by Greg Babcock
Forged by Desire
By
Greg Babcock
©2014 by CF Publications
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Babcock, Gred
Forged by Desire
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-592-5
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This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Forged by Desire
So, there I was! Fresh out of the Army. And without a clue as to what I was going to do with my life. On the train home from Kentucky, I’d become scared – for the first time since mustering out, after my four-year hitch Yeah! Me! Nelson Glover! A “trained killer”! And scared as hell! I was 22-years-old – and didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, now that I was “on the outside”. I’d not really been trained for much of anything – except soldiering. I was one of those “grunts”! They’d given me a shot at being a mechanic in the motor pool at Fort Campbell – but, it didn’t take ‘em long to figure out that I was about as mechanically inclined as this keyboard, at which I’m laboring. I’ve seen lamp shades that could figure out – and perform – mechanical stuff better than me. (Well, maybe not better.)
I’d thought that I’d found my military niche – finally – when they’d assigned me to battalion commander’s office. I’d always been able to type. In the mid-fifties, all they had (practically all I ever saw, anyway) were old Underwood typewriters. Was almost like using a hammer and chisel. You really had to whack each key to get it to print. And I can’t tell you the honest-to-God thrill of jacking with four or five carbon copies. Especially when it seemed as though each sheet of carbon paper had been in constant use – since 1938. And, apparently, it was such a critical item – that we couldn’t hardly get any to replace those glorious, well-worn, sheets.
Still, I’d thought that I was doing all right – manning the ol’ Underwood. (The guy at the next desk, now, he had a new Remington Noiseless.) But, I got replaced. (As it turned out, I had done all right at the work assigned me. I’d found out later – much later – that the “man” who’d replaced me had been letting the sergeant [who actually ran the clerical office] sodomize him. Early and often – as they say. So, he wound up replacing me.) Fortunately, it was not me – who was called upon to replace him!
In any case, after that, I just pretty well knocked around. They’d had me involved in more Military Drill exercises than I ever needed to be a part of. (That was another thing at which I was pretty good – marching.)
But, none of this was going to help me in civilian life. I wasn’t even sure that I could make a living typing! Besides, if you’re a man, they don’t want to hire you – so I’d heard. And, if they did deign to employ you, so the story went, they didn’t want to pay you any money! And you might wind up with a boss who wants to sodomize you! Not a really promising prospect for the kid, here.
I don’t know how many times – during the train ride home – I found myself wishing that I’d re-upped! The prospect of making my way in a world – other than the structured one in which I’d pretty well grown up – was getting more and more frightening, the closer the locomotive got to Toledo.
I’d, of course, go back to living with my mother and my 14-year-old sister. GOD! My sister! Melinda! She was only TEN, when I’d enlisted! I’d gotten glimpses of her blossoming forth into young womanhood, of course, on the three or four furloughs I’d taken. So, she was changing. I found myself wondering if my mother ever would. It didn’t seem like it. She’d treated me as though I was in the first grade – from the time I’d attained the fourth grade. (Before that, she’d treated me like some kind of snot-nosed pre-schooler.) I wish I’d had a dime for every time she’d said, “As long as you’re living under my roof … you’ll do as I say”. Or “As long as you’re living under my roof … you’ll submit to my rules.” (Submit was quite apropos.)
She’d refused to sign for me to enter the service, when I was 17-and-a-half. Had to wait till I was 18 – when I didn’t need her approval. Even then, she’d forbidden me to “do this despicable thing”. And she was crushed when I’d upped and done it! Refused to see me off at the train depot – when I’d left for Basic Training. Over the four years, she’d loosened up – a little. (Well, damn little – truth be known. That was the real reason that I’d not come home more often, on furlough.)
And that was another worry: How was I going to get along with my mother? How long would I be welcome there? True, it was a big house. Was bought and paid for by the time my father had passed away – when I was fifteen. So, no one ever stumbled over anyone else there. But, Mother ruled the roost – and never left any doubt as to the truth of that statement. What would I do – if we couldn’t coexist? Where would I go? (I was sorely tempted to go back to that place from which I was coming!)
I’d had no prospects of marrying anyone soon. So, that would not be a way of “escaping”. I could get, I supposed, my own apartment. (They’d not begun to call them “pads” yet.) But, who’d rent to me? I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have a whole helluva lot of money. Just my mustering out pay. Over the four years, I’d pissed away virtually all of my glorious salary. Didn’t even have a car. Hell, I didn’t even have a damn driver’s license! I’d also pissed away the chance to study. To study anything. Which is why I’d been still a corporal, at discharge. I’d flunked the test for sergeant four different times! And I’d not made any preparations for – or given consideration to – what I’d do as a trade or profession in civilian life. What a waste! Four years – shot to hell!
So, the thought – the illusion – of being able to structure my own life, plus the prospect of making “far more money” than the Army was willing to lay on me, had been enthralling. (That is, until the train had crossed the Ohio border.) By the time the locomotive had pulled into the station in the thriving metropolis of Toledo, I was petrified with fear!
My mother picked me up in her brand new Buick. On the way “home”, she advised me that her “veteran boyfriend” had a job lined up for me. She’d been going with Eddie – since my father was laid to rest. (Looking back, I believe that she’d been sleeping with him before Pop ever went to The Happy Hunting Grounds.) Eddie owned a bar – and rare was the Friday night when Mother didn’t take a cab over to the joint, at about seven o’clock. And rare was the time that she didn’t wait for the place to close up at two in the morning. And rare was the time when she didn’t get home at about four-thirty. Well, a little rarer would be the times when she’d come schlepping in at seven or seven-thirty Saturday morning.
Of course, Eddie was one of the most likeable guys you’d ever meet. I suppose that – given the business he was in – he’d had to be. I liked him. I really did. A couple times, when I’d come home on furlough, and had accompanied Mother to the bar, he’d gotten all over her for some of the nitshit things she’d say to me. “Back off,” he’d say. “He’s a big boy now.” I doubt that mother was ever convinced!
In any case, one of Eddie’s best c
ustomers was a guy named Scotty – who managed the foundry end (the major part) of a local aluminum and brass foundry. I say he managed the foundry part – because the overall facility was owned and operated by a nice man named Charlie Boswell. He and his accountant, Bill Globe, actually ran the overall operation. But, they depended upon Scotty to see that the molds got made and machined and shipped and that there were always enough aluminum bars and brass ingots to keep the joint running. So, I guess you could say that Scotty was – despite running the actual foundry part of the operation – the number-three guy.
And Scotty was looking for a man who would ultimately wind up being his assistant. He’d consider a trainee – one who was willing to work and learn every job in the place. No matter how demanding or how insignificant that task was. Performing whatever menial job – or every important task – would be just temporary for me. I would gain knowledge of the entire operation. Then – smart guy that I was – I would qualify as administrative assistant to Scotty. And then, I would make some serious money!
THAT sounded good! The “serious money” part. In the back of my mind, of course, was the fact that – when it came to anything mechanical – I sucked! (Didn’t use that expression back then either.) I kept trying to convince myself that metallurgy didn’t have to equate with mechanical ability or aptitude – or anything else.
And when I met with Scotty – at Eddie’s bar – he’d been impressed with me. And had me practically assured that my lack of mechanical expertise would not stand in the way of my glorious career in metals. He set up an appointment with Mr. Boswell.
The meeting with Charlie Boswell went all right. Scotty had given me a resounding endorsement – but, Mr. Boswell didn’t seem that impressed. And he cast grave doubts about my lack of mechanical ability. The starting salary was $85.00 a week – which, in the mid-fifties wasn’t all that bad. It dwarfed what I’d been making in the Army – and was much more than I’d ever have let myself dream of making!
So it was that I came to work at the Charles Boswell Foundry & Machine Co. It took two buses to get me there – usually about 40 minutes for a route that could be driven in half that time. I was going to have to get me a car. But, I was going to have to pocket a few paychecks before that glorious event would take place. Mother was certainly not going to help. She could’ve bought me a new Buick – but, that wasn’t about to happen. (Which was, I’d had to admit, just as well.)
At first, they’d had me out shoveling dirt – for one of the mold makers! I’d, of course, not known this, but they pack black dirt around the molds. The huge black man – who ran the furnaces – would then come along and fill the dirt-surrounded molds with hot, liquid aluminum! After about 40 minutes or so, the whole package would be knocked apart – and the aluminum casting taken out to the machine shop and – well – machined. And the dirt would be recycled into a bin. MY job – critical, as you can see – was to then move this dirt back to the man making the molds.
He made eight molds an hour – by agreement with the union. Not nine! Not seven! But, eight. There were times when he would just stand there for six or eight minutes – until the hour was up. Then, he’d start on the next eight. He’d have to stand there. He couldn’t go anywhere else. He couldn’t even go to the bathroom – unless it was at 10:15AM or 1:45PM. Those were the only authorized breaks – again, per the contract with the union. And he got to spend 15 minutes in the john or the ratty employees’ lounge. I could never understand the logic in any of it. “That’s the way things are done around here,” explained Scotty. Well, I guess, that had been good enough for me.
The next week, I spent out in the machine shop. Stood there – watching the various mechanics adding threads to the aluminum castings I’d seen manufactured the previous week. These were some sort of part for a boat engine – and a lot of stuff had to be screwed into them. (See? If I’d have had an ounce of expertise, I could’ve told you exactly what the castings were – and, precisely, what they were used for.)
After that, I spent a week in the shipping and receiving department. That, actually, was more physically demanding than anything I’d been required to do during the preceding two weeks. Had to pack those darling little aluminum what-ever-they-weres into big drums and wrestle them out onto the loading dock. (They wouldn’t let me use the push-type fork lift that nestled in one of the corners just inside the dock.) I’ll tell you what: I slept well – all that week.
The fourth week was the really fateful one: I was assigned to observe – strictly observe – in the core room. There were six ladies in there. All of them wore slacks, of course. Mostly cotton slacks. It’s hot throughout the entire installation. It is, after all, a foundry. Five of the women wore dark – rather nondescript – slacks. One of them – the one known as Lorna – was blest with one of the finest, classically-sculptured, asses in the history of mankind! And she always wore kind of a Marigold Yellow slacks. She must have had – literally – dozens of them. All the same shade. All emphasizing that world-class ass of hers!
These ladies made cores – for the molds – out of sand. These things were – somehow – set in the center of some of the molds. The sand would withstand the tremendous heat of the metal, when it was poured in – and the casting would come out being hollow, where it should be hollow. The sand would just be shaken out of the mold, and – voila! – it was hollow. Don’t ask me how those things got suspended in the dirt-packed molds. But, they did!
The girls worked with a whole different kind of sand – brown stuff (as opposed to the black dirt that I’d had to jack with). It was all virgin stuff. Bought fresh – and delivered in 50-pound sacks to the core room. And each of these six ladies threw those sacks around with much more authority than I ever could have. The lady who ran the core room had larger biceps muscles than a lot of guys I’d ever known. Certainly much bigger than mine. Her name was Portia.
As rough-and-tumble as she’d seemed, she was actually a really sensitive lady. To a point, anyway. During my employment there, I’d had to walk past the core room – numerous times. But, I’d never actually entered it. Would look through the eight windows, at the ladies, as I’d passed. Sometimes they’d wave. Virtually always, I would wave at them. I found myself looking forward to my week in there. Didn’t seem to be any real back-breaking duties – unless you consider those sacks of sand to be such. And Portia seemed to be content with throwing those things around.
Actually, my assigned duty that week was to merely stand around – and watch these half-dozen very exceptionally adept ladies work their magic. I was not even close to being talented enough to actually create any of those cores. So, I found myself positioned between the two high tables at which they worked. Merely watching. And talking to the “girls”, who sat – perched on those high, barstool-type, chairs! Talking to them a lot!
And they’d had a million questions. They’d, of course, seen me wander by their little bailiwick all those times – and were curious as to who I was. And what I was. And where I’d wind up.
Those questions – the really perfunctory ones – got answered in, probably, the first 15 or 20 minutes. After that, it was all about me! The personal me! After, maybe, the first hour or so of really intense questioning, they all seemed to fixate on my relationship with my mother – once they’d learned how strong-willed she was. A couple of them – Millie and Greta – had been to Eddie’s bar a few times, and had seen Mother. Knew a little bit of who she was. Both were kind of surprised that I was her son.
One of the four who had not made the pilgrimage to the saloon (that quartet included Portia) really began to cross-examine me on my relationship with Mother. This lady was the aforementioned Lorna. The one with the all-universe ass! She – like all of her five compatriots – was in her mid-thirties. None of them were old enough to be my mother – but, they all seemed to revel in the role of my older sister. Or an “aunt” or something.
“So, tell me,” spouted the gorgeous-assed Lorna, of the yellow, tight-fitting, slack
s – after I’d been in the core room all of an hour-and-a-half, “did your mother used to spank you a lot?”
Where did that come from? Not that it wasn’t welcome – it just seemed to come out of left field. To the point that it took me what-seemed-like an eternity to answer.
“Well, not lately,” I’d finally murmured – more defensively than I’d have liked. Then, I wished that I’d have just answered with a simple yes or no. (The answer would have to have been a definite, if not resounding, “yes”! But, not in six or seven years, at that point.)
“Well,” said Greta, “I wouldn’t imagine she would have spanked you lately. How old are you?”
“Uh … twenty-two,” I’d answered – again, much more weakly than I’d intended.
“Oh, don’t be too sure about that, Greta,” volunteered Portia. “Lots of guys … they get spanked way up into their twenties. Into their thirties maybe. Depends on … “
“Well,” interrupted Lorna, “I think that they should … some guys should … get spanked! Their whole lives through. Lots of them should. Unfortunately, not enough of them do.”
“Yeah,” added Millie. “I spanked my son up until he was almost twenty. I still think that he married that whore … just to get away from my hairbrush. He found out what a piece of shit she really was!”
“Did he ever come back home?” asked Lorna. “Come back for … uh … more?”
“Nah! But, he should have. He’d be a helluva lot better off! Went and married another floozie. And when he … finally … threw her ass out, he hooked up with yet another broad who … “
“Yeah,” said Portia. “Some guys. They just never learn! How much better off would that kid have been … if he’d just stayed home and gotten his fanny spanked from time to time. There are just some boys … and some men, a goodly number of men … who just simply never outgrow their need for guidance.”
