Settling down beside me again, he uses a warm cloth to gently clean off the remnants of the blood that marks my deflowering. He then sneaks his hand between my legs and begins playing with my sensitive clit. “Just lie still,” he instructs.
I trust him completely, closing my eyes so I can concentrate on his touch. Before I know it, he has rekindled the same feeling his tongue inspired earlier. When it starts to get too much, I shake my head.
“Don’t fight it,” he tells me. “I want you to feel what I felt.”
I struggle against the unfamiliar sensation now challenging my body, but it continues to build with his concentrated attention, and my thighs start to shake.
I whimper as my entire body tenses, reaching some unknown precipice. I stay there as the seconds tick by, but the moment Ethan leans down to kiss me on the lips, my body orgasms in the most exquisite eruption of pleasure I have ever experienced.
I have no control as my hips lift, moving rhythmically up and down as my pussy pulses against his hand.
“It’s amazing to watch you come,” he growls huskily, kissing me more deeply as the last remnants of my climax pulse to an end.
I look at him in awe when he pulls away. “That was…”
“I know,” he says enthusiastically, his eyes flashing with lust. “No wonder everyone wants to fuck all the time.” He then looks at me apologetically. “I mean make love.”
I giggle.
He pulls me close and wraps me in his arms. “Did I do right by you?”
“Was there ever any doubt?” I answer, smiling at him.
Ethan sighs in satisfaction and we lie there quietly for several moments. He then turns toward me, propping his head on his hand to look at me. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Cleopatra Cox.”
I love that he’s just called me a woman instead of a girl. I grin back at him, amazed by how he makes me feel so beautiful.
He strokes my cheek with a thoughtful expression. “So, I’ve never asked before, but why did your parents end up naming you Cleopatra? Is it a family name or something?”
I laugh softly, but the memory of it actually makes me sad. “My mom kind of fell into a depression when I was born, so it was left up to Dad to write a name on the birth certificate. He went with Cleopatra because he said it was a strong-sounding name. But, really? Who names a kid that?”
Ethan smiles, gazing into my eyes as if he can read the unspoken pain behind my attempt to play it off. Instead of finding it comforting, it makes me nervous. I’m not used to someone reading me that well. “Needless to say, everyone shortens it to Cleo.”
“Cleo,” he repeats, saying my name tenderly.
But even when he says it, it sounds masculine in my head which leads me to admit, “Not sure if it was because of my name or just how I was born, but I was a tomboy growing up. Bet you didn’t know that about me. I was the kind of girl who didn’t mind getting dirty in the mud or scratched climbing a tree.”
Ethan smiles, pulling me into his arms. “I wouldn’t have suspected that, but I like knowing that about you.” He kisses me on the forehead and I sigh in contentment, feeling totally content enfolded in his arms.
“Personally, I wish my dad had named me Claire,” I tell him. “It rolls off the tongue and sounds so pretty, don’t you think?” I flip over on my stomach, so I am facing him. “I’ve been thinking of changing my name now that I’m legally old enough.”
He chuckles. “You’re not a Claire—way too formal.”
“What would you call me then?” I asked half-jokingly.
Ethan stares at me tenderly, then shakes his head. “You probably won’t like it.”
“Can’t be any worse than Cleopatra,” I assure him.
He smiles as he gently caresses my cheek. “I’d call you Candy.”
“Candy,” I say in disbelief, surprised he wants to call me by a hooker’s name. “Really?”
“Yes,” he answers confidently, gazing into my eyes. “You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.”
His answer makes me melt inside. Damn, I’m so in love with this boy! “Candy, huh?”
Ethan nods.
“I suppose I could get used to that.”
He kisses me on the mouth, gliding his tongue teasingly over my lips. “Yep, you are sweet as can be, Candy…” His eyes flash with desire and he growls huskily, “Are you ready for round two?”
Freedom
Charles Walker
The second week of training is undeniably worse. Not only has our Drill Sergeant added extra activities to our daily routine but, after a morning spent learning how to protect ourselves against a chemical and biological hazard, we are informed we will be facing the gas chamber in the afternoon. I knew this was coming and have tried to mentally prepare myself, but I am still nervous.
I can tell Jackson is too, as he blindly shovels food into his mouth. “I wouldn’t scarf down too much. You’re probably going to chuck it back up in the gas chamber.”
He looks at his tray and sighs, pushing it away from him. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah, don’t think about it too much, and don’t hesitate when we go in.”
Jackson shakes his head. “I’m not sure I can make it through this, Walker.”
“It’s simple,” I say to encourage him as much as myself. “We walk in, and they’ll tell us to lift our masks one by one so we can state our name, rank, and social security number.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, but take a deep breath before you lift your mask up, and put it back down as soon as you are done.”
“I can do that.”
“Of course you can.” I’m not about to tell him that they will order us to take our masks off before we leave the gas chamber. No need to get him anxious about something he has no control over, although I do add, “No matter what, don’t touch your eyes. Trust me on that.”
Jackson nods.
After we leave the mess hall, Grapes grumbles, “And how do you know all this fucking shit?”
“I come from a long line of servicemen,” I state proudly.
He throws his hands in the air. “No wonder you’re such a retard.”
All the men sitting around him stiffen, ready to pounce on the prick. “Take that back, Grapes,” one of them snarls.
He glances around, realizing his mistake, and mutters, “I meant no offense.” When the men aren’t satisfied, he says through gritted teeth, “Sorry, BS.”
“Yeah, you not only offended my family, but the entire military, Grapes.” I can tell the nickname is getting to him.
He glares at me before telling everyone, “Look, I’m sorry, guys… I’m just busting BS’s chops.”
I get in his face. “Don’t do that again.”
He glowers at me but says nothing.
The Army has no tolerance for troublemakers like Grapes. I doubt he will survive another week.
I leave the mess hall on a light stomach, giving some of my anxious teammates a pep talk similar to the one I gave Jackson. It helps me not to dwell on what’s coming.
I know it’s going to hurt like hell.
When it’s time, we are told how to put on our chemical gear and protective mask. Once we’re ready, the Drill Sergeant splits us into two groups of five. Unfortunately, my group does not go first, which only intensifies my unease.
I watch Jackson go in first and wait. His group files out minutes later amid a fog of orange gas, coughing violently as snot and tears pour down their faces.
We’re next.
I place my right hand on the shoulder of the person in front of me before walking into the chamber. As luck would have it, Grapes is directly behind me. I walk forward into the room still filled with the orangish fog and listen with trepidation as the door shuts behind us. I catch the faint odor of tear gas through my mask and feel the first flutters of panic.
Focusing on my breathing, I wait my turn. When the Drill Sergeant taps my shoulder, I lift my mask up, relyi
ng on years of habitually saying my name, rank, and number every day before the bathroom mirror, and loudly state my information to him. I quickly slip the mask back on with minimal discomfort.
Grapes, on the other hand, begins to stutter after he says his name and inadvertently sucks in the gas. He pushes his mask back down.
Once everyone has completed the task, the Drill Sergeant commands, “Before you leave, take off your mask and keep your eyes open until you exit the room.”
This is the moment I have been dreading since I was young and learned about the gas chamber, but I dutifully take off my mask. I try holding my breath on the way out, but Grapes grabs onto me in a panic and I inadvertently take in a deep breath.
I drag him with me, the two of us stumbling out of the gas cloud and into the fresh air. Instantly, my eyes burn as if they are on fire and my lungs feel as if they are being torched from the inside out. They swiftly fill up with mucus, which my body forces out.
I immediately hold out my arms as I move away, wanting to distance myself from the lingering gas. I cough so hard I almost retch. Everything burns…
I force my eyes open, knowing it will help, but I feel the overwhelming urge to rub my eyes. To prevent myself from doing that, I raise my arms over my head and clasp my wrists tightly as I take in several ragged breaths.
The searing pain begins to ease.
I look over at Grapes and see he is really suffering as he falls to his knees and retches out the contents of his stomach. “Open your eyes,” I tell him, my voice sounding hoarse because my throat is still burning.
He forces his eyelids open and stares at me. His bloodshot eyes flow with tears. Shaking his head, Grapes rubs his eyes before he can stop himself. He cries out in pain and howls, “Get the fuck away from me, man!”
I turn from him while the others laugh, obviously enjoying his distress.
Although Grapes is the reason I sucked in the gas, I still have a level of sympathy for the prick, knowing how much pain he’s in.
Still…it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.
I head toward Jackson to see how he has fared. The poor kid’s skin is bright pink and splotchy—a similar pattern to a Jersey cow. I give him a congratulatory slap on the back. “I see you’re still alive and kicking.”
“Just barely.”
“Well, you did better than Grapes over there,” I inform him, pointing at the coughing prick.
Jackson stands a little straighter, obviously pleased he’s outshone Grapes.
The Drill Sergeant orders us to assemble, then proceeds to publicly berate each man who failed to give their full information in the chamber. Grapes can’t bear the humiliation when he is called out and turns beet red, looking as if he’s about to explode when the squad laughs at him.
The Drill Sergeant notices Grapes isn’t handling it well and challenges him. “Is the Army too rough for you, Recruit?”
Grapes gives me a hostile glare and shouts, “No, sir!”
The Drill Sergeant walks over to him and gets right up in his face. “What did I tell you about calling me ‘sir’?” he growls. “Are you purposely trying to provoke me?”
“No, Drill Sergeant!”
“Drop and beat your face, and when you’re done with that set, give me twenty more. Now!”
I stare straight ahead, not wanting to get involved in this. But for some reason, I have incurred the Drill Sergeant’s wrath, because he walks over to me next. “I noticed back there that you took particular interest in Recruit Bell.”
“No, Drill Sergeant,” I answer, desperate not to be associated with the prick.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No, Drill Sergeant!”
“I knew there was a reason I didn’t trust you.”
“You can trust me, Drill Sergeant.”
He snarls, “Did I ask for your opinion?”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
I groan inwardly, knowing I’m failing miserably right now.
He moves in close, so we are only inches apart and stares into my eyes, stating ominously, “I don’t know what side you are on, Walker.”
“I’m on the Army’s side, Drill Sergeant.” I look at him when I say it, desperate for him to understand how committed I am.
“You’re going to prove it. Tonight.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” I answer, confident that I will. I’m actually thankful for this opportunity to prove myself to him, even though I know I will pay dearly for it.
After the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge gives us the rundown for the next day, before we are released to our barracks. Our training day ends at 2000, which is followed by personal time to shit, shower and shave. It’s followed by hygiene inspection and lights out at 2100.
As I head out, I see the Drill Sergeant is waiting for me.
“Come with me, Walker,” he commands tersely, turning abruptly and walking away.
Jackson nods his encouragement as I hurry to fall in behind. Naturally, Grapes is grinning at me as I pass by, but I pretend not to notice the prick.
I can tell by the Drill Sergeant’s stiff gait that he is not happy as he walks out to the training field.
“Drop and give me forty.”
As I drop to the ground and begin, he explains, “In case you were wondering, I’m not interested in what brought you to the Army. I don’t give a lick about loved ones waiting for you back home. And, I sure in the hell don’t give two shits what your future plans are. The only thing I care about is you giving me everything you’ve got for the next eight weeks. Get that, Recruit? Nothing else matters to me.”
I look up and nod, his words resonating with me. “Yes, Drill Sergeant.” The pain of being disowned by my family, along with the unspoken fear of failing my father, have no place in basic training.
For the next several hours, the number forty becomes my life. I run forty laps, I carry a heavy crate back and forth across the field forty times, I belt out forty renditions of the chorus of “You’re a Grand Old Flag”, only to end up back at the beginning with forty pushups.
By the time he is done with me, I’m a quivering, sweaty mess with a painfully raspy voice. After looking at his watch, he barks, “We’re finished here, Walker. Get up and go hit the fart sack you call a bed.”
I immediately stop doing pushups and stand up, nodding to him before heading back to the barracks.
Behind me, I hear one of the other staff address him casually as they pass each other. “Hey, I thought for sure you’d be in bed by now, Marshall. Didn’t I hear you just turned forty?”
“Shut up,” he grumbles.
Now understanding his obsession with the number, I chuckle under my breath. As I enter the barracks, I can see by the expression on everyone’s face that they are amused by my unusual and lengthy punishment.
“Look who’s back,” Grapes says with a snide grin. “Did you learn your lesson, BS?”
“Yeah,” I answer, ripping off my sweaty shirt and throwing it at him. “I learned to stay far the fuck away from you.”
I barely have time to get cleaned up before lights out. I settle in my bed, painfully aware of my sore muscles, and wonder if I will be able to sleep. There’s no doubt I’m going to hurt for days, but I hold no animosity toward the Drill Sergeant.
Proving myself tonight was not for anyone else’s benefit, but mine. I won’t waste another second worrying about my father, Grapes, or the future.
I’m committed to living in the moment because it’s the only thing I can control. And that knowledge is…
Pure freedom.
Sacrifice
Cleopatra Cox
“Ethan’s coming over to spend the afternoon,” I tell my dad, giddy with excitement. Normally, I would never dream of having someone over when my mom is in her dark place, but Ethan assures me that my mom’s mental state is not a problem—and I love him even more for that.
Dad is flipping pancakes on the stove, and the pleasant sound of them sizzling as they coo
k fills the air. “Ethan’s a good kid,” he replies. “You’ve got a real winner there, C.”
His opinion means the world to me and I confess, “Glad you think so, because I plan to marry that man.”
My dad puts down his spatula and stares at me. “Don’t you think you’re rushing things, kiddo?”
“Nope. I’ve had a crush on Ethan for almost four years now, and you said yourself he’s a good catch.”
“But you’re both still kids.”
“Actually, Dad, I’m an adult. If I can join the Army and die for my country, I think I’m old enough to decide who I want to marry.”
Dad chuckles, picking up his spatula again. “As long as you aren’t planning on marrying him in the immediate future, I have no problems with Ethan as my future son-in-law.”
I get up from the table and give him a one-handed hug as I hand him a plate to put the pancakes on. Together, we return to the table and dish up. I pour an extra amount of maple syrup on my stack, asserting my newly acquired adult status.
Dad doesn’t even say a word.
I take a big bite and chew in sweet satisfaction. Glancing briefly at the bedroom door, I swallow it down before asking, “Think Mom will feel the same way?”
“I think it would be good if you told her.”
Shrugging, I mumble, “Like she will even hear me…”
He looks at me in concern. “Although we have no idea what’s going on in her head, she’s still a part of this family and deserves your respect because she’s your mother.”
I roll my eyes, taking another syrupy bite before answering, “You know I love her, Dad.”
He pats me on the head, his smile returning. “You’re my sweet girl.”
“Girl no more,” I insist.
He stares at my plate. “Says the woman with a gallon of syrup on her pancakes.”
I giggle, feeling totally in love with life.
I rest my head on Ethan’s shoulder as we sit on the couch, spending a lazy afternoon watching college football with my dad. It feels completely normal and comfortable. This is something I’ve dreamed about for years, and I almost can’t believe it’s real.