Duty and Desire: Military Erotic Romance Page 4

  In the early of the morning light, when you think it might be dawn but it’s not yet dawn, when it’s a new day but there’s no light, when the shadows that are just shadows of doors and clothes and lamps morph solid and gain sustenance, I get up and I go to him.

  I find my place on his lap and offer myself to him.

  In the near dark, he doesn’t want to kiss. He wants to bite, to rip and shred. His mouth finds the exposed parts of me and exploits them. Sometimes my neck is bruised so dark it looks like ink splotches decorate my skin. Sometimes my nipples are so purple they turn gray in the bathroom light.

  In the near dark, his cold fingers smell of walnuts and the calciumed edges of his teeth. He explores the boundary of my skin—that thin line where I stop being myself and start becoming part of the world—and he interjects himself. I become myself and the world and the him that is this new him. It is not as heavy as I thought it would be, but it is sharp as shrapnel. He licks the hull of me until I’m shiny as steel. He cracks the shell of me with his teeth until I’m nothing, nothing but metal and shine.

  Before, he was a quiet man. Even in the bedroom, even in those moments of abandon. A sigh. A groan at most. Our sex wasn’t fantastic, but it wasn’t awful. Sweet. Vanilla, they call it now. Vanilla with a swirl of caramel maybe, those occasional, often accidental moments of sweet joy.

  I can say that, looking back, as though I know what I’m talking about. As though I knew what I was talking about. We were sweet together, and I knew nothing else. He wasn’t my first, but he was my longest, and we had a routine, a way of moving together that felt like all there was. Slow kisses and soft caresses and the moment he’d lay me down to enter me. So what if we didn’t have butterflies or sparks or if I needed a bit of help with lube? We loved each other and we liked each other and when they sent him away, I lay down in the bed by myself and I masturbated myself to tears.

  Now he is not a quiet man. He must make noise, as if to reassure himself that he exists, that the world will not end, that his world will not end, if he gives his position away with a word or a sentence.

  When I go to him in these almost-morning hours, he takes my head in his big hands, pushes me down to kneel on the living room carpet.

  Now he says: Suck me, cunt.

  Now he says: I’m going to finger-fuck you, slut.

  He says: I will break you.

  I say nothing. I can’t anyway, even if I knew what to say. He’s got his fingers stuffed in my mouth, his thumb rubbing the edges of my teeth, his fist holding down my tongue.

  And even if I could, what would I say?

  Now I would say: The push of your hand on the back of my head makes me wet.

  Now I would say: I like it when your fingers split me open.

  I would say: I want to be broken by you.

  No, I wouldn’t. I would say fuck and fuck and the whisper-tug of my fingers in his hair and the slap-sting of my skin beneath his hand and the choked gasp of my breath from my throat.

  When I come, he says my name three, five, a hundred times, rapid fire, as though I am a weapon he wields to protect him from the coming day.

  Before, he could put me together. I would dissolve under some small and silly thing. A dinner burned. A phone call from my mother. A near accident on the way to the grocery store.

  He would walk into whatever room I was in, and he would bend down and wrap his big arms around me and reform me into who I’d been before. Sometimes he would carry me to bed, with his quiet strength, and he would kiss me kiss me kiss me until I cried. And then he would gently fuck me until I cried some more.

  Catharsis, I said.

  Now he can break me apart. A word. A bite. Two fingers fucking me in one hole, two more in another hole, his tongue in a third. He splits me as easily as if he holds a knife, bone and marrow and skin and pleasure and pain.

  He sucks my center from me, triggers every muscle and nerve and pleasure center until I explode into a thousand pieces, a thousand pieces when I thought I only had one. And every piece of every edge comes alive with pleasure, a hundred tiny flares in a place of darkness.

  Before the war, he was a man of cock. I don’t mean to make him sound callous; he was anything but. There was just no other way. You kissed some, you touched a little, you fucked until he came. Sex by definition.

  Don’t get me wrong, I liked his cock. Curved up just a little, always darker pink at the end. The way it hardened so quickly in his pants while we kissed. Or against my hand when I touched it. Or, occasionally, rarely, in my mouth.

  I liked the way it felt inside me, like he was filling me with something that was only his to give. The best, most personal kind of gift.

  Now he is a man of mouth and fingers. Of teeth and tongue and words. We don’t talk about his cock now. We don’t talk about the mornings, when I help him into his chair. We don’t talk about the evenings, when I help him from it and sometimes he cries.

  We don’t talk about sex as it used to be.

  Now sex is predawn light in the living room, me naked and standing before him while he shoves his fingers inside me, a little hard, a little quick, and the pain of it makes my head go fuzzy. The pleasure of it makes me groan and quiver. He holds me aloft with two fingers.

  Now sex is when he bends me over his knees, the arm of his chair digging into my stomach. I wriggle like a child, waiting for the sting of that first slap. For the pinch and dig of his nails over my back and ass. Sometimes, if my mouth is free, I beg. More. Harder. Again.

  When he came back, I thought about divorcing him. It wouldn’t be unheard of. It was happening all over. My friends who divorced and remarried, and divorced and married again, they give me looks of pity in the grocery store line. They reach across my plate at dinner or across the car seat and they ask how I am, if I’m okay.

  They don’t ask why I stay, why I stay, why I stay.

  Sometimes I stand before him in his chair, his fingers up inside me as many ways as they’ll go, his mouth on my clit, sucking so loudly my face flares hot, and I remember what it was like before.

  Sometimes I kneel at his feet, my face pushed into his lap, lapping at his cock that doesn’t get hard, getting myself off with my own fingers, and I remember what he was like before.

  Sometimes when he’s pinching my nipples, nearly breaking the skin of my neck with the sharp suck of his mouth, saying, “You like this, don’t you? You little pain whore,” I remember what it was like before.

  Before the war. When he could fuck me. When he could walk. When he was sweet and vanilla and his touch was softer than ribbons. When I cried myself to sleep thinking, “Is this it? Is this everything?”

  And if I could talk at this moment, I would say: this, this moment of pleasure and pain and him saying, “You’re mine, slut,” and me moaning in pleasure that has no words, this is why I stay. This bruise on my shoulder blade that I touch a hundred times a day just to feel the sparks of desire that light up through my body, this is why I stay. That time of the almost-morning when I crawl on my knees to him as he sits in his chair in the living room, waiting, and that smile, oh god that smile, that tells me I’m in for a world of hurt, that is why I stay.

  The truth of it is that he breaks me open and I love every fucked-up bit of it. The truth is that he is broken and I love every shattered piece of him. And I know, I know, that the only reason I love my husband so much is because he never did come back to me.

  THE GRUNT AND THE DITTY BOP

  Craig J. Sorensen

  The last workday of trick two’s swing shift cycle was done. In her seat on the luxurious tour bus, Jocelyn tugged the hem of her army Class A uniform skirt past the opaque rim of a dark stocking. The bus passed the front gate of Field Station Augsburg, a windowless National Security Agency facility. The massive circular array of antennae called the Elephant Cage loomed off to their left side. After a short but comfortable ride she would be at her barracks room on Sheridan Kaserne.

  Jocelyn thrived on the eight-day workwe
eks known as tricks: six days on, two days off; first a week of days, then swings, then mids, then back to days. This particular two-day hiatus held a rare treat—a day-beggar weekend: Saturday and Sunday off. If it was in the cards, Jocelyn would spend that weekend at Trick π with a guest to be named later.

  Trick π was a small apartment that Jocelyn shared with three other women, one each from tricks one through four, who kept the twenty-four-hour vigil at the field station. For Jocelyn, it was a respite from the endless dots and dashes that escaped from behind the Iron Curtain into her headphones each working shift.

  In the bedroom at Trick π was a large wardrobe, fully laden with towels, sheets, blankets and robes, both men’s and women’s. Across the room from the wardrobe was a dressing table with a polished mirror trained to frame the large, well-used bed. The little round-shouldered fridge in the kitchen was stocked with food, wine, beer and Apfelkorn. In the austere living room was a gaudy chaise lounge that faced a boom box perched on a trunk that was turned on its side. It wasn’t much, but Trick π was her escape.

  Of course, there was only one way to ensure that the engine repair was an unqualified success: take her out for a spin. It was oh-dark-thirty, and Alexander didn’t know which of the four tricks was on days now at the field station. It didn’t matter anyway. He did know that their nine-to-five workers would be sleeping on Sheridan Kaserne instead of running in formation like real soldiers.

  He took his position in the turret, put on his helmet and gave the order. The engine revved and the ring of tank treads cut through the headphones. As he passed each barracks, there was satisfaction, not only that the mechanic’s repair of the M60A3 was a success, but that faces that appeared at windows with bleary eyes were so put out by the intrusion.

  One even flipped him the bird.

  “You’re in the army now,” Alex said with a warm salute.

  Jocelyn stripped her uniform skirt, jacket and blouse in a smooth motion. She adjusted the black silk panties, corset and garter belt, then hung her dog tags on the gray army bedpost. She replaced them with a black choker and cameo. She thought to change to white lingerie, so much more striking on her deep bronze skin, but time was wasting. She put on a bright red skirt and jacket but wore no blouse, so the corset would come into view when she bent just so. She pulled the pin from her hair and the tight bun exploded like a hand grenade. Long, wavy chestnut locks fell to her slender waist. She brushed and snags popped loudly.

  In the latrine, Jocelyn flossed and polished her pearly teeth. She squeezed a couple of drops of Murine in each eye to camouflage her customary state of exhaustion.

  “You look rarin’ and ready to go, Sarge. Going to Our Place?” A young woman new to the field station applied burgundy lipstick. Our Place was a bar not far off post, sort of like an English pub crossed with a gasthaus, that was popular among field station soldiers. Usually, it was a laid back place to play backgammon or cribbage and just hang out and listen to tunes.

  “Call me Jocelyn. I’m going Top 5 tonight. You ever been?”

  “I can’t, I’m only a private.”

  “You can come as my guest. A better ratio of men than Our Place, and a fox like you would be good bait.” Jocelyn bobbed her eyebrows, only half-joking.

  The private grinned. “If you’re looking for men, why not go to the Bonanza?”

  Jocelyn rouged her cheeks. “I’m horny, not desperate. Only grunts go to the Bonanza.”

  Alex adjusted the angle of his light gray button-down shirt so that it lined up perfectly with the zipper of his black slacks and the edge of his belt buckle; even out of uniform, his gig line was razor straight.

  Tomorrow, maybe Munich, maybe Ulm or just a local volks-march. But first, well, a man had needs. His were particularly strong tonight; it had been weeks.

  “Night on the town, Sergeant?”

  Alex nodded at the young soldier’s reflection in the latrine mirror. “Something like that, Private. You?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Are you going to the Bonanza?”

  “No.” Normally, the answer would be yes. First night of a three-day pass, camaraderie with his crew, half liters of Hasen-Brau and maybe mix it up with some artillery redleg.

  Fucking gun bunnies.

  Many of the men in his unit turned to the so-called “B girls” at the Bonanza, wallets fat with deutschmarks. But Alex preferred to keep his personal needs to himself. He pressed his left pants pocket to confirm the fresh ribbon of three slender pouches.

  Alex set out to a downtown destination, further from post. Some called it Pig Alley. He preferred Forty Mark Park.

  When he arrived, it seemed he’d picked a good night. She was quite attractive, less posed, long blond hair, less hardness in her blue eyes, even a fetching, shy smile. Tall and curvy, full breasts and welcoming hips. His kind of woman.

  She removed her panties and opened across the bed. As always, he fanned the agreed-upon denomination prominently over the folding chair beside the bed and poised on outspread arms. Her practiced hand reached between them as he groped for the ribbon of foil pouches and held it. He waited for her touch to bring the predictable rise.

  Closing time was rapidly approaching at the Top 5 when Jocelyn arrived and found a vacant seat at the bar. She resolved not to let impatience breed poor judgment. There was nothing worse than pretending that those “Meals, Ready to Eat”—grub from bags that they had served at bivouac back in basic training—were tasty just because she was hungry.

  Same deal with men.

  “You with someone?” A deep, gruff voice over her shoulder.

  She turned and tilted her head back. Big, big fellow, blond hair, piercing Caribbean-blue eyes, handsome, in a grunt sort of way. Not her usual taste, but no MRE either. “No.” Flashed her seductive smile.

  “You do know this is the Top 5 club. As in top five enlisted grades. Sergeant to sergeant major?” He said it like she didn’t even know rank.

  “Is that so?” Her smile fell hard.

  “So maybe you should be over at the EM club?” The club for the lowest four ranks.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but…” She pulled her wallet from her purse and opened it.

  Alex studied it like a bartender suspecting a false ID. SSG Jocelyn V. D’Ameron.

  Staff sergeant, same as him. He could only assume she was eighteen since she had military ID; she certainly didn’t look that old. Hell, they practically gave promotions away like Cracker Jack prizes over at the field station.

  She smiled again. “How about you? You allowed in Top 5?”

  “Get serious, Sarge.”

  “So I have to take your word for it, Private?”

  He pursed his lips and flipped his wallet open like an undercover cop on TV. “Satisfied?”

  Jocelyn took the ID. Her eyes shifted between the picture ID and his face. “Yup, that’s you. Triple A.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Alexander A. Archer. Triple A, like the auto club.”

  “Oh, you’re a clever little thing.” He drained a full half liter of beer, wiped his chin. “You work at the field station, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bet you work tricks.”

  “That’s a safe bet.”

  “How much you charge?”

  “Don’t give it a second thought, Sarge, you couldn’t afford it.”

  “As if I wanted to.” He ordered another beer.

  “You brought it up.”

  “It was a joke.” Alex never came to Top 5 looking for women. Though the army had recently been fully integrated, he didn’t approve. Yes, in World War II it made sense to allow women; but now there were plenty of men who could take the jobs women did.

  No, tonight Alex had come to drink away his frustration. His cock hung like a wind sock in the eye of a hurricane, expecting. He turned away and observed as several fellows talked up the small female sergeant and each walked away disappointed.

  Yes, Jocelyn was attractive, so when their eyes met ag
ain, Alex blurted, “What’s your MOS?” He winced. It sounded too much like “what’s your sign,” and he wasn’t interested anyway. His eyes traced along her lapel when it opened as she bent. He returned to her eyes.

  “05H.”

  “Morse intercept, right?”

  “Yep. Ditty bop. What unit you from?”

  “Third and sixty-third.”

  “So, you’re, like, a tank commander?”

  “A lot like one.”

  She smiled. “Hard work.”

  “Harder’n listening to a radio all day.”

  “Try it sometime, buddy. And I’m not talking about listening to AFN.”

  He liked her less and less. Maybe it would work like that. Seemed the eye of the hurricane was moving off. Wind picking up steadily, but he worried about what hadn’t happened at Forty Mark Park.

  “Buy you a drink, Triple A?” Her warm knee touched his. He really didn’t like that she offered to buy his drink. He hated that he accepted, but accept he did. Then again. And another…

  The air smelled of German spring and a nearby bakery. Faded perfume? A hand rubbed his chest. Hard nipples poked his bare back, a soft, sweet sigh in his ear. “I’m still hungry, Triple A.” Cool fingers slid down his taut stomach. He hadn’t awoken to a woman’s touch in ages.

  He vaguely recollected a ride off post in a nice VW Golf.

  He opened one eye. On the nightstand were two foil pouches torn open, spent rubbers on the top of a nearby garbage can. A slim arm reached for the one unexpended pouch.

  “Oh!” He jumped up. “Um, gotta get back on post. I’m—yeah, I’m AWOL.” He threw on his scattered clothes haphazardly.

  “Thought you said you had—”

  “Gotta go, but thanks for…” Coyote ugly, some call it, when a man finds last night’s dream girl turned into a morning nightmare. The opposite was true here. He’d remembered her being attractive, but the shapely, compact nude woman who stood on the bed as he headed for the door was startling. Dark skin, dark eyes, luxurious hair. She leapt into his path like an Airborne Ranger.