meyers yielded the wheel of a deuce -- n -- half (military truck) to me. Uncharacteristically, Sergeant Meyer took the second position, assistant driver (military slang for front seat passenger). In the back, our cargo of rejects reduced to two naked women and a man, voices joined in a sing -- song celebrated the Induction Center's decision to cut them loose.

"On the back of a deuce -- n -- half// caught up in the labor draft // stripped, tested and inspected // found unequal to the task."

"Our cargo seems to be in high spirits back there," I observed.

"The rejects think they're getting - over, goin' home," Annoyance filled Sergeant Meyer's voice in her response. I could tell Meyers was on -- edge. "Heck, who really wanted to be caught up in National Service? Even though you've done well, I doubt you wanted to be here. Certainly not your husband! He thought his discharge finished him with the Marine Corps. Surprise!"

"I miss Jerry, every minute of everyday," I released a wistful sigh, "but I can't say I haven't done well. I'm about to be released. I'm going to be paid to return to school."

"Rejects think that they'll be allowed to go home, do nothing and collect a check," Meyers griped. "Think it over. If it were that easy, everybody would lay on the ground and refuse to qualify."

"Hmm, is our cargo, like mice eying a block of cheese in a trap, mistaken in presupposing a certain benevolence in the world?" I posed a rhetorical question.

Laughing Meyers shook her head. "Seriously, it isn't what you say, but the way you say it. Momentary silence followed before Meyers, with gritted teeth, at low breath added, "This brings me to the subject of your final test, survival, escape and evasion. You face a survival, escape and evasion exercise before you can be released."

"Oh," I prodded Meyers.

"I have a bad feeling about this delivery of rejects," Meyers explained, "We always deliver rejects naked. When did we have to cuff them before?"

"Listen up, Gunny," I deliberately used military slang for her rank when I called Meyer's attention to the chant from the rear, "you're morose but our cargo's spirits are undaunted. In their undampened spirits, our giddy cargo won't offer much resistance."

From the back we heard the cargo continue their ditty: "Jumping off a deuce -- n -- half // bursting out with a belly laugh // escaping servitude our craft // waiting to beseech, implore // the doctor for an autograph // to send us out the door."

Chuckling Meyers commented, "I love the way you put things. You're writing my papers when we return to school. Taking a deep exasperated breath, Meyer through gritted teeth revealed, "Still, something in my gut tells me we're walking in on the survival and escape exercise. Our cargo is short one cunt ..." Meyer's voice quaked as it trailed off.

I winced. Meyers may have spoken harshly to inductees, but Meyers was one to preserve her superior image. Not one to cuss, Meyers would never be heard to invoke the most offensive word in the English language. "We pulled that eh -- stuck -- up chick -- a -- dee out of the shipment because she was such a bitch," I reminded Meyers, "Like you said, someone has to be taught a lesson."

"Maybe that's me," Meyers retorted, "Was Sally cut from the shipment because she had just enough pluck for the Corps to decide to give her a second chance?"

"Second chance?" I was astounded, "Why give someone openly disrespectful, disobedient to the point of rallying others to resist?"

"This Sally shows the just the right amount of grit the Corps looks for," Meyers explained, "Heck, I ain't the first to say our Induction Center is a nut house."

I was confused. Stopped at a traffic light, I looked at Meyers. Outwardly, she was calm and objective. Yet there was a fear. I could feel it.

Strong of will, Meyers wanted to block me out from reading the image her mind projected. It was an image of her naked, in tears, muscles tensed, sweat pouring from every pore of her brown body, forced to clutch a concrete wall. Leaning palms down against the wall, she looked down at her uniform scattered around her feet.

Gloved hands feeling her inner thighs up, Meyer's head in the image turned. Brown eyes stared at me. "Don't allow The Corp's property to fall into opposing force's hands," her image ordered.

Oh, I knew I was receiving a genuine glance into Meyer's personality: she could be trapped, humiliated, and even violated, but the Corps came first. The link was strong. My attention was riveted on the image of Meyers sweating profusely as she was threatened with the immanent, forcible penetration.

My concentration was broken with a jolt when Meyers touched my wrist to signal me that the light had changed.

"Ehhhr," Meyers growled, "Ehhhr -- I suppose losing that third female couldn't be avoided. Still, why did the Center cuff naked rejects?" Meyers looked toward the back, "Rejects who think they're headed home should willingly cooperate. Besides we ship them rejects raw, chances are few will want to run."