{"sf1_id":78965,"sf2_id":"Rm04R8Lm","title":"The Original Jem Snippets (by Portentous1975)","author":"Kkatman","words":1817,"posted_at":"2009-03-01T21:46:00.000Z","tags":["Abuse","Bondage","Discipline","Female","Military","NC","Pain","Sci-Fi","Torture"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/78965-the-original-jem-snippets-by-portentous1975","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/Rm04R8Lm","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/f5/48/f5485efa-a8af-4708-b119-16f0c87ce659","description":"#1 of The Jem Snippets","content":" **The Jem Snippets**  \n  \n\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_  \n  \n\"The Jem Snippets\" is a cooperative set of stories written by myself (Kkatman) and Portentous1975.  \n  \nSet 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.  \n  \nFair 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.**  \n  \nEnjoy!  \n\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_\\_  \n  \n  \n  \nThe whole punishment detail had their chameleonware on; even the  \nmaster sergeant behind her. If she just squinted a little and ignored  \nthe telltale shimmering, and Jem could almost imagine she was  \nstanding alone on the parade ground, alone, naked and her arms tied  \nbehind her.\n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Tail \\_up\\_,\" a voice hissed behind her, and the young bitch  \nautomatically caught her tail from slinking down behind her legs. She  \nbit down on the equally automatic \"Yes, sir!\" -- prisoners were not  \nallowed to speak during a gauntlet.  \n  \nA hand grasped the back of her neck firmly, even painfully, and the  \nmaster seargeant barked out the order to \"draw bayonets!\" As if by  \nmagic, vicious bayonets appeared seemingly out of thin air; two lines  \nof blades stretching out in front of her.  \n  \nJem swallowed. She knew, intellectually, that the bayonets, no  \nmatter how sharp and vicious they looked, could not actually penetrate  \nher skin with the dermal armour that her infantry nanites gave her,  \nbut try telling that to her hind brain. Besides, she also knew that  \nwith her pain-handling nanites dormant it wouldn't hurt much less than  \nif they could have.  \n  \n\"Prisoner, forward march!\" The fingers on her neck tightened. Forcing  \nback a whimper Jem started forward, down between the two shimmering  \nlines of steel.  \n  \nWith a sudden swosh the first bayonet on her right slashed out and  \nstruck her right breast fully. Jem bit her lip, forcing herself to  \nkeep -- the bayonet on her left landed on her left breast with full  \nforce and Jem howled. The hand on her neck pushed her forward  \nanother step.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; One hundred and nine soldiers in the company. Two spaced every  \nmeter. One hundred and seven strokes remanining. Fifty-four meters of  \npain.  \n  \nShe didn't scream at the third stroke, or on the fourth. On the fifth  \nshe managed to bite it back after just a second, on the sixth she  \ncould no longer keep her tail up. On the seventh stroke she  \nscreamed. \\_From\\_ the seventh stroke she screamed.  \n  \nShe lost count after the twelfth. Her breasts were nothing but  \npain. Line of line of white, flashing pain. She couldn't see through  \nher tears, and all she could hear was her own screams. Only the master  \nsergeant's hand on her neck kept her steady, guided her down the line  \nof punishment.  \n  \nPain was everything. Her breasts were her entire world: shuddering  \nwith every stroke in a flash of agony, pain pulsing up with every beat  \nof her heart. Her nipples were like rocky cliffs of needle-sharp pain  \nsurrounded by a storm-tossed ocea of pain. Each strike was a flash of  \nlightning, momentarily painting the painscape in stark black and white  \nbefore it was gone, leaving spots before her eyes and the storm raging  \neven harder.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Then the lightning flashes stopped coming and there was just the  \nstorm, slowly abating. When she came to her senses again she was  \nstanding doubled over, gasping desperately for air, her breasts a  \nthrobbing block of solid pain. Only the hand on her neck kept her on  \nher feet. Right then she loved that hand: it was the only thing in her  \nworld besides her painful gasps and the hurt.  \n  \n\"Prisoner, about face!\"  \n  \nJem reacted without thinking; even after just a month at bootcamp  \nthat movement was drilled into her. She faltered when she saw the twin  \nlines of bayonets stretching out before her again.   \n  \n\"Prisoner, forward march!\"  \n  \nJem stood rooted to the spot. Nobody walked two times! That wasn't  \nin the regulations.   \n  \nThe hand at her neck tightened its grip and another hand grabbed the  \nroot of her tail. They pushed her forward, in between the lines of  \nbayonets. There was a new flash of lightning, and another one, and she  \nwas back in the storm.  \n  \n--  \n  \n  \n  \nJem lay whimpering, her breasts still ached with every beat of her  \npulse, but it was manegable now, barely. She didn't know how many  \ntimes she had had to walk the gauntlet -- at least twice, and she  \nthought many more, but it alled blurred together.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; In the end the master sargeant hadn't turned her about for another  \nround, but had marched her to the end of the parade ground and the  \nshallow, plank-covered ditch that was dug there. They'd tied her up  \nand placed her in the ditch, put a length of wood under her back to  \nraise her chest up and covered the ditch with planks. They'd left a  \ngap for her breasts -- it was a narrow gap, and it had hurt when  \nthey'd tugged her breasts up through it, but nothing like the  \ngauntlet.  \n  \nShe could hear someone running. Lying on the ground she could feel the  \nthuds of his steps -- seemed like they were running towards her. For  \nsome reason the thought of a football player making a penalty kick  \nflashed through her tired mind.  \n  \n  \n--   \n  \n  \nJem surreptiously wiped her palms on the grass and gripped her rifle  \nmore securely and made sure the stock was flush against her  \nshoulder. Her target was a girl from Echo company, a stocky  \nStiefelgeiss goat that Jem's company had caught during last  \nweekend's maneuvers. She'd had her painblockers disabled and was tied  \nto a post a hundred meters downrange, stripped to her waist.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Jem drew a deep breath and lined her sights up on the woman's  \nbreasts. They gleamed brightly in the sunlight; they had been  \nspraypainted white for better contrast. Ignoring the sinking feeling  \nin her gut, Jem centered her sights on the left breast and breathed  \nout slowly and evenly as she pressed the trigger.   \n  \nThe rifle bucked sharply in her grip with a sharp krack. Downrange,  \nthe targetted breast flattened and jerked, then bounced desperately as  \nthe woman twisted and pulled against her bounds. A split second later  \nthey could hear her scream, a shrill, primal howl you wouldn't think  \ncould be made by a sapient. Her heart racing, Jem did her best to  \nclose her ears to the sound, already lining the sights up to the same  \nbreast again, watching its bouncing and twisting for the opportunity  \nto take the next shot.  \n  \nThey were using metal jacketed bullets of lead, nothing that could  \ndamage through the subdermal armour, but it would hurt, even through  \nthe pain blockers. Without them... Jem tried not to think about  \nthat, or the math of their orders. One prisoner, two breasts, twenty  \nrounds in a magazine, one magazine per soldier, one hundred and nine  \nsoldiers. Two thousand, one hundred and eight shots in total. Two  \nthousand, one hundred and seventy nine shots still left.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; For a split second the prisoner's twisting brought her breast  \nperfectly back in line with Jem's sights, and Jem's finger pressed  \ndown almost on its own. Krack. Two thousand, one hundred and seventy  \neight.  \n  \nWhen she had emptied her magazine (two thousand, one hundred and  \nsixty), Jem secured her rifle and got to her feet, leaving the  \nfiring position for the next soldier in line. Jem felt weak, her  \nstomach was a deep pit, her heart was racing and she was lightheaded  \nand her legs felt shaky. She did her best to seem in control as she  \ngot back in line. Behind her, there was a new sharp krack. Two  \nthousand, one hundred and fiftynine.  \n  \nHer legs wobbled for a moment and as she caught herself she bumped  \ninto someone's shoulder with her own. Her rifle went clattering to the  \nground. She was on it immediately, grabbing it back almost before it  \nlanded. But it was too late.  \n  \n\"Private Barmfager!\" came the all too familiar shout, \"What the hell  \ndid you just do?\" The sergeant was already thundering over towards  \nher.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Jem flinched but pulled herself up straight, hands tight fists on  \nthe rifle. Try as she might, she could force her tail to stay up  \nstraight. At least it wasn't so noticeable under her battledress. \"I  \ndropped... I dropped my rifle, sir!\"  \n  \n\"What the hell was that, private? It almost sounded like you said you  \ndropped your rifle?\"  \n  \nJem fought down a whimper. \"That's what I said, sir.\"  \n  \n\"Oh, it couldn't \\_possibly\\_ have been what you said, because surely no  \nsoldier in my company would be butter-fingered enough, stupid enough,  \nclumsy enough, \\_weak\\_ enough to drop their gods-fucking-damned  \nhell-raising fucking rifle! Well, \\_would they\\_?\"  \n  \n\"I ... yes, sir! I was, sir!\"  \n  \nThe sergant was in her face now, teeth snarling, his white, damaged  \neye only inches from her own. Jem could feel the panic bubbling  \ninside her, but army discipline and terror froze her into a semblance  \nof control.  \n  \n\"You worthless little piss-gnat dropped your rifle?!\"  \n  \n\"Yes, sir!\"  \n  \nHe growled, glared death and daggers at Jem then to the two soldiers  \nstanding on either side of her.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Well then you're fucking dead! Shot because your rifle wasn't ready.\"  \nHe shoved Jem hard in the chest, sending her flailing to the  \nground. At least she managed to hold on to her rifle. If she'd lost it  \nagain... She didn't even dare to think about it.  \n  \n\"And he's dead, and she's dead,\" the sergant continued in fury,  \npushing first the soldier on Jem's right and then on the left also  \nto the ground. \"Because you little worthless \\_prick\\_ was too fucking  \n\\_stupid\\_ to hold on to your rifle!\"  \n  \nHe loomed over her, wrenched the rifle from her grasp and gave her a  \npunch in the stomach for good measure. \"You can have your rifle back  \nonce you've learnt to \\_keep it under fucking control\\_! Punishment  \ndetail! As for you two -- once you're done here, you're one kitchen  \nduty for the rest of the week. Now \\_move it\\_!\"   \n  \nJem scrambled to her feets, ignoring the daggers glared at her from  \nthe two team-mates who'd be peeling potatos and stumbled off at a  \ntrot, an arm pressed against her stomach. That sinking feeling in her  \ngut was back again, and she couldn't keep tears from forming. Behind  \nher, the sergant had turned his ire to the soldier firing.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Did I fucking tell you to cease fire?! GET ON WITH IT!\" Krack went  \ntheir rifle. Two thousand, one hundred and fifty eight.  \n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"The Jem Snippets","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/78967-jem-s-bad-week-part-1.json"}}