Two young men are confined in a military academy that is more prison than school. Kendall believes he can only survive by avoiding meaningful contact with another human. Harris believes that contact means salvation. The two cross paths and are soon locked in a struggle only one of them can win.
“Kendall! Get your ass back in line!” Griffin, the drill instructor, loomed in front of me and hissed his warning. His fetid breath was hot against my face. I moved my foot the required half inch and kept my eyes resolutely straight ahead. That was invariably the appropriate response—no response at all. No questioning looks, no grunts of dissent, no body language implying defiance was permitted at Rossington Academy, prestigious school for the sons of wealthy men. School my ass! Rossington Correctional Center was more like it. In truth, this place was the last resort for people with more money than time at their disposal to discipline their out-of-control sons. My father had sent me here after I’d been ousted from three colleges in less than a year.
The first two incidents had involved petty theft. Both of these crimes were swept under academic carpets in return for generous donations to the pet programs of important administrators. The third incident had involved armed robbery and assault—indiscretions that even my father couldn’t smooth over. However, he could still pull strings and exert his control. He called in a few big favors from cronies who kept the judicial machine grinding in our state and I ended up here instead of as a guest of the state penal system. To be forced to admit that their eldest son was in the slammer would hardly have enhanced my parents’ standing in the social register. Clearly, that would not have been permissible.
Now that my foot was perfectly placed, Griffin dismissed us and another day officially came to an end. From now until six in the morning, we were all confined to our rooms so that we could study for the next day’s classes and repent of our evil ways. At least, that was the theory. In reality, things were a little different.
When you keep two hundred and fifty horny guys who range in age from eighteen to twenty-three all locked up together, something’s got to give. Face it, none of us had ended up here because we were nice guys. Hard-ons and hormones simmered just below the surface of Rossington Academy’s well-ordered veneer, bubbling up at night in a raunchy frenzy of cocks, mouths and twitching assholes. The night belonged to the strong and I was king of the hill.