By Command Alone: Book 1 of the Kinky ABC Anthology, page 1
BY COMMAND ALONE
J. De Saint
Copyright © 2025 J. De Saint
All rights reserved.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, locations, and organizations depicted in this story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The story contains elements that are imaginative in nature and not intended to represent real historical facts or practices. While the setting may draw loosely from historical contexts, it may contain significant inaccuracies and creative liberties taken for the sake of storytelling.
Reader discretion is advised.
Trigger Warnings
This story contains adult content and themes intended for a mature audience. Specific content warnings include:
● Explicit sexual content
● Power exchange (D/s dynamic)
● Forced Submission
● Intense degradation, humiliation, and objectification
● Cock worship
● Military setting with stylized, non-realistic depictions of training and hierarchy
● Strong language and slurs (including period-accurate homophobic expressions)
● Manipulation and psychological control
● BDSM themes:
— Discipline
— Obedience
— Praise kink
— Service kink
● Mild physical pain:
— Slapping
— Rough handling
— Overstimulation
● Foot/boot fetish elements:
— Licking
— Sniffing
— Penetration
● Edge play
● Denial of intimacy
● Comparison between partners / humiliation by contrast
● Elements of shame, internalized homophobia, and religious guilt
All depictions of sex and kink in this story are between fully consenting adults. The characters are fictional and of legal age.
Please read with discretion.
The Kinky ABC Anthology
A is for…
Authority Kink
/əˈTHôrədē kiNGk/
noun
A sexual or psychological arousal associated with the dynamics of power, hierarchy, and control. Typically involves consensual roleplay or scenarios where one partner takes on a dominant, authoritative role (e.g., military officer, teacher, superior) while the other willingly submits to that authority. This kink can manifest through uniforms, commands, discipline, praise or degradation, and often overlaps with elements of BDSM.
To everyone who knows that obedience is sexy
SUMMARY
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0001
The air smells and tastes like sweat. I’ve been up since 0430, running laps until my legs begged for mercy, lungs burning, thighs trembling. Now it’s 0600, the sun hasn’t even cracked the horizon, and I’m lined up with twenty other sweating idiots in the gravel courtyard. Everyone’s trying not to pass out.
I’m trying not to cream my fucking fatigues.
Because the second Drill Sergeant Hale steps into view, my dick twitches like it’s got a mind of its own.
He’s six-foot-five of brute force masculinity, stuffed into a regulation olive tee that barely contains his chest. The man is the personification of all my wet dreams—thick arms, sun-darkened skin stretched tight over muscle, a back broad enough to block the goddamn sun, and hands that look like they could crush my windpipe without breaking a sweat. His head’s buzzed on the sides, and those steel-gray eyes are always narrowed, like he’s constantly sizing you up, deciding whether you’re worth the spit on the floor.
And God, I want to be spit on.
He’s got this permanent scowl, like he’s disappointed in everyone before we even speak. Full lips, square jaw covered in a hint of stubble—and I know that if he rubs it into my face, it will burn good. I’ve imagined it. I’ve imagined it a hundred different ways: his belt dragging across my skin, his mouth against the shell of my ear, his voice saying, "Beg for it, Recruit."
I almost lose it just thinking about it.
He’s what every recruit whispers about. They call him King Demon. Because he’s massive. Because when he yells, it sounds like God’s wrath. Because when he doesn’t, it’s worse. They say he made a guy crack last year, and sent him home weeping. They say he doesn’t have a soul. That he could kill you with one hand if he wanted to. No one looks directly at him.
No one except me.
My cock’s half-hard and pulsing, and I’m clenching everything I can just to keep it from showing like it did on day two. I got reamed for that. Verbally. Publicly. And then I jerked off to the memory three times after lights out.
There’s a reason I joined the army. And it sure as hell wasn’t patriotism. It wasn’t about honor, or brotherhood, or waving some flag on a hot summer day. No, fuck no. It’s because every time I imagined a man barking orders, towering over me, grabbing my jaw and snarling “say ‘yes, sir’” into my throat—I came so hard I saw stars.
I need rules. I crave control. And nothing gets me off like an authoritarian figure.
“Lane.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Didn’t I tell you to clean those goddamn boots?”
I stare dead ahead. They’re clean, my boots. I polished them last night until my fingers hurt. Doesn’t matter. He’s already decided I fucked up, and my dick twitches like it’s getting praise.
“I’m sorry, sir!”
“Sorry? ‘Sorry’ doesn’t polish shit. Drop and show me what pathetic looks like.”
I hit the dirt so fast my knees burn, gravel digging into my palms. My cock’s straining in my waistband and I’m practically fucking the air by push-up number three. Hale looms above me, silent, boots planted wide. I can feel his gaze like he’s the god of fuck-or-die.
And I’m dying to get fucked here.
I want him to break me. I want to be taken apart, muscle by muscle, breath by breath, until I’m nothing but a wet spot on the floor whispering “yes, sir” into his boot.
My arms are trembling by push-up number fourteen, but it’s not exhaustion that’s making my breath hitch. It’s the scent of him, masculine in a way that makes my gut tighten. It’s the vision of his boots inches from my face. He’s above me, towering, and I’m exactly where I belong—on the dirt, leaking into my briefs, vision swimming with heat.
I’m pathetic.
And I want him to see it.
“Get up.”
I freeze mid-push-up. Arms burning. Cock throbbing.
“Did I fucking stutter, Lane?”
No, sir.
“No, sir.”
I scramble to my feet so fast I nearly trip over myself. My back straightens like a good little soldier, hands rigid at my sides, eyes locked on the air just above his shoulder, exactly like they drilled into us. I can’t look at him right now. Not like the other recruits, who are afraid of him. But because if I do, I’ll make a sound. I’ll moan in front of twenty other recruits like some needy, dirty—
“You’re shaking. Are you injured, Recruit?”
“N-no, sir.”
“You sure about that? I can smell fear on you.”
No, Sergeant, that’s not fear. That’s me about to come untouched in my goddamn pants because of the way you talk to me like I’m trash.
But I nod.
“Yes, sir. I’m sure.”
He steps closer. I can see the glint of sweat on his collarbone, the outline of his nipples inside that tight shirt. It makes me salivate like a dog.
“Maybe we’ll test that later. See what kind of pressure you can really handle.”
My brain short-circuits and my knees want to give. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
And then, just like that, he’s walking away. Done with me.
I watch him go out of the corner of my eye. I shouldn’t. It’s reckless. But I can’t help it. He stops in front of another recruit—Johnson, I think—and starts screaming about laces like they personally offended him.
The difference between me and Johnson is that Johnson flinches. He sweats and trembles and turns red. I get hard. So fucking hard I have to shift my weight to the other leg just to keep the bulge in my pants from showing again.
Later, after drills, I sneak off and jerk off in a stall like some pervert. It’s the only way I’ll get through the rest of the day. I spit in my hand and grip my cock that’s already throbbing. I imagine him pressing me flat against the cold tile with his boot. Pressing down. Stepping on me.
You like this, Recruit? You like being my little fucktoy?
God, yes.
I want it so badly it hurts.
I jerk off hard and fast, biting my fist, eyes shut tight, the image of his boot grinding between my shoulder blades seared into the back of my skull.
*
There’s a rhythm to life here. A bone-deep rhythm that settles into you and doesn't let go. Wake-up call is normally 0500 and if your boots aren’t laced and your cot’s not perfect by the time the whistle screams, you’re fucked. Like, gravel-in-your-mouth, sweat-in-your-eyes, fifty-push-ups-before-breakfast kind of fucked.
You shower with twelve other guys, shoulder to shoulder, not looking at all the naked bodies. Not because you’re scared of being caught. It’s because none of them matter. They’re just normal bodies. Flat voices. Limp hands. Nothing like Hale.
And you can’t even let Hale show up in your head because you can't afford a boner in the showers. Not unless you want a rumor stuck to your name for the rest of your service.
The food’s garbage. Mystery meat, rubbery eggs, cold toast. You eat fast or you don’t eat. Here there’s no music, no phone call, no fucking privacy. Just barked orders, gravel paths, and the sun beating down like it wants to skin you alive. The days are a blur of drills, weapons training, screaming, sweating, aching muscles, and Hale’s voice cutting through everything like a goddamn sexy knife.
At night, sometimes, when the stars are out and the air finally cools to something less than boiling, there’s a little bit of breathing room. The guys laugh, swap smuggled weed, try to act like the day didn’t break them. We’re not allowed alcohol officially, but there’s always someone who’s got a stash. Cans of shitty beer that taste like piss and freedom. You sip one, just trying to take the edge off the ache in your bones and the heavier one in your cock.
One night, Reed—a squat little guy with wide eyes and zero presence—slides onto the edge of my bunk with a stupid grin. He’s been eyeing me for a week. I’m not blind.
“You ever get lonely?” he asks, like it’s some deep fucking question.
I don’t answer. Just take another sip. He’s waiting, though.
“I mean, guys like us, no girls around. You got urges, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Spit it out.”
He leans closer. “If you suck me off, I’ll return the favor. Deal?”
I stare at him. My dick’s not exactly protesting—I’ve been half-hard all day just from the memory of Hale growling in my face.
So I nod.
We sneak into one of the storage closets. It smells like metal, oil and dust. Not sexy at all. He drops to his knees like he’s done this before, eager like a fucking puppy, his lips wet and clumsy. No teeth, thank God. But no dominance either. No grip, no control, no fucking force, no command. Just a mouth working my cock like it’s a chore.
I close my eyes. Block him out.
And then I let him in.
I picture Hale—not kneeling, of course—but holding me down, hand fisted in my hair, the other around my throat. His voice rough in my ear: "You gonna take this like a good little soldier, aren’t you?" He shoves me deeper. My eyes water in the fantasy. I choke, gag, spit dribbling down my chin, and all I hear is "That’s it. Take it. Take it like the filthy slut you are."
In the real world, Reed’s still bobbing. Still trying. But I’m not there. I’m in Hale’s fist, on Hale’s tongue, getting ruined under Hale’s fucking boot.
I come with a grunt, hips jerking forward, fists clenched.
It’s a blowjob. Even if it’s a bad one, it’s still better than my hand.
Reed pulls off coughing, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s proud of himself. He says something I don’t even catch.
I drop to my knees and return the favor. Not because I want to. Not even because I care.
I just want it done.
He moans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, grabs the back of my head like that makes him a god. I keep my jaw slack, eyes closed, mind somewhere else. I imagine Hale again, watching from the shadows, disgusted and hard, telling me I’m a good little whore for using my mouth like this.
I want to wipe my mouth the second he’s done, but I just nod once and leave without another word.
The bunk feels worse after that, and the ache's still there. Worse, maybe. Because I know exactly what I want, and it’s not some eager little guy who can’t even force me to kneel.
*
The next morning, I fuck up.
Bad.
During rifle drills, I load a mag wrong and jam the mechanism. It clacks loud, and every single head turns.
Including Hale’s.
He walks up slow. Real slow. Each step lands like thunder in my skull, pounding in sync with my racing pulse. My heart’s trying to crawl out of my throat.
“Did you just fuck up a standard-issue assault rifle in front of my entire unit, Lane?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
“You trying to kill yourself? Or are you trying to get someone else killed?”
“I—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
His voice is low. Something that doesn’t just hum in your ears, but that vibrates in your chest. My cock twitches. My stomach plummets. I feel sick.
I feel alive.
He yanks the rifle out of my hands, checks the mag, clears the jam with a flick of his wrist, and then looks at me like I’m shit he stepped in.
“You’re not just a disappointment, you’re a goddamn liability.” He turns, tosses the rifle onto the rack, and barks: “Everyone back to position. Except you, Lane.”
My blood goes cold.
He doesn’t even look at me when he says it, just walks off toward the far edge of the training grounds.
I follow.
I’m already hard.
0002
Hale walks ahead without looking back.
He leads me toward the back of the depot, where the pines twist low and warped, casting shadows over cracked concrete. No one ever goes there during drills—it’s too close to the perimeter, too far from supervision.
Which is exactly why I know I’m fucked.
He stops beneath a tree and turns on his heel with the same annoyed stare.
I snap into attention.
“Lane, do you consider yourself mentally deficient?”
I swallow hard. “No, sir.”
“Then explain to me how someone with a functioning brain fucks up a mag change that bad… on his third goddamn week.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Speak.”
“I—I misaligned the cartridge, sir.”
“Oh, you misaligned the cartridge.” He takes a heavy step forward. “And what could’ve happened, Recruit?”
“The—the chamber could’ve misfired, sir.”
“Could’ve?” Another step. “Would’ve. ‘Could’ve’ doesn’t fucking cut it. You want to see what’s left of your hand after a blowback? You want to go home in a goddamn box?”
“No, sir.”
“You want to kill one of your teammates?”
“No, sir.”
He’s in front of me now—towering, chest to chest.
“You’re a liability. You shouldn’t even be in this unit. You’re soft. Weak. You’ve got the spine of a fucking jellyfish.”
“Yes, sir.”
My body is stiff as stone. But under my waistband, my dick is pulsing with desperate, humiliating heat. I want to disappear. I want to drop to my knees. I want him to slam me to the wall and do something about how fucking pathetic I am.
He stares at my face for a moment longer, then his gaze drops—right to my crotch—and the muscle in his jaw ticks.
“Are you hard right now?”
I flinch.
He shoves me, one open palm to my chest, and I slam back into the tree behind me. The bark bites into my spine, but I can’t even register the sting because his hand is already there, grabbing the outline of my hard-on.
