A few weeks ago, Exhibit A tweeted about a dream that he’d had that seemed like a great prompt for a story:
So I thought I’d take him up on his suggestion…
(Oh, and everything I know about the military/snipers, I have learned from Jack Reacher, Bob Lee Swagger and Jack Ryan so apologies in advance for any technical inaccuracies!)
The dent that Lieutenant Greg Stepton lay in had become perfectly modelled to his body. Hours of careful shifts and subtle wriggles had created a shape that hugged his angles and he was comforted by its stable grip around him.
Looking down the long barrel of the rifle fixed in front of him, he spied his target. 1500 metres, nearly a mile. Easily achievable. His body was at ease and still. He looked through the sites bolted to the top of his gun and made a few adjustments to the angle as he zoned in on the target all that distance away. Over distances this large, every single thing affected his accuracy. The weather a mile away, the curvature and rotation of the Earth, the beating of his heart…the quivers of his body. He had to focus. It was just him, his rifle, and his target.
As he concentrated, he felt his body slip into the trance-like state that he had been taught. The unit that was training him was unique. They prided themselves in producing snipers of a quality unheard of in any other faction. The graduates were so good that they were classified top secret as soon as they completed their training. No one knew for certain what the record distance for a successful kill was because the rumours were unbelievable – 2 kilometres, 2500 metres…these snipers were legendary. How do you protect yourself from something that could kill you from that far away?
But Greg had not been told about the training programme when he had signed up. He hadn’t known how and why volunteers progressed. He hadn’t known what would be asked of him.
He had been training for 59 days.
Tomorrow, day 60, would be the next test. The next shot. And, if he succeeded, the next promotion, but he was having second thoughts. As he lay there, concentrating on his target, he could not stop his mind from drifting to exactly the area that he was supposed to be suppressing.
It had been 59 days since his last orgasm.
Because that was the secret behind this initiative; their hidden tactic, their key to success. General North had founded the unit almost 20 years ago and had created a programme built on his own experience. He had been a sniper for many years and, in trying to gain that narrow sliver of an advantage over his rivals, had decided to remove sex from his life. It was distracting and prevented focus, and, most importantly, sexual need fostered a restlessness that was not conducive with the steady, still life of a sniper. So he denied himself. He stopped masturbating, he stopped fucking. Soon he stopped wanting, stopped needing. He reached a plateau where he no longer felt that he was in denial. And it was here that he became better than he could be. Better than he *should* be. The best of the best.
Not many survived the training, and even fewer reached General North’s tranquil nirvana. Most gave in, driven to distraction rather than calm, and quit. Others wore their chastity like a burden, fighting against it and forcing the stillness that came easily to those who did not need. They never reached the level of the elite, despite their sacrifice. Their inner conflict betrayed them in the microscopic tremors of their hands.
It was proving to be particularly hard for Greg’s intake. One of the recruits, Stan, had enough natural skill and swagger that he was still reaching his goals without the compulsory denial, and they all had to listen to him regularly jerking off instead. At first, they would shout at him to stop or groan with frustration at his disobedience. Now, nearly two months later, the slick sound of him gripping his cock caused the whole bunkhouse to fall deathly silent. Everyone was listening intently to the repetitive and accelerating movements, trying to capture each catch in his breathing, each moan. Dozens of hands clutched at bedclothes to keep them busy as they desperately tried to gain some vicarious pleasure without wrecking their own denial, ignoring their own achingly hard cocks and hopeless desire for release.
Occasionally someone else broke and the wet sounds of Stan’s handjob were joined by another, more vigorous player. Then there was no muffling the grunts and exclamations as reckless abandon took over and weeks of pent up energy was worked out in the powerful thrusts of his hand. Soon enough, the failed recruit would cry out in relief as streams and streams of come shot over his chest until he was spent. On nights like that, the air would smell of sex and sweat, and failure.
Because nights like that only made the rest more determined. They were strong enough. They were the best of the best.
Greg had been doing well. The initial frustration had given way to an acceptance that he was tolerating with surprising ease. His accuracy was improving exponentially and he had already been tipped for early promotion. He had not struggled without sex and used the extra energy to focus on his task, just as General North would have wanted.
That was until Major Baxter had arrived about a week ago, and now every day was a trial. There was something about his wiry strength that stirred an unexpected desire in Greg. His lithe body seemed trapped within his uniform, tense and restricted, and he radiated an energy that scared Greg with its intensity.
And he was good, he was really good. His hands appeared almost graceful as they coaxed the rifle into producing shots of miraculous accuracy, but Greg watched him and could only imagine those hands manipulating him with the same skill. His mouth would dry up and his heart would race when the Major was around, and the oppressive, fevered dreams that disturbed him during initial training returned with a vengeance.
Lying now in his hollow, there was not enough distraction to stop Greg’s thoughts from continuing to deviate from the task at hand. Images flashed continuously through his mind and he absentmindedly plucked at his trousers, the sensation of fabric rubbing against his cock soon reminding him of what he had been missing. Groaning at this minor sensation, his resolve abandoned him. Rolling onto his side, he pulled open his fly and his cock sprung loose. Sliding his fingers around his shaft, he frantically, earnestly pumped up and down, gripping hard and skidding easily over the head. His body clenched down as his orgasm rushed towards him…
The cold tone of Major Baxter’s voice stabbed through him, flooding him instantly with shame. Greg had been so caught up that he just hadn’t noticed the Major’s silent approach.
Jumping to his feet, Greg tried to push his cock back into his trousers to hide what he had been doing, but Major Baxter slapped his hands away.
‘Don’t try to hide, soldier. It’s much too late for that.’
His face twisted in contempt, Major Baxter disdainfully tugged at Greg’s cock, but the other man’s touch just made Greg shudder with ill concealed desire and he groaned as his knees buckled under him.
‘You want to come, don’t you?’
The Major was now standing so close that Greg had to flinch back to stop the tip of his cock rubbing against the Major’s khaki trousers.
‘And do you know what it’ll mean if you do? What you’ll become?’
‘I’ll be a failure, Sir.’
Greg struggled to contain the humiliation that was building up inside him.
‘I’ll be a disgrace, Sir ‘
‘You have been one of our finest recruits and now you dishonour yourself by standing in front of me, cock in hand, and begging permission to defy your training?’
The Major slapped him, hard, across his face.
‘You are more than a disgrace, soldier, you are a loser.’
‘Do you want to be a loser?’
‘Then get your arse up there and take your shot!’
Greg blanched. Sweat was flowing freely down his body and he was trembling from head to foot – there was no way he could make a 1.5 kilometre shot in this state!
‘Make the shot, soldier, and I’ll let you come.’
Without needing any further encouragement, Greg rushed forward, stumbling in his haste, and threw himself into his hollow. His still hard cock squashed uncomfortably against his stomach and, as he looked through the sights, he was quivering so much that he could see nothing. Blinking to clear the sweat from his eyes, he took a few deep and steady breaths, consciously trying to slow himself down. He wiped his mind clean of every thought and blocked out the sounds around him. After what seemed like an age, his heart slowed enough for him to focus. The aching need in the pit of his stomach still vied for his attention, but for that moment, he regained control.
He held his breath. He pulled the trigger. And, after a few seconds, he saw his target disintegrate. He had done it. Standing shakily to his feet, he waited his judgement.
‘Good work, Captain.’
Major Baxter’s voice held a note of pride that filled Greg with relief and satisfaction.
‘You have earned your promotion, and your reward…’