Bodybag training...for dead soldiers~~

[runrungo]

Bodybag training (part 1) --- by Take No Prizners

I never figured I'd be a "zipper." Orders are orders, though, and if you're trying to get into Special Forces, you're game for anything, even bagging the casualties.

Our training begins with the basics. We learn the instructions from the bodybag manual, then practice on each other. We can't keep from grinning as my buddies and I take turns being the "dead grunt" and lying limp so that we can be stuffed into the heavy nylon bag and closed up. When it's my turn and my buddies try to bag me, they fuck it up. They drag my "corpse" to the bag instead of spreading the bag out close to where I'm lying. Then they flip me over and put my head and shoulders under the flaps first, face down, instead of sticking my feet in first and bagging me face up like they're supposed to. They deliberately grab my crotch and use my balls as a "handle" while they wrestle me into the bag. I curse them and yelp from the pain, and my buddies find it very funny.

The sergeant yells at us, tells us to get our asses in gear or he'll "send us out short." Getting sent out short is a new punishment they've reserved for those of us participating in the death maneuvers. Fuck-ups get sent out with one ammo clip less than their buddies have. Being short on ammunition increases their chances of buying it, but on the other hand it forces them to use all their wits in combat in order to survive. If they come back alive, they are considered rehabilitated, back in the running for a slot in Special Forces. A lot of guys who get sent out short consider it a badge of honor, even brag that they're "going light." They're not fooling anybody, though. Bragging about going out low on ammo only shows how much they're thinking about not making it back. The sarge's threat has its intended effect. The other zippers and I get the message and stop fucking around.

They put me in the death sack, going by the book this time, then they close it over my face. I add the smell of a virgin nylon bodybag to the catalog of sensations that get my dick hard, the stimuli that separate me from men who are not born warriors. I know my buddies and the guys we will be fighting all get swollen cocks when we smell the man sweat of grunts and jarheads pushing the limits of exertion in maneuvers and PT, or the sharp smell that hits your nostrils after you squeeze the trigger and your M-16 bucks you in the shoulder, or that whiff of gut-stench you get for just a second after you bayonet your enemy. These are the smells of war and of death, the smells of men who relish their role as killers, of men who understand they are fodder. Imitating a soldier's last repose with the cold metal zipper pressing against my nose, I suck in the scent of what will be some unlucky fucker's "last uniform," as we sometimes call our bags. He will lie in this space with a bullet in his skull, or with his chest ripped apart, or his gut and his throat slit open. There are any number of ways a soldier can die, and they all lead to this dark space. It is darker inside the shroud than I ever imagined it could be, and the lack of light makes my other senses tingle.

My death mask makes me aware of every fiber of my existence as a lean, mean, killing machine. My cock swells and strains inside my uniform. I feel my dogtags lying steely cold against the center of my chest. My boots tightly embrace my ankles and calves, the toes of my army leathers pointing upward inside the lower end of the bag. I am a soldier. My comrades and I are rehearsing our own fates. When my buddies unzip the bag and help me out, they make no mention of the hard-on tentpoling my BDUs. Our sergeant orders us into the field for some hands-on training. We follow an experienced bodybag detail onto a battleground where Ranger candidates for the Special Forces ranks engaged a fierce Marine Corps unit in a live-fire exercise earlier that day. There are many more candidates than needed, and plenty of bodybags for the guys who get weeded out. The Army had managed to kill most of the jarheads. A few escaped, other exhausted men attempted to surrender but found that the Rangers were not taking prisoners that day. Depending on the number of men the brass needed to weed out, there may or may not be prisoners taken.

The price for the Rangers' victory was high, however. When we get to the battlefield we find it littered with dead cammie-clad soldiers. The Rangers had run completely out of ammo and had finished the battle hand-to-hand with knives. Some of these men had doubtless been sent out short and didn't make it through. We could tell from where the casualties were clustered that at one point in the battle the tides had turned in favor of the Marines, and they had had time to regroup. During the lull in the fighting, the jarheads had even begun collecting "trophies" from the dead and dying Rangers. A lot of guys, some of them I knew, lay spread-eagled on the ground, their BDUs ripped off or cut away, their cocks or their cocks and balls slashed off them. Others lay with their handsome faces down in the mud, their round muscular asses propped up over a fallen tree trunk or a pile of dead bodies so that the horny jarheads could send them to hell with Devil Dawg cum in them. I know from experience that any man born to fuck, fight, kill, and die can't keep his dick down during combat. We're most alive when we're fucking and when we're killing. Sometimes a warrior just has to put his cock in something and shoot off a wad.

 

[runrungo]

Bodybag training (part 2) --- by Take No Prizners

More than a few of my buddies in this morning's maneuver had served that purpose for the enemy. As we followed the seasoned zippers across the field, watching them work, we could reconstruct the decisive turns in the maneuver. At a certain point the body count changed in favor of the Rangers. Our guys had rallied, regrouped, and stormed the over-confident Marines, killing many of them in a fierce adrenaline-driven onslaught that ultimately gave our side the victory. The experienced bodybag detail we were observing had the job of collecting only the bodies of the dead Rangers. Meanwhile, we trainees were ordered to practice on some dead jarheads. Normally we don't bag the casualties of the opposing force.

We leave them for the Marine Corps to come back and pick up. If we need to clear the corpses sooner than that, we might drag them into a pile, or sometimes we dump them in the Marines' own trench or foxholes and use the digs as mass graves. In this case, though, the dead Marines were useful for us to practice our bagging technique. There was apparently another reason as well. Sarge explained to us that there had been a mix-up back at Command. Twelve captured Marines, including three sergeants and a couple of lieutenants being held for wargames interrogation, had been executed as the result of a clerical error. Instead of biting the dirt on the field of battle, the Dawgs each took eight rounds in the chest and one in the skull because the wrong fucking paperwork had been processed for them. A firing squad of eager Rangers had been formed, and the bastards had been lined up in three groups of four men and shot through the chest without blindfolds. Only after the last four had been executed did anybody realize the fuckers were supposed to be repatriated to the Marine side after their interrogation.

The Army High Command apologized to the Marine High Command for the error. As compensation for the fuck-up, we zippers have to bag not only our own guys who bought it in the morning's maneuvers, but the dead jarheads too. We're donating Army bodybags and our labor to the other side. I hope the fuckers appreciate it. We watch the bodybag detail as they go about their work. I admire their efficiency and skill.

To these seasoned zippers dead meat is dead meat, but my less experienced buddies and I have a stronger fascination for the handsome corpses. It is clear from the remains that there had been no question of treating the wounded or taking prisoners of war. Dead Rangers whose guts are hanging out of their slashed bellies had been administered quick, simple deaths with bullets to their chests, necks, or heads. Near a former Marine machine gun nest, a large pile of dead soldiers is silent testimony to their determination to wipe out the enemy position.

The Rangers in the squad that charged the nest were all young, some of them only 19. Their chests were ventilated with numerous jagged holes after the Marines had fired hundreds of rounds straight into them as they charged forward. I notice many of the guys who died still have stiff cocks in their trousers. Wet stains on their crotches slowly dry in the sun as evidence that they died like men, losing a death wad of thick, hot seed as they were shot. After each corpse is properly positioned and secured in the container, the bodybag is closed as far as the waist, leaving the dead man's chest exposed so that a med tech working in the graves registrar unit can grab his dogtags.

One is placed in the mouth of the corpse, longitudinally between the front teeth. The other is ripped off of him. A quick yank of the metal strand against the back of the dead soldier's thick neck breaks the chain and releases the tag. Med techs carry wooden mallets from a loop on their belts. When the ID tag is in place, they retrieve the mallet and clomp it sharply against the Ranger's chin, forcing his jaw shut, lodging the metal corpse tag between his teeth. They pocket the other tag so that later they can enter the dead man's name in the registry of the wargames dead. The bag is zipped over his face, and he's sent to soldiers' eternity.

The Ranger detail reserves one empty bag just for body parts. It's a grisly necessity, because several limbs were severed early in the fighting when the Marines lobbed grenades into the midst of the charging Army force. Several arms, a leg, and six or seven blown-off buzz cut heads are tossed into the open bag. I observe the Rangers as they make a battlefield discovery: a canvas pouch full of severed soldier-dicks. The Marine who had been carrying the load of collected trophies had not made it off the field alive.

He lay belly down, his back riddled with countless exit wounds from the withering burst of machine gun fire that had caught him full in his chest. In a needless execution shot, a Ranger had obviously squeezed a round off into the dead jarhead's skull. The back of his head was bloody at the point where the bullet had slammed into his high-n-tight head. The Rangers had exacted revenge on him by pulling his trousers over his ass and raping it bloody, then fucking him with their bayonets as well. The dead Marine's pack of cut dicks still lies beside him, and the bodybag detail takes it to the parts bag and dumps the cockmeat in with the other limbs. There were nearly fifteen pounds of Ranger cockmeat in that pouch. A lot of good soldiers had lost their dicks to the savagery of the Marine Corps. My own dick stiffens in my BDUs, and I grow eager to avenge the fate of my buddies. The other zippers and I start bagging the dead jarheads.

 

[runrungo]

Bodybag training (part 3) --- by Take No Prizners

Most of the men we stuff into the bags are seasoned soldiers, in their 30s, tall, muscular, and tough. Their BDU jackets are often open, a lot of the men had died bare-chested, or their undershirts had been torn, slashed, or shot apart to reveal broad, well developed physiques, hard bellies, and slabs of hairy pec meat. No wonder we lost so many guys in that maneuver. Some of the dead Devil Dawgs have hulking bodies impressive enough to make them difficult for us to lift. Two of us grunt and curse as we lift the big Marine studs onto the open bags. Fortunately they died recently enough so that we can still crook their knees. Bending their legs makes it easier to guide their boots into the bag.

There are also younger Marines among them, good-looking blond boys in their early 20s, their faces shot through with well-placed Army steel, the backs of their high-n-tight blond skulls blown off from the impact of their head wounds. I notice that å most of the more seasoned men have died from knife wounds. They survived until the last stages of the battle, finally taking a blade in the throat, gut, or chest as their opponents wore them down and finished them off. Some of these guys have sergeant's stripes on their sleeves, which we tear off and save as souvenirs. Marine sergeants are notoriously hard to kill, and claiming the stripes off a dead one means gaining a badge of honor.

The younger, less experienced Marines were often killed earlier in the maneuver. Their bodies lie strewn on the field, their chests and guts penetrated with Ranger bullets. These bastards never made it to the last hand-to-hand phase of the combat. We also bag the bodies of the men who tried to surrender and were executed by the Rangers. These are the neatest kills. Each man either has a bullet hole in his head or a slit throat. Conveniently, each one of the executed Marines has one of his dogtags already in his mouth. The Rangers made the jarheads suck their own tags before they killed them. Or maybe the Marines knew what was coming and put their own tags in their mouths before they got it.

A med tech shows me how to use the mallet. The protocol takes some time for us to learn. The tags often slip out from between the teeth instead of lodging properly when we hit their stubbly jaws with the hammer. Some of their mouths are scummy with blood and their own gut juice, which has come up through their throats. Sometimes we have to try several times before we get it right, and by the time the metal tag is firmly in place, we have usually broken the dead soldier's strong jaw. In the case of dead Marines, we leave the other dogtag around the guy's neck instead of taking it with us. After we've shipped them over to their side, the bags can be opened and the names and tags collected by their command, if they so desire.

Our sergeant leaves us on our own to work unsupervised, and we go about our business as quickly as we can. In two hours we have bagged 30 dead Devil Dawgs. We leave the bags zipped only to the throat so that the dead Marines' rugged faces are exposed and the sarge can inspect the quality of our tagging and bagging. We lay the 30 bags out in three neat rows of ten each. Some of the men's eyes are still open, and they stare up at the sky from the security of their cocoon-like soldiers' shrouds.

Some of the dead Marines have amazingly hard cocks that persist in erection even after death, tentpoling their bodybags at the crotch. It pisses me off to see them pointing their dicks at us even after we've bagged them, almost as if the Marines are mocking us. My buddies and I say "fuck the manual" and decide to unzip the bags of the guys with hard-ons and correct the situation. We consider pulling the men's dicks down against their legs and tying the stiff shafts to the thigh, but ultimately it is quicker and easier to unsheathe our combat knives and slice off the offending protrusions. The jarhead fuckers won't be needing them any more, anyway. We pull their trousers and skivvies down over their hips, freeing the hard cocks to stand straight up and point to the sky or arch out over their tough bellies. The skin on their stiff dicks has been stretched back by their erections, revealing thick, strong, fleshy towers of fuckmeat. The shafts of some of the dead men glisten with spent cum, the last vestiges of their involuntarily released death wads. We make quick work of the hard meat, sawing through the cockshafts at the base. "This is for the all the good Rangers you took out, dawgmeat," I mutter to one particularly handsome Marine whose cock I liberate. I come up with the idea of inserting the severed dick into the anus of the man who just lost it.

I am surprised at how easily the cut-off dick slides up into the ass of the Marine I have processed. I suspect a horny comrade had buddyfucked him just before the battle, lubricating his tight fuck chute with a load of spent cum. My buddies approve of my technique and follow the same procedure with their own knives, carving stubborn dicks off of dead Devil Dawgs. Then we zip the bags up to their square jaws. The Marines will go to their graves fucking themselves in the ass with their own dicks.

 

[runrungo]

Bodybag training (part 4) --- by Take No Prizners

We stand at attention for inspection, our cocks hard and straining. The sarge struts down the rows of bagged jarheads, examining their broken jaws and checking them for proper tag placement. He is pleased with our work. The sarge gives us a rare commendation: "Not half bad, men." After he leaves and before we finish zipping up the bags and stacking them in the truck, we celebrate by extracting our big cocks from our trousers. We stroke ourselves to full erection and jack ourselves off onto the dead å Marines. Every dead Devil Dawg's handsome face is spattered and striped with Army cum before he's committed to the dark interior of his death bag. Too bad their mouths are clamped shut with the dogtag clenched between their front teeth. I would have enjoyed skull-fucking some of the better-looking guys.

After the next engagement with the Marine Corps, we'll be promoted to the real thing--a full-fledged bodybag detail. No longer trainees, we will collect dead Rangers on our own after each battle. After a month of bodybag detail, we will be cycled into the combat maneuvers ourselves, and a new group of men will be trained to bag us when we get our own asses shot off.

Sometimes I put my dogtag in my mouth and suck the sweat and grime off of it when I get horny and jack myself off or fuck one of my buddies. I wonder sometimes who the jarhead will be who may eventually be lucky enough to kill me, and if I'll die with å a dick as stiff as the rock-hard cocks of those Marine studs we stacked in the truck. My main objective is to blow apart as many of those thick-chested Dawgs as I can before they take me. Hopefully, if I don't make it out alive, I'll be one of the guys the zippers find with a combat knife still clutched in his dead fist, the blade encrusted with blood and guts, and all my M-16 clips emptied into the chests and skulls of men on the other side.

I think my buddies and I will give the bodybag detail some work when they come for us. We won't slip easily into our bags.

 

[LukeMoran]

Wow. It is a pleasure to read this. The pain of much too hard dick is worth it.
I like runrungo's writing. It is clear and detailed and i could "see" it all and almost feel it.
I almost believe it is true and maybe it is in some cases.
I give it 5 stars for it produced many many pictures for me.

 

[runrungo]

Wow. It is a pleasure to read this. The pain of much too hard dick is worth it.
I like runrungo's writing. It is clear and detailed and i could "see" it all and almost feel it.
I almost believe it is true and maybe it is in some cases.
I give it 5 stars for it produced many many pictures for me.

Actually, this is written by the author "Take no prizners" many years ago.

I saw this on the famous site : GreaseTank,

There are some stories written by the author "Take no prizners",

And I like his writting very much !!

So, I will share with you, all my friends who love to see such stories !!

And, if you got some writting like these,

Please share with us if it is convenient !!

 

[KiltedSoldier]

Great classic - any soldier would be honoured to die like this and we know the cold black HRP ( body bag) awaits us all - hard warrior cock tenting it

 

[jbarn25]

Do you really do this? Please PM I want to ask something.

 

[Raphz]

Love this story