A Soldier's Story (7 page)

       They kissed for a while and he explored her body––slim but nicely rounded––at leisure. When she appeared suitably relaxed he stroked her pussy. "Time for bed," she said.

       "No, let's do it right here, for a change." God knows they needed the variety. "Bend over the chair arm." She looked dubious, but nevertheless complied. In that position her anus looked so inviting. He smiled, imagining her reaction if he tried. Her cunt would have to do. He entered her quickly and after greasing her up a bit, started to get more vigorous.

       "Ouch that hurts," she protested after a few deep thrusts, and he eased off, much as he'd done with Desdemona. But that was the thing with women; you couldn't get too rough with them. They weren't built like a guy. Darren, for instance, could take anything he dished out and then some.

       "Sorry," he said, sitting down and pulling her onto his lap. "Sit on my cock, then. Penetration isn't as deep that way."

       They'd never done it in this position before, and she approached it quite awkwardly. He helped fit her pussy down over his cock. "Ride me," he ordered.

       Once she got into it, she became quite excited, rocking back and forth, her face growing red, while she bit down on her lip. When she went off, it was something of a humdinger for her. She squeezed her eyes shut, and grimaced as if in pain.

       Jay found it difficult to come in that position. Not enough purchase. So he flipped her over onto the couch, on her back, and with a few deep thrusts reached a pretty damned intense orgasm of his own.

"I love you, Jay," she whispered.

       "I love you too, Kerry." And he meant it. What the hell was he going to do? How could he leave a woman he loved for Darren? But then how could he live without Darren, he loved him too?

       It's simple. Do them both, the little voice suggested. But that was unacceptable. The conflicting emotions would rend him apart and drive him insane. He had to decide, and soon. Delay could cost him them both. And life without either one wouldn't be worth living. I'm in purgatory, he groaned, in the worse kind of torment. How had everything suddenly become so damned complicated?

       Because you couldn't keep your cock in your pants. If you'd exercised some self-control instead of rushing into the supply closet, this wouldn't be happening.

       True, but never to have experienced the supreme joy he felt with Darren was unimaginable. And it wasn't only the sex. How could something so exciting, nurturing and just plain right, be wrong?

       But you didn't think it was so right, when Darren wanted to fuck you up the ass.

       He had to admit it had a point there. It was the last taboo, he supposed. Would he feel differently about himself once he'd been Fucked, sodomised if you will, by another man?

       Oh God, this was all becoming too complicated. He had an early rise in the morning. He had to report for duty at the base by

0700. He tossed back a double Scotch before he turned in.

       The morning paper thrown against the door wakened him. He dragged himself out of bed and picked it up. The icy pre dawn air cut through his robe. He shivered and glanced at the headline.

       Missing Afghan patrol forced to give Bin Laden up.

       What? He couldn't believe his eyes. They must be talking about a different missing patrol. He scanned the article quickly, nope, the same one. Someone had obviously been talking. The media now knew what had happened, but they'd added something to it––or their informant had. The claim was that they'd found Bin Laden and orders from the highest level ordered him released.

       Jay snorted in disgust. Ridiculous. They'd do anything for a quick buck and to sell newspapers. He tossed it into the garbage bin.

        There's no smoke without fire. Something very odd is going on Jay, and your cock is so far up Darren's ass that you can't see the forest for the trees.

       Shut up, Jay willed it, and stop mixing your fricken' metaphors. He swilled back a shot of Scotch and lit a cigarette.

       There was no way they could have found Bin Laden…

       He snapped on the TV for the six am news.

       It was the lead story.

       "What happened on the missing patrol?" The anchor fired the question at a ginger haired man with freckles. Frank Wilbourne. The last time Jay had seen the sergeant was in the hospital in Afghanistan, where he lay badly injured with a crushed chest. They had rescued him from the caves in the nick of time. He noticed he wasn't in uniform, and wondered if, like Forbes, he was no longer in the army?

       "We had an intelligence report that terrorists were hiding out in the Hirabad Caves," Wilbourne said. "When we got there we found Bin Laden."

       "It's just a pack of friggin' lies," Beaumont roared. "Wilbourne and Forbes have been gabbing to the media. They're just out to make a fast buck."

       Jay held the phone well back from his ear. Fixed his gaze on the frozen river beyond his office window. "Did you know that Forbes is dead?

       "What?" There followed a shocked silence. "When did this happen?"

       Jay filled him in on the details. He didn't feel altogether comfortable with Beaumont––suspected that he could be involved in whatever kind of cover up it was, all supposing, of course, that there was a cover up––but had phoned him to see if he could shed any light on the shocking allegation made by Wilbourne.

       "The motive for all these lies is money," Beaumont fumed. "Rumour has it that Wilbourne netted more than a million for an exclusive."

       "Wow," Jay whistled. "That kind of loot is certainly a powerful incentive to lie like the sidewalk." Had Forbes been knocked off–– assuming that he was––because Wilbourne didn't want to share?

       Beaumont must have been thinking along the same lines, for he declared in no uncertain terms, "When you get mixed up in high stakes like that, and all you have to peddle is a pack of lies, winding up dead is a distinct possibility."

       But then did Forbes want to meet with him at the Castle Grill to spill the real story, or to perpetuate the "Bin Laden found and let go" myth?

       If it's a myth! Odder things have happened.

       "This cock and bull story doesn't make a lick of sense," Beaumont raged. "Why in the hell, would we let Bin Laden go? Mon dieu, he's number one on our Most Wanted List!"

       "The theory being promulgated," Jay replied, "is that we want to keep the War on Terror going, and to do that most effectively, we need Bin Laden free. His successor would not have the same draw and charisma. There's also the usual allegations of intrigue with Bin Laden supporters in Saudi Arabia, and huge pay-offs from them, in the multi billion dollar range, for our complicity in this."

       "Garbage!"

       "Try telling that to the tabloid readers, who lap it all up."

       "By the way," Beaumont lowered his voice, sounded calmer, "I appreciate the way you've refused to talk to the media, Jay." He paused. "If only the other missing squad members and those associated with it, would do likewise."

       After the call ended, Jay sat for a very long time just staring into space. He felt lost. You need to get laid, the little voice advised. And I don't mean with Kerry.

       It was probably right. But Darren was a couple of thousand miles away, and besides, with all this stuff going down about the missing patrol, he wasn't sure if he could trust him. Damn, he had to stop being so fricken' paranoid.

       He reached for the bottle of Scotch he kept in his desk drawer and lit a cigarette. If he were in Cyprus he'd look up Desdemona or Nadia. Give them a pounding they wouldn't soon forget. But here… He'd have to be damned discreet too. He didn't want Kerry, or anyone at the base, finding out.

       Davie Street was the local tenderloin––massage parlours, hookers on the corner, striptease bars, the whole raunchy scene. Jay made for the area through slushy roads and a miserable drizzle that fogged the windscreen.

       What was he doing here, he asked himself, incredulously?

       Looking for a hooker.

       But not really wanting to, he defended his actions. He just needed to pound someone warm and alive to relieve the stress. Kerry or hand polish just wouldn't cut it. Yet hookers were nasty, diseaseridden junkies. They had to be on drugs, how could they peddle their ass to strangers otherwise, dozens of them a night, every night. Ick. They had shrivelled up their souls with the vileness of their trade and were nothing more than zombies. It sounded like his father talking, but by golly he'd been right.

       Oh my God, you really hate women, don't you? Remember I said you were a homosexual.

       Nope, I'd feel the same revulsion for male whores––gigolos, as they're called, euphemistically.

       Don't knock it until you've tried it. They'd be less of a sewer than a dame. You could fuck them a lot harder too with no bitching or complaints.

       SHUT THE FUCK UP. Oh lord, when would this torment end? He stopped at a bar for a drink.

       Psychedelic lights flashed round the walls and a half naked stripper gyrated on the stage. Razor's was a dark cavern of a place where sex was the main commodity. "Take it all off, honey," a drunken voice shouted, followed by hoots and catcalls from the rest of the audience.

       Jay found a corner booth, at the back, where he could watch the action, discreetly. Heck, hookers seemed to outnumber the patrons two to one. What a stable, with a knocking shop upstairs and lap dancing everywhere. He watched as the lap dancers straddled the Johns and gyrated their asses. He suspected that penetration and intercourse often occurred though the dim lights obscured it.

       He finished his Scotch and ordered another.

       One girl, in particular, caught his eye. Buxom and blonde wearing a skimpy red bikini, and very high heeled shoes, she bounced around so vigorously on the lap of a burly client, the guy had to grab hold of her ass to slow it down. Motor ass, Jay dubbed her. He smiled.

       He wouldn't mind a piece of her, though, but on his terms, entirely. Her present client moaned and groaned, signalling he'd blown his load and the session was over. She slipped off, adjusted her g-string panties and approached Jay. "I'm Cindy," she introduced herself. Terms were discussed.

       He handed over the cash, which she tucked in her bra, then she straddled him. He immediately slipped his fingers in the side of her panties and felt her cunt, shaved and quite dry. He felt surprised.

       "Hey just a minute," she protested. "This wasn't part of the agreement."

       "I'm just testing the merchandise," Jay explained. "To see if it was sopping wet from your other clients."

       "Why you insulting prick," she shot back. "I don't fuck with my lap dancing clients. I already told you that."

       By the feel of her cunt, not wet at all, he was inclined to believe her.

       "Just calm down sweetheart and show me a good time." He winked and unzipped his fly.

       "You seem to have the wrong idea, entirely," she accused.

       "Then give me my money back and leave." Jay fondled her breasts. But you won't do that will you?"

       She ignored him and rode up and down against his hard cock. He patted her bottom and caressed her thighs. "I'm gonna fuck you, Cindy," he murmured.

       "No way," she vowed. "Just try it, and I'm outta here in a flash."

       He slipped his hand back in her panties and fingered her cunt. He smiled. His little game had made her horny. She had lubricated.

       "I've turned you on," he whispered. "Admit it."

       "Get stuffed."

       "Naughty, naughty," he murmured, and spanked her bottom lightly.

       "I don't appreciate all the liberties you're taking," she snapped. "I expect a generous tip for putting up with it."

       The feel of her practically naked body with the full breasts and nicely rounded bottom bouncing up on down on him had fired all his senses. The sheer kinkiness appealed to him, immensely. Good God, they were in a bar, in a fricken' public place. Had the woman no shame?

       Never mind about her, what about you? the little voice cut in. What if someone you know sees you?

       But after a few Scotches and the raging need in his crotch, at that moment he didn't much care. He fingered her cunt again, then dragged the panties down to her knees. She protested, and tried to move away, but he held her firmly, stroking her clit until she calmed down and moaned with pleasure.

       "That's better." He let go of her long enough to roll on a condom. "Now I'm gonna fuck you," he said.

       "No." She tried to get up again. "I already told you lap dancing is simulated intercourse, not the real thing."

       "Yeah, well you're gonna do more than just simulate with me, Cindy." He held her tightly and worked his cock inside her. "There, now doesn't that feel good?"

       "This is rape," she accused, her eyes blazing.

       He threw back his head and laughed. "Don't flatter yourself, just cut the drama and move your ass." He spanked her bum lightly,

while he drove into her. But she refused to move.

       "Okay, suit yourself." He held her bottom firmly, while he fucked up into her with long, hard and very deep thrusts. "I told you I was going to fuck you, and I am. Play around with the bull and you get the fricken' horn."

       "You bastard," she hissed. But she contracted her cunt muscles anyway, and squeezed her bottom tighter to accommodate him better. And she let him caress her entire body right down to the high-heeled shoes, which he told her to kick off, with no further protests.