Cadet 3 (3 page)

My chance came when I was eighteen. I read
one morning in the Philadelphia Inquirer that the U.S. Army was
going to allow women to enlist. It was perfect: nobody in the
service would care who my family was, or how rich they were. If I
was successful there, it would be because of what I had
accomplished on my own, and not because of family’s name,
connections or money. Anyway, I had always been interested in the
Army and military history. I had read every book in my high school
library on the subject, starting with Civil War and the World Wars,
and then gone through everything they had at the municipal library,
right up the war with China.

By the time the Philadelphia Army recruiting
station opened its doors at 8 AM on the first day women were being
allowed to enlist, I had been waiting outside on Broad Street for
over an hour. I zipped through the written tests and the physical
exam, and took the oath along with three other recruits before
lunchtime. When I called home from the bus taking us to boot camp,
my parents were shocked but not surprised, if that makes any sense.
I suppose they always knew deep down that I was a rebel, and they
probably expected me to pull a madcap stunt like this eventually.
(The word “madcap” was chosen with care, as it is only ever used to
describe eccentric heiresses, like me). Anyway, they seemed to take
the news pretty well (much better than my little brother, who was
crazy with jealousy), although since both of them had learned since
childhood that it was uncouth to display their feelings, it was not
easy to tell.

Boot camp was no problem, and I found
adjusting to Army life was pretty easy. The trouble was, it was
too
easy. There was nothing in it to really challenge me, and
practically no room for advancement after I made PFC six months
after graduating from Basic. The work was routine and
uninteresting, and after a year sitting at a desk poking a keyboard
to enter personnel records in the computer system, I began to
wonder if I had made the right decision after all. Just as I was
coming to the conclusion that I had been an idiot to throw away
four years of my life to learn how to be a data-entry clerk, I was
called into my Company Commander’s office and informed that I had
been selected, along with only 29 other women from the entire Army,
to be part of the first class of cadets at the new National Women’s
Military Academy at High Point in northeastern Pennsylvania. I was
so happy that I committed a gross breach of military discipline and
planted a big, wet kiss on Captain Peters’ cheek after he told me
the news. (I have to admit, I was glad to have an excuse to kiss
him. Carl Peters was a cutie.)

You have probably heard a lot of rumors
about what went on inside the walls of the NWMA. The Army has not
officially admitted anything to this day, even after these many
years later. They still claim it’s “classified”. Well, as a General
of the Army (that’s a five-star General, in case you’re not up on
Army ranks) and former Chief of the General Staff, I say fuck that,
I’m un-classifying it right here and now. My comrades who went
through that place deserve to have the story of what the Army did
to them made public at last.

High Point was a military academy with a
difference. The Army had selected its first thirty women for the
qualities of beauty and military aptitude to fill the initial class
of female cadets. We had to be smart, and tough enough to become
competent, efficient aides for high-ranking officers, and we had to
be pretty, obedient and sexually versatile to keep the senior
officers to whom they would be assigned happy. In other words, we
were supposed to be combination staff officers and high-priced
whores.

The Academy was the pet project of the Chief
of the General Staff, General Bernard Cafferson. We found out later
that the National Women’s Military Academy as it was finally
established was the result of a compromise after a long battle:
Cafferson had wanted to allow us to enter West Point, Annapolis and
Colorado Springs, and compete with the boys on even terms, but he
could not get enough support for this plan from the rest of the
General Staff, which had opposed allowing women into the Armed
Services in the first place. The promise of “personal” (i.e.
sexual) services for members of the General Staff was the sweetener
he used to get the backing he needed to launch the NWMA.

The first group of thirty cadets spent
eighteen months at High Point before we graduated, not much older,
but a very much wiser. The physical training was difficult, but far
from impossible, and by the time I graduated, I was in the best
shape of my life. The academic requirements were hard too, as they
tried to cram 4 years’ worth of material into a year and a half
course. It was a challenge, which was what I had been looking for
all along, I suppose. But the other part of it, the sexual
“training”, was what made High Point hell on Earth for us, the
thirty young women (girls, really; most of us were still in our
teens), trapped there.

Our uniforms were made of latex, and were
intentionally designed to be skin-tight so that we could not fit
underwear beneath (not that they issued us any underwear), and to
display every bump and crevice of our bodies. They showed off our
nipples, our vulvas, our assholes, everything. Nor were the
demeaning uniforms the worst of it. The NCO instructors were issued
leather riding crops, and were instructed to discipline us by
beating our bare asses with them. They were allowed (allowed?
encouraged
!) to enter the showers while we were bathing to look
at the cadets in the nude. They were permitted to pull open our
uniforms and fondle our breasts, vulvas and rectums, as if we were
domestic animals, while we were under standing orders to remain
still they handled us. The officers were permitted to do the same,
and more. They were permitted to use us sexually in any way that
suited them: vaginally, orally, anally. If any cadet protested or
failed to satisfy any order, no matter how perverted it was, she
was punished. They brutalized us in various painful ways, with
canes, whips, metal clamps and other devices, which they used on
every part of our bodies, and they humiliated us as well. It should
go without saying that we were not permitted to communicate any of
this to our families or anyone else outside the Academy.

The cadets were provided with some minimal
protection by General Cafferson. (Considering that he was
responsible for us being there in the first place, it was the least
he could do.) If any instructor or visiting officer went too far in
mishandling a cadet by risking serious or permanent injury to her,
the General’s wrath would fall on the malefactor. The General knew
everything that went on at High Point. (As we found out later, the
entire campus was loaded with optical and audio bugs and hidden
recording devices.) But that still gave them plenty of leeway to
abuse us sexually in all sorts of imaginative ways. This, of
course, was the whole point. We were being readied to service the
high-ranking officers to whom we would be assigned after
graduation.

I learned how to relax my throat muscles
enough to swallow an officer’s appendage, however long it might be
and breathe through my nose, while being taken up the ass by
somebody else. We all picked up those kinds of valuable skills. All
the cadets acquired the ability to masturbate ourselves to orgasm
on command, and learned the best way to bring another woman to a
climax with our tongues, as part of the “personal services”
training at our dear old alma mater. The above brief narrative
doesn’t really do the experience of High Point justice. I could
just summarize it by saying that it was something like an eighteen
month gang-bang, with academics and drill thrown in. But I believe
the full story of the inhuman way we were misused by the Army has
been covered up long enough, so I am going to devote a full chapter
of this book to it. The next chapter will describe the program of
the NWMA in detail, and for the first time, name names. If the Army
doesn’t like it, I can only say they should have come clean on
their own a long time ago.

The day we arrived, moments after we had
gotten off the bus, we were lined up at attention and ordered to
watch as one of our classmates was beaten nearly unconscious…
[there follows an account of the sexual and physical abuse of the
cadets at the National Women’s Military Academy at High Point
]…

…
After reading all that, you will probably
think that the Academy was the worst experience of my life.
Actually, the NWMA was the best thing that ever happened to me,
because if I hadn’t gone there, I never would have met
Robin.

My relationship with Robin Bransom is so
notorious by now that it may be hard to believe that before I
enlisted, my sexual orientation was strictly heterosexual. I liked
boys, and I didn’t try to hide it. The night before I ran away to
join the Army, I let my best friend Bobby Arnett pop my cherry in
the loft over his garage. It was a mildly pleasant experience,
although at the time I didn’t see what the big fuss was about. I
didn’t have another sexual experience after that until I got to the
Academy, when I was double-teamed (orally and anally) by my Company
Commander and my Platoon Sergeant as an example for my classmates,
as related in the preceding chapter. That experience did not make
me any fonder of heterosexual intercourse.

Gradually, the regular diet of sexual abuse
at High Point hardened us to the point where we could be brutally
fucked by our officers until we walked bow-legged, and it all meant
nothing more than a brisk workout. I suppose that was the point of
the rough treatment: to make us ready to automatically comply with
anything and everything the generals we would be assigned to could
possibly demand from us. But it had another effect as well: the
adversity drew us together, made us proud of the way we learned to
handle whatever they threw at us.

Eventually, the platoon adopted a unit name
and a pennant, which told the administration, our tormentors, the
way we felt. We called ourselves the “Cadet Cunts”, the favorite
unflattering term for us used by one of our Sergeants. Our pennant
was a vagina (a bisected “V”) with “C”s on either side (for “Cadet
Cunts”), and we were proud of how rough and tough we had become. It
was us, the blood-sisters of National Whore Military Academy (our
name for the school) against the world, and we survived by relying
on each other against our mutual enemy, the Army.

In the late fall, when we had to sleep in
the practically unheated buildings with nothing more than a few
thin blankets to keep warm, we started to spend the nights in bed
together with our friends, in our “skin-suits” (our term for our
obscene fatigues). When winter came, it got even colder, and Kate
Swenson from Minnesota told us about a survival trick they used up
in the Great White North: buddies bundled up together in a sleeping
bag naked, to share their body heat. I had already been sharing a
bed with Robin, who had become my best friend in the first week. We
decided to try Kate’s trick that very night.

Looking back on it, I suppose I had already
developed a crush on Robin, even before the infamous Night of the
Naked Cadets. I certainly got a warm, fluttery feeling in my belly
whenever I was around her, and I told myself that I loved her like
a sister. But I was not consciously aware that I had any sexual
feelings for her, and I’m sure the reverse was equally true. But,
when we climbed between the sheets together unclothed for the first
time, I felt a little strange, and I noticed that Robin was acting
oddly too. Every movement she made was very tentative, as if she
was afraid of something, and she apologized every time any part of
her body touched mine.

For my part, every time she touched me,
little bolts of lightning went off inside my body. I suddenly knew
that I had more than sisterly feelings for Robin. I wanted her. My
heart ached to take her in my arms, to kiss her, to fondle her
beautiful breasts, crush her up against me, to give her pleasure
with my hands and mouth, and to receive it from her. But I was
afraid she would reject my advances, that she would think I was a
sexual pervert, and that I would scare her away and lose her
forever as my best friend. I went ahead anyway; really, I didn’t
have any choice. I would have gone off like a bomb if I had to lie
naked in bed next to her without telling her how I really felt.

When I whispered to Robin that I loved her,
she hesitated. I’m sure it was actually less than a second, but to
me it felt like an eternity. I thought my heart stopped beating in
my chest; I know I stopped breathing. Then she smiled her beautiful
smile, wrapped her arms around me, and pulled me in close. I knew
in that instant that I had found the one true love of my life, and
that is why, in spite of everything, I will always remember the
National Women’s Military Academy with fondness. Robin and I made
love for the first time that cold December night, and that was when
I finally found out what the big deal was about sex.

Since coming to High Point, I had, like my
classmates, “enjoyed” a very active sex life, and had been made to
climax by my superior officers, or by other girls under their
orders, dozens of times. As described above, I had been penetrated
front, rear and orally, by cocks, fingers, tongues and various
devices, and I will admit that the orgasms were pretty good. They
were brief, but intense explosions of pure animal pleasure, and
they allowed me to forget my state of sexual slavery for as long as
they lasted.

But sex with Robin was and is a completely
different proposition. Just the touch of her lips on my nipples or
her fingertips on my pussy is better by far than the wildest orgasm
I ever experienced at the hands of my Academy instructors. That
first night, when her tongue found my clit, I thought I would
explode from feeling so much pleasure at once. Every time I open
her lovely labia and breathe in her delicious aroma… well, never
mind. I’m a soldier, not a poet, so I don’t know how to describe
what I feel when Robin and I make love. Probably nobody can. If
you’ve never experienced love yourself, I don’t think all the words
in the world would be enough.