Authors: Cordelia Blanc
The door swung open. It was Private Ramis, the outpost’s chef. He was headed for the dumpster with a big black garbage bag, mumbling profanities under his breath as he emerged. “Goddamned Playboy Fucking Playmates and I’m stuck making Kraft Fucking Dinner,” I heard him say before he noticed us standing there. He paused. “Oh, sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He threw out his trash and then returned. He looked at Miss April and his eyes lit up. “Miss King—pleasure to meet ya. Bryce Ramis.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Miss April said, lowering her arm to cover more of her tits as Ramis’ eyes drifted down her body.
“Big fan,” he said. “I own the whole Daytona Beach boxset—all six seasons.”
“Thanks,” she replied.
Ramis hesitated then went back inside. Miss April watched the door close. She could have gone inside, but she didn’t. I even stopped the door from closing for her. “Well?” I said.
She just shrugged, so I let the door go.
“My name’s Ashley,” she said. “Ashley King.”
“Gage. You a movie star or something?”
“Or something,” she said.
“You do pornos?”
“What?” Her body tensed up again as her eyes narrowed.
“I dunno. You said ‘or something,’ I figured you meant pornos—seeing as you’re here stripping and all.”
“I’m not here stripping. I’m here promoting the magazine.” Her eyes remained narrowed. I was waiting for her to hit me. Was it wrong to assume she did pornos? I’d never heard of any Playmate movie star before, but I bet tons of them transition over to skin rags.
“What’s Daytona Beach?” I asked.
“It’s a show.” She tightened her arms around her body.
“Is it any good?”
She looked at me with dark eyes, but I couldn’t figure out why. Did I say something mean?
“You cold or what?” I asked.
“No.” Her eyes shied away.
I couldn’t figure out what the hell her deal was. Maybe she was trying to be mysterious, play hard to get… Maybe she was trying to play the victim, some sort of sad puppy act. Whatever it was, I was done playing along. “Alright, whatever,” I said. I handed her the door, turned, and walked away, returning to the outpost’s little outdoor gym. I figured I could get another set in before Major Richards noticed I was gone.
I kind of hoped the asshole would stick around. There was something safe about him—like he was too preoccupied thinking of fucking himself to think of fucking me.
With him gone, and half of the cigarettes I brought with me already smoked, I had to go back inside and face the music. When I got inside, Miss December was just coming off stage and a steady applause roared from the cafeteria-turned-strip-club.
“Alright ladies,” Nancy started. “Put your clothes back on, put on your best smiles, and go mingle. And remember, these men serve and protect our country.” I tried my best not to read into it, but what she was really saying was, “And remember, you’re here to bend over and let these guys fuck you.”
The other girls hurried to touch-up their makeup. They knew what Nancy meant, too, when she said “put on your best smiles.” The girls were dumb, but they weren’t totally naïve. The only difference between me and them was, they were okay with that, okay with being reduced to the role of prostitute. I watched them hurry towards the other room, hoping to beat one another to the more handsome of the soldiers—so they wouldn’t get stuck with the bottom of the barrel.
My strategy was different.
My strategy was to wait and hit the floor once all the horniest men had already chosen their prey. The horny ones are the aggressive ones. The passive ones—the ones that meander—will take “no” for an answer.
The girls all left and I was finally alone. Or so I thought.
“What are you doing?” Nancy said to me as I lingered around the backroom.
I spun around. I’d thought Nancy had gone out with the rest of them, but I was wrong. “Nothing—just fixing my eye shadow.”
“No—what are you wearing?” she asked.
I had changed back into jeans and a tank-top. “What’s wrong with this?”
“You can’t go out like that.”
“This is all I brought.”
Without speaking, she nodded her head towards to my Miss April outfit. It wasn’t much—a pair of black heels, dark pantyhose, and a fur shawl.
“You want me to wear that out on the floor?”
“You’re here as Miss April, not as Ashley King. Those men want Miss April, so give them Miss April.”
The Miss April uniform wasn’t designed to cover my body. It was designed to barely cover my nipples and my pussy, and nothing else. I looked around the room for some double-sided tape, to hold the shawl over my nipples, but I couldn’t find any. The pantyhose were sheer, and didn’t leave anything to the imagination, so I had to slip a pair of black lace panties overtop, which looked ridiculous, like the outfit of some lingerie superhero.
Nancy stood and watched me change. I didn’t mind, she’d seen everything before. She was there when I did the photo-shoot in the very same outfit, and she’d been in the thick of every change room since we started our promotional tour. What bothered me were her eyes—her sad, pitiful, judging eyes. The way she watched me sent shivers crawling down my spine, like a woman watching the sixth player in a game of Russian Roulette press the cold barrel of a six-shooter against her temple.
She held that same sorrowful expression as I stepped out onto the floor where the other girls were already mingling with the soldiers.
The men and women had yet to pair off, for the most part. A few of the drunker soldiers had already paired up with the sluttier Playmates, and moved to back corners to fool around.
I envied Miss December and her red and white winter-themed outfit. It covered everything and then some. The 2016 December issue was going to be a longer issue, which meant Miss December had more to shed than the rest of us. Unbeknownst to the men chatting her up, under that fuzzy Christmas sweater was some of the most scandalous red lingerie I’ve ever seen.
I didn’t envy Miss August, whose outfit was nothing more than a bikini bottom and black electrical-tape exes over her nipples. Luckily for Miss August, she adored the drooling attention.
As I stepped into the room, all eyes turned to me. I held my shawl carefully over my chest as I scanned the faces, looking for the most harmless among them. But it was hopeless. They all had the same hungry, wild-animal look in their eyes.
I scanned the faces a second time, hoping to see the asshole from out back—Gage, he said his name was. Gage didn’t have that look in his eyes. Sure, he stared at my chest like a slob, but he didn’t have the hunger.
Everyone in that room had the hunger, but Gage wasn’t among them.
The biggest perk that came with first day of each month was the privacy. It was the one night where the bunkhouse was quiet and empty. The occasional Joe would bring a date back to the bunkhouse, but not usually until later in the night, when the soldiers got too drunk to care if the whole squadron saw them fucking a BC—usually a few hours at least. Otherwise, everyone just fucked in the Guest Hall.
The bunkhouse was split into four rooms, each with six beds and a bathroom. My bed was a bottom bunk, under Brigadier Darby.
Darby was a the only non-American stationed at our base. He was a Brit, and the only other guy stationed at COIQ-UA-14 that I liked. He wasn’t a horny fuckhead like the rest of them. He didn’t chase pussy on all fours like some brainless mutt. He didn’t have to; pussy threw itself at him. The very moment he opened that British mouth of his, a pair of BC lips would be wrapped around his cock.
Next to me was Private Hastings, and I could think of no one worse to be stuck beside. The horny piece of shit was always jerking off, and after two years stationed in the middle of nowhere, he’d stopped caring about decency. Most guys took their business to the bathroom.
Hastings just used his knees as tent poles to hold up his blanket and he’d go to town with his porn-ridden laptop on his chest. His bunk would glow a pale, disturbing light for three minutes before a handful of tissue paper was tossed aside on the ground, and everyone could finally go to sleep.
That night, Hastings left his laptop out and open on his bed. Normally I would have closed the festering device, but that night I didn’t. On the screen was a familiar face—Miss April’s—and a headline that read:
LEAKED! The 2016 Playboy Playmates!
The girls on the page were familiar. I was surprised to see a total lack of nudity on the website. The website’s comment section was just as surprised. “What is this this shit? Came for tits. Was disappointed,” one user wrote. “Playboy stopped putting nudes in the magazine. Save your time and move on to Hustler,” another user replied. Upon second glance, I noticed a comment made by a user named HastingsLockedAndLoaded. “Great set. April’s going to win Playmate of the Year, no question. I’d love to cum on those tits.”
I laughed. Scrawny Hastings didn’t have a chance with Miss April.
Other comments agreed with Hastings. Everyone loved Miss April.
In Ashley’s photos, she was wearing nothing but a fur shawl and black pantyhose. Every photo in her set came slightly closer to showing everything off than the one before it. In her final picture, her shawl was down at her feet, and only her golden, bling-covered forearm covered her nipples.
But seeing her next to the other Playmates—there was no question about it—she was the finest one of the lot. Too fine to be here, in the middle of nowhere, on a barrel cleaning mission. Though, I still couldn’t put my finger on what made her seem so much better.
One of the photos was a close-up of her face, cutting off just above her assumedly exposed nipples. That’s when I noticed what made her different than the other girls. Her eyes. They were deep, hypnotizing, complex things. They somehow managed to say, “Go fuck yourself. You’ll never have this,” “Well? What are you waiting for? Fuck me, I’m wet and horny,” and “I’d rather be anywhere else,” all in the same look.
None of the other eleven Playmates could imitate that look. None of the other Playmates had that hypnotic power to them, that complexity.
I reached down to my waist and unclipped my belt. I peered out the window, to make sure no one was coming, then I pulled my thick cock out. It was already half-stiff, just from staring into those eyes.
The Iraqi desert is a big, empty, lonely place. And two years is a long time. But I didn’t want to be like them, I didn’t want to stoop down to their level, though it wasn’t always easy. Sometimes, when a half-decent-looking Desert Queen is staring you in the eyes with her bare legs spread wide and her pussy dripping wet, all you want to do is take that two years’ worth of sexual aggression out on that cunt.
But that’s a temporary solution that leads down a dangerous road. There’s a reason they send a new batch of BCs every month, and there’s a reason some of them are never sent home. I’d much sooner be pinned down by two dozen angry Hajjis than two dozen bored Joes with two years’ worth of pent-up sexual aggression.
I ran my hand up the length of my cock, feeling it throbbing stiff against my fingers. I couldn’t help but wonder if Ashley King could handle me. She was a petite girl. If I pushed my whole cock inside of her, it would be halfway to her sternum. But the petite girls were usually the ones who handled it best. Go figure.
It wouldn’t be long before she was on her knees, trying to figure out how to squeeze my girth through her lips. She had those small hands, with fingers that probably couldn’t reach around my whole cock. She would use both hands to stroke me off.
My dick was fully erect now. Eyes closed, and Miss April on my mind, I started to beat myself hard.
Her eyes would be fixated on my cock while she stroked it with both hands, and she would have that complex look in her eyes. Though this time, it would be a combination of, “I want Gage inside of me so badly,” and “I’m afraid I’ll be too tight, and it will hurt,” with a hint of, “I don’t care if it hurts, I want it anyway.”
She looks up at me with those deep eyes as if she’s awaiting my command—and she is. She wonders, should I keep stroking, sucking, or should I spread my legs and let you fuck me senseless? I answer with a small nod, motioning towards the mattress. She obeys, lays on her back and spreads her long legs.
Her dark pantyhose do nothing to obscure her pussy, and her shawl is strewn across her stomach, doing nothing to cover her tits. The pantyhose are easy enough to rip open. I only rip a small hole where it matters, just wide enough for entry. As I do, I can feel her damp moisture on the undergarment.
Her eyes widen as I lower my cock towards her juicy lips. Her legs hover at my sides like the controls of some piece of machinery. Are they levers? Handlebars? They’re whatever I want them to be. For now, I push them aside and watch as her pink, wet slit parts open.
She bites her lip as I begin to push in. Her eyes narrow. It’s hurting her but she knows the pain in temporary—that it just means there will be more pleasure later. Her warm juices squish out around my cock. She’s already quivering, probably already about to come, too.
My fist clenched around my cock and I began to beat it harder. I was close to finishing and I could tell it was going to be a big, hot load. Miss April, with that shawl over her tummy and those black heels hovering at my sides, never leaves the forefront of my mind.
Each time I pump my cock into her, I let it slide in deeper. I can feel her relax as the tension leaves her pussy and my dick is able to slide in deep. My balls strike her body, and I’m fully inside. My body flutters. She
take the whole thing.
I start to give it to her. I grab her soft thighs firmly and use the strength of my arms to pull her towards me as I drive it into her.
Her head falls back and she lets out a loud scream. Her shawl has fallen onto the floor now, and I can see her tits bouncing, shaking, and rippling with every swift penetration. She’s coming. Her pussy is drenched, and so is a large spot on the mattress between her legs. I can feel her fingernails digging into my sides, desperately holding on, trying to maintain a mere ounce of control. I don’t let her.
I take her by the wrists and pin her arms down at her sides. I’m close. I can feel my cock swelling inside of her, pressing firmly against the tight walls of her sweet pussy. The golden bracelets that cover her arms are rattling like Santa’s fucking sleigh and her tits are bouncing around like tubs of Jell-O on the back of a Humvee.
“Shit,” I heard myself mutter.
I peeled my eyes open to see her face staring at me on Hastings’s laptop—those deep, complex eyes and that sly, cunning, mysterious smile. I couldn’t hold back any longer.
Then I noticed, in Miss April’s close-up shot, her hair was a mess, as if she’d just been fucked mental, giving those complex eyes an extra layer. “You really think that’s all I can take?” they seemed to ask.
I closed the laptop’s screen and pushed it away. I’d gotten it out of my system—for now—that fog that clouds your sensibilities, that gets thicker and thicker with every passing day, that the other Joes stationed at the base had fallen victim to—that fog that makes you lose sight of reality, of your life.
Maybe it was no use, but at least my head would stay on straight for one more day.