Sgt. Taft was one gorgeous hunk of a Marine, the kind you see in the movies. Tall, blond, muscular, extremely handsome, commanding and masculine. He was also a son-of-a-bitch to be under. A heartless drillmaster, he would put us through hours of excruciating exercises, from running miles and miles to marching endless formations to doing hundreds of pushups, sit-ups, etc. I now understand why he needed to toughen us up, but I'm sure the bastard got off on making us miserable. For not only could he dish out orders, but he would pace alongside with us, barking orders, never tiring while running us into, the ground.

"You pussies better move! Move! Move!" he'd holler, even as we crawled through mud and barbed wire. "You got to take anything I give!"

Tough as Sgt. Taft was on us, he was just as tough on himself. He, could outwrestle, outbox, outrun, outswim, and simply outperform anyone else in our group. Invulnerable to pain, immune to just about any type of physical punishment, the man seemed to have no weaknesses.

Except for one.

I noticed it one Saturday night at a bar in Oceanside frequented by the base. Sgt. Taft was a little tipsy and the barmaid was flirting with him. Though everyone else was busy shooting pool, getting drunk, and making noise, I saw the barmaid playfully poke his ribs. Sgt. Taft let out a squeal and grabbed her hands, then went back to nuzzling her breasts. But I stored what I saw for a later date.

By the end of the fifth week, Sgt. Taft was driving us harder than ever, probably knowing we'd all be shipping out soon. But not before a few of us had our chance to "show our gratitude."

That weekend, it was a rowdy Saturday night as usual in the bar. A few of us bought several rounds, including some for the Sarge. One by one, a few Marines took off until the Sarge and I were alone in the corner. "Sarge," I whispered, "There's a new babe up from San Diego at the motel near the Capri. Let's go check her out. She's in number seven."

Sergeant Taft was not only high on the drinks but feeling game for a lay, so we both took off for the motel. So unsuspecting was he that he didn't sense anything suspicious when I explained that I had set this up earlier and that we were expected. A short knock, and we entered the dim room.

Immediately, seven Marines jumped the Sarge and wrestled him onto the bed. The rounds of drinks had worked their effect as the confused Sergeant Taft struggled futilely. However, he became more like the drillmaster we knew once we started stripping off his uniform and tying him spread-eagle to the bed. in seconds, his naked, muscular body was twisting against the ropes.

"Faggots! What's this shit you're pulling?!" he raged.

"Sarge, you've been wearing our asses out and we wanted to repay you."

"Fuckheads! Grunts! Let me go now or I'll have all your asses in the brig!"

But his venting was useless. We had planned our revenge thoroughly and were beginning to enjoy the role reversals. And what we planned would leave no marks, no clues, and no case. I opened a drawer and pulled out several feathers and passed them out. The Sarge suddenly stopped yelling, but started to struggle even harder to escape.

"We know you're tough. But this you aren't going to be ready for."

"Wait, you're not going to ... oh, no ... no, please..."

Suddenly the virile, macho Sergeant Taft was sweating and speaking in a low, hushed voice. We had discovered the one thing he couldn't handle.

I approached his helplessly bound feet and started lightly stroking his left foot. Even before I got close, he tried to pull away, his eyes huge with nervous anticipation. As I pulled the feather between his toes, he bit his lip and tried to keep his composure. But it didn't last long. Within minutes, he was giggling uncontrollably, twisting to get away. I turned the feather around and used the quill end on his soles. At this, he lost total control and started laughing hysterically, begging me to stop. By now all of us had advanced and were all over him, using feathers and fingers on his feet, armpits, stomach, and balls. The Sarge howled with laughter, helplessly squirming against the ropes. The more we tickled his sensitive body, the harder he laughed and pleaded.

"Stop! Ha! Ha! Please! Aaahh! Ha! Ha! I can't take it. No. Ha! Ha! Please, no more!" he shrieked in between bursts of uncontrollable laughter.

For the next half hour we tortured the Sarge until he was drenched in sweat and aching from laughter. He was hyper-ticklish everywhere, but his size 13 feet had to be the most sensitive part. When a couple of us ganged up and took turns working on his soles, making circular patterns with our fingers and working the feathers around his toes, he would just go berserk, arching his back and screaming for mercy. His sides and armpits were also very sensitive and he would roll and twist in his vain attempts to escape our fingers.

Throughout this whole time, we were all getting rock hard, especially as he screamed louder and pleaded more intensely. Finally, one Marine shot his load, then spread his cum on the Sarge's dick and started to jerk him off slowly. Within seconds, Sergeant Taft was going crazy, his giant cock stiff and throbbing, ready to shoot. As we all attacked his soles, armpits and ribs once again, he let out a scream and came in giant spurts all over himself and the bed. I couldn't hold back any longer and came for unending minutes.

After we all recovered, and swore the Sarge to secrecy on penalty of continuing the tickle torture, we untied his drenched and exhausted body and abandoned the room.

Sergeant Taft still ran our asses around for another week before we all moved on to our active duty posts. He never acted like anything happened, and probably didn't want word of it to get out anyway.

But just before I shipped out to Singapore, I caught him alone in his office and handed him a feather. He smiled somewhat sheepishly, took it, and winked. "Dismissed. And don't get yourself killed, cocksucker."

Russ Miller