‘I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.’ ~ Title 10 U.S. Code §502 Oath of Enlistment ~
LCpl Pérez, USMC is attired in sartorial splendor.
Dress Blue ‘A’ uniform.
Sky-blue trousers and a midnight-blue coat featuring scarlet piping, mandarin collar, pleated pockets, and gilt buttons. Gold and scarlet chevrons adorn both sleeves. Cinched at the waist is a white web belt with brass buckle plate emblazed with eagle, globe, and anchor.
Centered over the left breast pocket are full sized medals: Purple Heart, Navy and Marine Corps Achievement, Marine Corps Expeditionary, National Defense Service, Afghanistan Campaign, Global War on Terrorism Service, and Humanitarian Service.
Honor guard marines snap to attention.
And a Colonel renders a salute.
* * * Flashback * * *
Pérez’s adolescence is deeply entwined with Marines.
Raised in Triangle Virginia in Prince William County, the small military town is bounded to the south by Marine Corps Base Quantico. Quintessentially masculine, respectful buzz-cut young men with stunning physiques in perfectly crisp uniforms are everywhere.
Intimidating, even their posture and walk command attention. Cadence and pace… confident and purposeful. They know where they’re headed - towards the future. Ever vigilant, trained to take decisive action, they are polite, professional, and can kill at a moment’s notice.
The cultural cachet leaves an indelible impression on Pérez.
Who doesn’t want to be a member of an elite fighting force steeped in tradition?
The Few. The Proud.
Imbued with an irreducible fighting spirit, Marines are adaptive and persistent… trained to withstand pain, fatigue, and hardship under adverse conditions. Tactically proficient, physically strong, and mentally tough, they’re formidable instruments of the National Will.
And they’re looking for a few good men.
The hard roads - paths to purpose, are the ones worth pursuing.
Selecting service over self, Pérez makes an irrevocable commitment unlike any other. Signing a DD 4 contract and taking the Oath of Enlistment, he voluntarily surrenders civil law rights and accepts jurisdiction under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ).
Marine Corps property for the next four years.
* * *
Nervous boys look out bus windows.
Fresh blood.
Recruits residing east of the Mississippi are transported to Port Royal, South Carolina, Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island… 8,095 acres of hot, humid, hellish terrain consisting of saltwater marshes, tidal swamps, quicksand, mosquitoes, rattlesnakes, and devil-dogs.
Perfect proving grounds for training and instilling essential core values.
Honor. Courage. Commitment.
Arriving late at night, surrounded by screaming marines and blinding lights, the disorienting maelstrom is carefully planned to elicit maximum fear. Running from buses, stepping into famous yellow painted footprints outside the Receiving Center, they enter the military crucible.
Civilian life is officially over.
“Let’s fucking go ladies!” scream intake sergeants.
Staff Non-Commissioned Officers (SNCOs) must thoroughly break them down before they can build Marines. Method underpinning madness, they’ll subject the boys to carefully calibrated brutality. A gale of verbal ferocity. Staggering regimentation. Strenuous exercise. Sleep deprivation.
The indoctrination process eradicates individuality and strips away personal desires, doubts, and fears. Establishing the supremacy of the team, it finely hones weapons imbued with uncompromising values. Forged in fire, quenched in blood, the more brutal the experience the stronger the blade.
For the next 13 weeks Pérez will dwell in unimaginable hell…
…exactly what was promised.
* * *
A journey beyond comprehension commences.
Undergoing initial processing, moving station-to-station like chickens in a Delaware poultry factory, recruits get plucked, prodded, probed, and packaged. After presenting orders and ID they’re de-feathered at the barber shop and directed to a cavernous room.
“Strip,” orders a Master Sergeant (MSgt).”
Compelled by the authoritative timbre of his voice recruits undress without hesitation. There’s no place for modesty in the military. Surrendering privacy, panoply, and paraphernalia, everything is inventoried, bagged, tagged, and secured in storage lockers.
Displaying young masculinity, it’s an endless sea of swinging dicks and tantalizing treasures. Yielding to primitive compulsions, Pérez surreptitiously checks out some of the other recruits. He’s never seen such an eclectic collection of colorful configurations.
Embarrassed boys try to hide inflating shafts.
Ordered to stand at attention, shielding hands reluctantly retreat.
SNCOs inspect the baby roosters. Another flock of overweight, physically weak, mentally soft, self-absorbed, video-playing kids. Pampered momma’s boys with participation trophies. Pathetic. What’s happened to America’s rugged, outdoor, self-reliant, pioneering spirit?
No matter. They’ll relentlessly whip them into shape with an abundance of overexuberance and build superior men worthy of the Corps… or kill them in the process. Oo-rah!
“Why the fuck are you erect?” screams the MSgt at a fledgling.
“The recruit doesn’t know, sir.”
Emotions play over the hapless face - embarrassment, humiliation, shame.
“You better not be a faggot! Only men are allowed in my Corps.”
Smirking SNCOs feast with licentious eyes… envisioning tantalizing possibilities. A new supply of inspiration waiting to be tapped. Something to suit everyone’s taste. Enjoying seniority, the MSgt will have his choice when platoon assignments are made next week.
And several catch his eye.
* * *
Recruits are herded to the hygienics unit.
Inside specially configured shower rooms they’re sprayed for lice, ticks, and other parasites. Cold water follows… washing away chemicals, concupiscence, and civilian contemplations.
Extensive medical examinations are conducted to assess the condition of the capital investment. Every conceivable physical parameter is measured, blood & urine collected for drug screenings, and head-to-toe surveys conducted for tattoos, brandings, piercings, and body alterations.
The Marine Corps has the strictest policy of all the military services.
Body art and ornamentations that are excessive, obscene, sexually explicit or that advocate or symbolize sex, gender, racial, religious, ethnic, or national origin discrimination or gang affiliation, supremacist or extremist groups, or drug use are strictly prohibited by the Corps.
And grounds for disqualification.
Abrasions, contusions, and lacerations are documented. Caressing musculature, internal organs are poked and prodded for deformities, tenderness, pulsations, or abnormal texture. Genitalia, perineum, anuses, and sphincters are closely examined for appearance, function, and STDs.
Learning lessons from WW I & II, per USMC directive recruits must be circumcised. Besides precluding infections, urological problems, phimosis, paraphimosis, and redundant prepuce, it enhances uniformity and the aesthetic appearance of the military weapon.
Disobedient bonnets are sliced and diced… full high-and-tights.
Nothing but the best for Marine Corps cock.
* * *
The unfit are culled and administratively separated.
The rest report to Supply for outfitting.
Marines with a 3043 MOS (supply) issue basic requirements: utility uniforms, skivvies, PT gear, go fasters, and sundries. As training progresses through phases recruits will be issued weapons, combat gear, several sets of field, service, & dress uniforms, and USMC crested ancillary gear.
Purposefully impersonal, standing naked with feet shoulder width apart, arms up and out parallel to the deck, recruits are on display for the purveyors. Although sizes can be determined at a glance, they delight in fondling the boys and taking every conceivable measurement.
And Pérez’s alluring ass attracts abundant attention.
* * *
0455. The start of another outstanding day on Parris Island.
No time for reverie, rest, or regrets.
Building men worthy of the Corps is a demanding and exacting process. Every minute is meticulously planned to teach a lesson, instill a value, or have a specific effect. Challenged like never before, pushing through surrender’s pull, an intensity of purpose is required.
Motivated SNCO instructors - drill, martial arts, small arms weapons, marksmanship, water survival - take recruits to the brink of physical and mental exhaustion. Infusing militarization and discipline, they have a sacred responsibility to uphold the proud legacy of the Marine Corps.
Only the best can earn the title ‘Marine.’
* * *
It’s a time of transformation.
Pérez eats, breathes, and thinks the USMC way until it’s part of his DNA.
Immersed in culture and ethos, he’s indoctrinated in military protocol - customs, courtesies, and traditions. Learning uniform regulations, the UCMJ, and military jargon, he memorizes an absurd quantity of acronyms, abbreviations, and equipment/ system nomenclature.
Classroom, field, and martial arts instruction is augmented with close-order drill. Roasting in the sweltering sun builds discipline, concentration, and unit cohesion. Relentless physical reconditioning addresses years of inadequately toned muscles… producing men fit to fight.
Aggression is systematically stimulated, attitudes and behaviors shaped, and a warrior paradigm created to ensure orders are executed without question and the enemy engaged with extreme prejudice.
As recruit training progresses intensity increases.
And ever greater levels of commitment and endurance are required.
* * *
Pérez is determined to prove his mettle.
Gunnery Sergeant Faulkner (GySgt) is enamored with Pérez.
As the 1st Recruit Training Battalion, Delta Company, 3rd Platoon Drill Instructor (DI), he’s responsible for the 24/7 control and training of 60 recruits. Engrained by time and consuetude, a paladin of tradition, he takes personal pride in injecting them with Corps values.
Pérez has unconditional faith in his DI and the training process. Following GySgt’s orders, in a Quonset hut storeroom he quickly strips down without hesitation or reservation. Standing at attention with head straightforward gazing at destiny he awaits further instructions.
Concupiscence stirs inside Faulkner’s service Charlies.
Who doesn’t enjoy inspecting government property?
Wielding complete control, he repositions Pérez across a pile of pallets - lifts the ass, rotates the hips, and spreads the legs. Captivated by the curvaceous ass covered in silky cognac skin, he explores the topography, runs rough reconnaissance, and kneads gluteal muscles.
“Recruit, who owns this ass?”
“The Corps!”
“And who’s responsible for training it?”
“You Gunny!”
Spreading him open as a matter of military necessity, perfect pink pleats protect paradise. Transfixed by the exquisite sight, he’s mesmerized by the fierce un-tapped beauty. An experienced builder of Marines, he’s expanded many young recruits’ horizons.
Adhering to tradition (a Marine always eats an ass before fucking it), he takes position astern, leans forward, and embeds his face between the magnificent mounds. Traversing tantalizing terrain, his tongue explores the perineum and traces the perineal raphe.
Licking. Sucking. Savoring the sweet, salty, sweaty tang.
Butterscotch with a subtle military umami layering. Delicious.
Feasting on the succulent ass, Faulkner enjoys perfection. Like advanced scouts conducting reconnaissance behind enemy lines, his knowledgeable tongue skillfully breaches quivering fortifications and darts in-and-out of the moist opening with military precision.
Grunts, groans, glorious glutes.
Pérez instinctively spreads his legs wider, providing greater access. Panting, bucking backwards… impaling himself on the tongue, he shudders in ecstasy. Stimulated, drowning in testosterone, unable to find a minute’s privacy to masturbate for several weeks, he’s ready to explode.
Ever vigilant, Faulkner maintains situational awareness. And recognizes the cremasteric reflex. Taking decisive action, clutching Pérez’s retractile testicles, viciously tugging downward, he forces an abrupt retreat from the precarious precipice of premature ejaculation.
“You only blow when I tell you, recruit! Is that understood?”
“Yes, Gunny!”
Sparked, Faulkner releases his own blood engorged weapon from constricting trousers.
Correcting alignment, the dark-purple warhead is positioned on target. A Marine with a lot to be proud of, he brings heavy artillery to the battlefield. Intent on the ultimate act of domination, with a warrior’s mindset he launches a major ground assault and decisively impales Pérez.
Pérez takes several sharp breaths. Stunned by the violent breaching, consciousness wavers as tears stream down his contorted face. The clutching ring spasms and squeezes the massive weapon as he stoically endures the unimaginable agony of being brutally shanked up the ass.
“Take-the-pain!”
Marines have a cacoethes for embracing pain. No hysterics. No begging for mercy. No surrender. Absorbing the initial incursion, he takes it like a man. Like a marine.
The rough entry is followed by a rougher fuck.
Providing no time for acclimation, Faulkner rams unmercifully up inside the exquisitely tight chute. Navigating bends and constrictions, stretching and straightening the malleable passageway, rearranging internal organs, he teaches the recruit to transcend pain.
Shifting hips, changing angles of attack, he hits hidden places.
A predictable, pervasive, cascade of utter misery.
Focused, gritting teeth, clutching the pallets, Pérez is determined to meet the challenge as the impossibly deep cock punches his diaphragm… knocking wind out of his lungs.
Repositioning his hand on the recruit’s extended lower abdomen, Faulkner feels himself protruding from inside the overstuffed chute. Pulsing and ready to detonate, the outline of the thick weapon with prominent mushroom warhead is discernable under the boy’s stretched skin.
“You feel that Pérez?”
“Yes Gunny.”
“That’s the Corps inside you!”
The ultimate reward for a DI resides in honing recruits into lethal weapons. Injected with immutable values and proud traditions, desensitized to physical and mental pain, they persevere to accomplish mission objectives… sacrificing everything for Corps and Country.
“Sweet ass… a great addition to my Corps.”
Over the next few weeks Pérez is fucked countless times. Flooded with potent warrior jam, many dedicated SNCOs work tirelessly to make him the best he can be.
He now has a stunning physique.
Mesomorphic.
After 13 grueling weeks of intense training, fully transformed, he proudly dons the iconic dress blue uniform with eagle, globe, and anchor insignia. Physically, mentally, and emotionally connected, he’s forever bound to the sacred brotherhood sealed in blood.
A United States Marine.
* * *
Pérez transitions to the next phase of training.
The School of Infantry - East, at Camp Geiger, Jacksonville, NC.
With a designated 0331 MOS, Infantry Machine Gunner, he reports to the Infantry Training Battalion and receives instruction in essential skills: advanced marksmanship, grenades & machine guns, tactical patrolling, identifying and countering improvised explosive devices, and convoy operations.
Battlefield success depends upon superior training, unquestionable discipline, overwhelming force, bold tactics, and hyper-aggression. Operating in an informational fog, dancing with death in the crucible of combat, to be timorous, indecisive, or undisciplined is always terminal.
Polished to precision, Pérez joins the ongoing Global War on Terrorism.
He’s assigned to 1st Battalion, 8th Marines (1/8).
The infantry battalion is the ground combat element of the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit deployed to southern Afghanistan, Helmand Province, in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. Conducting counter-insurgency campaigns in Garmsir, in heavy combat countless Taliban are cordially invited to meet their maker. And the suffocating stench of decomposing flesh blankets the battlefield.
The 1/8 suffers some unavoidable casualties.
* * * Return To The Present * * *
Seven Marines fire a three-volley salute.
Shots echo across 639 rolling acres of white marble headstones. Encapsulating America’s history, the Nation’s most hallowed burial ground is the final resting place for 400,000+ military service members, veterans, and their families. Privates and Generals. Presidents and The Unknown.
It’s a place of grieving, contemplation, and reflection.
A lone bugler plays Taps. Twenty-four lingering melancholy notes.
Six Honor Guard Marines in dress blue ‘A,’ three on each side of the casket, meticulously lift and fold the flag of the United States of America. Thirteen crisp folds with the blue field of stars pointing upwards… in the shape of a tricorne hat.
The Colonel presents the flag to grieving parents: “On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”
Devastating anguish on the faces of Mr. & Mrs. Pérez.
Shattered dreams; another Gold Star family.
Five hundred sixty miles to the south buses arrive at Parris Island.
Nervous boys look out bus windows.
Fresh blood.
And who doesn’t want to be a member of an elite fighting force steeped in tradition?
Memorial Day 2024: Eternal gratitude to LCpl Ramón Pérez, USMC (1990 - 2009) and to all who answered the call and served with honor, courage, and commitment. All gave some, some gave all.
“They went with songs to the battle, they were young, straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. And at the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them.”
~ For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon, September 1914 ~
