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The Jem Snippets

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"The Jem Snippets" is a cooperative set of stories written by myself (Kkatman) and Portentous1975.

Set in a futuristic boot-camp, these stories chronicle the ongoing sufferings of Jem's breasts. The original snippets were very short and deliciously cruel bits written by Portentous1975. With his permission, I continued the tales in a slightly more story-like format, with snippet-like mini-chapters. I hope to post these in that format. The project is ongoing.

Fair warning and disclaimer: these stories are wicked, and the hurt that befalls Jem's breasts is brutal. Due to fantastical sci-fi elements, there is no blood or real damage. Likewise, this story involves no yiffing. This is fantasy, not reality. And in fantasy, sexual torture is hot.

Enjoy!

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The whole punishment detail had their chameleonware on; even the

master sergeant behind her. If she just squinted a little and ignored

the telltale shimmering, and Jem could almost imagine she was

standing alone on the parade ground, alone, naked and her arms tied

behind her.

"Tail _up_," a voice hissed behind her, and the young bitch

automatically caught her tail from slinking down behind her legs. She

bit down on the equally automatic "Yes, sir!" -- prisoners were not

allowed to speak during a gauntlet.

A hand grasped the back of her neck firmly, even painfully, and the

master seargeant barked out the order to "draw bayonets!" As if by

magic, vicious bayonets appeared seemingly out of thin air; two lines

of blades stretching out in front of her.

Jem swallowed. She knew, intellectually, that the bayonets, no

matter how sharp and vicious they looked, could not actually penetrate

her skin with the dermal armour that her infantry nanites gave her,

but try telling that to her hind brain. Besides, she also knew that

with her pain-handling nanites dormant it wouldn't hurt much less than

if they could have.

"Prisoner, forward march!" The fingers on her neck tightened. Forcing

back a whimper Jem started forward, down between the two shimmering

lines of steel.

With a sudden swosh the first bayonet on her right slashed out and

struck her right breast fully. Jem bit her lip, forcing herself to

keep -- the bayonet on her left landed on her left breast with full

force and Jem howled. The hand on her neck pushed her forward

another step.

One hundred and nine soldiers in the company. Two spaced every

meter. One hundred and seven strokes remanining. Fifty-four meters of

pain.

She didn't scream at the third stroke, or on the fourth. On the fifth

she managed to bite it back after just a second, on the sixth she

could no longer keep her tail up. On the seventh stroke she

screamed. _From_ the seventh stroke she screamed.

She lost count after the twelfth. Her breasts were nothing but

pain. Line of line of white, flashing pain. She couldn't see through

her tears, and all she could hear was her own screams. Only the master

sergeant's hand on her neck kept her steady, guided her down the line

of punishment.

Pain was everything. Her breasts were her entire world: shuddering

with every stroke in a flash of agony, pain pulsing up with every beat

of her heart. Her nipples were like rocky cliffs of needle-sharp pain

surrounded by a storm-tossed ocea of pain. Each strike was a flash of

lightning, momentarily painting the painscape in stark black and white

before it was gone, leaving spots before her eyes and the storm raging

even harder.

Then the lightning flashes stopped coming and there was just the

storm, slowly abating. When she came to her senses again she was

standing doubled over, gasping desperately for air, her breasts a

throbbing block of solid pain. Only the hand on her neck kept her on

her feet. Right then she loved that hand: it was the only thing in her

world besides her painful gasps and the hurt.

"Prisoner, about face!"

Jem reacted without thinking; even after just a month at bootcamp

that movement was drilled into her. She faltered when she saw the twin

lines of bayonets stretching out before her again.

"Prisoner, forward march!"

Jem stood rooted to the spot. Nobody walked two times! That wasn't

in the regulations.

The hand at her neck tightened its grip and another hand grabbed the

root of her tail. They pushed her forward, in between the lines of

bayonets. There was a new flash of lightning, and another one, and she

was back in the storm.

--

Jem lay whimpering, her breasts still ached with every beat of her

pulse, but it was manegable now, barely. She didn't know how many

times she had had to walk the gauntlet -- at least twice, and she

thought many more, but it alled blurred together.

In the end the master sargeant hadn't turned her about for another

round, but had marched her to the end of the parade ground and the

shallow, plank-covered ditch that was dug there. They'd tied her up

and placed her in the ditch, put a length of wood under her back to

raise her chest up and covered the ditch with planks. They'd left a

gap for her breasts -- it was a narrow gap, and it had hurt when

they'd tugged her breasts up through it, but nothing like the

gauntlet.

She could hear someone running. Lying on the ground she could feel the

thuds of his steps -- seemed like they were running towards her. For

some reason the thought of a football player making a penalty kick

flashed through her tired mind.

--

Jem surreptiously wiped her palms on the grass and gripped her rifle

more securely and made sure the stock was flush against her

shoulder. Her target was a girl from Echo company, a stocky

Stiefelgeiss goat that Jem's company had caught during last

weekend's maneuvers. She'd had her painblockers disabled and was tied

to a post a hundred meters downrange, stripped to her waist.

Jem drew a deep breath and lined her sights up on the woman's

breasts. They gleamed brightly in the sunlight; they had been

spraypainted white for better contrast. Ignoring the sinking feeling

in her gut, Jem centered her sights on the left breast and breathed

out slowly and evenly as she pressed the trigger.

The rifle bucked sharply in her grip with a sharp krack. Downrange,

the targetted breast flattened and jerked, then bounced desperately as

the woman twisted and pulled against her bounds. A split second later

they could hear her scream, a shrill, primal howl you wouldn't think

could be made by a sapient. Her heart racing, Jem did her best to

close her ears to the sound, already lining the sights up to the same

breast again, watching its bouncing and twisting for the opportunity

to take the next shot.

They were using metal jacketed bullets of lead, nothing that could

damage through the subdermal armour, but it would hurt, even through

the pain blockers. Without them... Jem tried not to think about

that, or the math of their orders. One prisoner, two breasts, twenty

rounds in a magazine, one magazine per soldier, one hundred and nine

soldiers. Two thousand, one hundred and eight shots in total. Two

thousand, one hundred and seventy nine shots still left.

For a split second the prisoner's twisting brought her breast

perfectly back in line with Jem's sights, and Jem's finger pressed

down almost on its own. Krack. Two thousand, one hundred and seventy

eight.

When she had emptied her magazine (two thousand, one hundred and

sixty), Jem secured her rifle and got to her feet, leaving the

firing position for the next soldier in line. Jem felt weak, her

stomach was a deep pit, her heart was racing and she was lightheaded

and her legs felt shaky. She did her best to seem in control as she

got back in line. Behind her, there was a new sharp krack. Two

thousand, one hundred and fiftynine.

Her legs wobbled for a moment and as she caught herself she bumped

into someone's shoulder with her own. Her rifle went clattering to the

ground. She was on it immediately, grabbing it back almost before it

landed. But it was too late.

"Private Barmfager!" came the all too familiar shout, "What the hell

did you just do?" The sergeant was already thundering over towards

her.

Jem flinched but pulled herself up straight, hands tight fists on

the rifle. Try as she might, she could force her tail to stay up

straight. At least it wasn't so noticeable under her battledress. "I

dropped... I dropped my rifle, sir!"

"What the hell was that, private? It almost sounded like you said you

dropped your rifle?"

Jem fought down a whimper. "That's what I said, sir."

"Oh, it couldn't _possibly_ have been what you said, because surely no

soldier in my company would be butter-fingered enough, stupid enough,

clumsy enough, _weak_ enough to drop their gods-fucking-damned

hell-raising fucking rifle! Well, _would they_?"

"I ... yes, sir! I was, sir!"

The sergant was in her face now, teeth snarling, his white, damaged

eye only inches from her own. Jem could feel the panic bubbling

inside her, but army discipline and terror froze her into a semblance

of control.

"You worthless little piss-gnat dropped your rifle?!"

"Yes, sir!"

He growled, glared death and daggers at Jem then to the two soldiers

standing on either side of her.

"Well then you're fucking dead! Shot because your rifle wasn't ready."

He shoved Jem hard in the chest, sending her flailing to the

ground. At least she managed to hold on to her rifle. If she'd lost it

again... She didn't even dare to think about it.

"And he's dead, and she's dead," the sergant continued in fury,

pushing first the soldier on Jem's right and then on the left also

to the ground. "Because you little worthless _prick_ was too fucking

_stupid_ to hold on to your rifle!"

He loomed over her, wrenched the rifle from her grasp and gave her a

punch in the stomach for good measure. "You can have your rifle back

once you've learnt to _keep it under fucking control_! Punishment

detail! As for you two -- once you're done here, you're one kitchen

duty for the rest of the week. Now _move it_!"

Jem scrambled to her feets, ignoring the daggers glared at her from

the two team-mates who'd be peeling potatos and stumbled off at a

trot, an arm pressed against her stomach. That sinking feeling in her

gut was back again, and she couldn't keep tears from forming. Behind

her, the sergant had turned his ire to the soldier firing.

"Did I fucking tell you to cease fire?! GET ON WITH IT!" Krack went

their rifle. Two thousand, one hundred and fifty eight.