|
June-July
1981, Mother
Russia
"I
have read the report", said the kommissar. "May
I?" He sat down at the bed.
Vadim,
still dizzy from surgery, attempted to nod. The nose.
They said something had been broken so badly they needed
to operate so he would be able to breathe properly.
He had forgotten the terms. It had made sense when the
doctor told him.
Everything
was bandaged. His hands, his wrists, somebody had cleaned
the burn wound on his throat, and his back was heavily
padded and bandaged as well. He felt weak, but at least
there was no pain.
"You
have obviously been tortured." The kommissar didn't
smile, didn't scowl, just presented him with the conclusion.
Yes.
Massive physical trauma without killing him. He looked
beaten up, they could see he had been tied up. Dislocated
shoulder. Wrists and ankles raw. Cigarette burn. Knife
wounds. Too characteristic. One week out in enemy territory,
returned without any of his kit, barely alive. His burnt
skin told them of exposure to the sun, and some torture
didn't leave marks. Sleep deprivation. Hunger and thirst.
"Now,
I wonder, comrade, how could that happen?" The
kommissar placed his fingertips together. "Not
how you could fall into enemy hands. But how they could
take you alive."
"I
was knocked out before I could take countermeasures."
Like, committing suicide.
"And
your unit left you behind. Yes." The kommissar
looked at him, glance from his feet to his face. "I
assume you resisted torture at first and gave in later?"
Vadim
swallowed. "Yes."
The
kommissar looked displeased. "Who were they?"
"They
spoke English." Vadim pressed his lips together.
Being taken by a group of enemies was less humiliating
than by one man. SAS. It wasn't worth much, apart from
restoring some of his reputation as a tough bastard.
Being taken by one man wouldn't do. And they assumed
by default it had been a group. "I was blindfolded."
"Did
they mention names? Units? Any operational data? Surely,
if you were meant to be executed, they would not be
as careful."
"They
left me just outside camp."
"How
many?"
"Best
estimate is four or five."
"How
many tortured you?"
Vadim
shuddered. "I don't know."
The
kommissar smiled. "But at least they gave you a
shave."
Vadim's
hands formed fists. "With a knife. Threatened to
cut my throat." He felt the terror well up, despite
whatever they had him shot full of. "They spoke
English. Maybe Americans. I don't know. I was too busy
staying alive."
"You
are supposed to stay resourceful under strain."
It sounded pretty. Resourceful. Tough, mentally intact,
thinking, perceptive. Strain was a prettier word than
torture. It sounded like a soft kind of pressure, and
not like a competition between the capacity to inflict
pain against the capacity to resist it.
"A
week is a long time." Everybody would have broken.
Absolutely everybody.
The
kommissar nodded. "We assume American mercenaries.
It is interesting they operate so close to Kabul. It
is unfortunate that they captured you of all people,
but then, it could have been much worse." After
all, you know nothing, he seemed to say. "What
did they ask about?"
"Units,
deployments, strategic information. Our intentions here."
The
kommissar seemed thoughtful, but not surprised. "Do
you assume you will be fit for duty in a month?"
He paused. "Desk duty, for the moment. We will
send you to Moscow for a few weeks to heal the worst,
but we are short of manpower, and your skills are valuable
in this place. You will do training."
No
question at all then. Vadim felt he needed at least
six months rest, or maybe a year, but that was really
self-pity. Indulging himself. The worst of it all was
how much he had wanted that other man. Insanity. Offered
himself, offered things he wanted. To test the other's
nerve, resolve, prod him into emotions, away from executing
him to keeping him alive. It made sense at the time,
but now he was ashamed. Ashamed that he could still
see the face close beside him, half-hidden by moonlight.
Feel the Brit's heat against his hand. "Yes, kommissar."
The
man got up, put the cap back on. "Do not worry",
he said. Having misread his facial expression, Vadim
guessed. "You will have plenty of opportunity to
show us you recovered well."
Decreeing
his recovery. Planning ahead. Ordering him to recover.
Like he was some kind of mechanic that had to meet a
target.
"And
even more opportunity to go out hunting mercenaries
interfering in our brotherly aid to our socialist brothers."
The kommissar gave him a curt nod and walked out.
*
* *
Vadim
couldn't even carry the suitcase. He stood at the bottom
of the staircase and wondered how he could get up there.
Felt two hundred years old, nothing in his body that
had kept even the slightest amount of strength. Placing
a hand on the railing, he pulled himself up. One step.
The journey had been bad, waiting for the connection
flight in the Urals. There were direct flights, but
he couldn't get a place on one of those. It could take
more than twenty hours to get from Kabul to Moscow.
Tired and in pain. Somebody had run into him in the
Metro station, which nearly doubled him over with pain.
The bastard had run past, trying to catch the metro,
while Vadim stood there, one hand against the wall,
and fought the pain.
An
old man had watched him, both hands on a cane. Read
the full story on the front of his uniform. Paratrooper.
Captain. Afghanistan mission. Valour. Vadim looked at
the man, impossible to say anything, that man was probably
a hero of the Great War for the Motherland. Might have
shot Germans in Stalingrad, hungered and frozen in Leningrad.
Escaped annihilation at Kursk. The great names of that
war. A life and death struggle. A proper war. Vadim
had always felt that that war was much better than a
long distance war by proxy in a dozen countries. It
wasn't face to face. He could be old fashioned like
that.
First
landing. He rested, standing there, staring at the wall
in front of him. Seeing mountains. Moscow was grey and
glum, this place smelled of mould. Three more floors.
Another
step up the staircase. He could feel his back. Every
shift in his body was taken up by the muscles left and
right of the spine. Everything. Even completely still,
he needed to breathe with the broken ribs. Nothing anybody
could do about them, apart from painkillers and rest.
Difficult to remember a time without pain. And the man
who had done this still in his mind. The man that had
nearly taken his life, then handed it back to him. Covered
his escape.
Second
landing.
They
had applied for a bigger flat. Two children. It might
take another year or two. No way to bribe an official.
No money for it, and Vadim always felt vaguely self-conscious
about wrestling for an advantage. Not in the army, but
he knew people there. Outside, it seemed more complicated,
much more arcane, and his rank counted for nothing.
One of many paratroopers. Nobody important. Spies everywhere.
Spetsnaz were secret, and certainly didn't get anything
resembling a bonus. Like he should be thankful he was
something different.
Third
landing. He was in pain, his heart thudded, chest burned.
Katya
could have made a difference. She still fenced, but
she had two small children, and her mother and aunt
depended on her. On them. It was always the whole family.
Parents, sisters, brothers, children. One struck it
rich, they all shared. No nerve to let anybody down.
Fourth
landing.
Turn
left. Knock. People were talking inside. He felt nauseous,
didn't want to hear anybody, see anybody, just wanted
to lie down and sleep.
The
door opened. Katya. Her eyes widened, she reached for
his hand and almost pulled him inside. Yes, her mother.
No sign of the kids. Already asleep. Vadim accepted
tea, drank it, he was back, in one piece, grateful chatter,
nothing important. No questions, only about the flight.
He couldn't have told them. He made a point of not telling
anybody anything.
Finally,
her mother left, pressed his hand, Vadim couldn't lean
in to have his cheeks kissed. She noticed when he tried
and told him off.
He
sat down on the bed, looked around. All the stuff that
marked a civilian life. Bookshelves. Pictures on the
wall. Decoration. Her epee, wire mesh mask, her kit
on coat hangers, drying between the kitchen and the
corridor. She'd been fencing. His kit was stored away
somewhere - in a carton on one of the bookshelves. He
doubted he'd fit in there anyway. Too much weight-lifting.
He had actually increased in muscle and strength, a
fair sixty pounds. He'd look like a gorilla in the white.
He
opened the belt, the coat, the boots. Couldn't quite
get them off his feet without bowing down and more pain.
Katya leaned in and pulled them off. Her pale golden
hair, cut at the chin. Honey. She pulled off his socks,
helped to undress him. Realized he really didn't want
to wear the uniform now. How tired he was.
Her
hands paused on his feet, and he could see she realized
what marches and that territory did to his feet. He
had written her about the injuries, she must have expected
something like that.
She
pulled his shirt off, he helped her with the trousers.
It was all put over the back of a chair. Too rickety
to sit on, that was why it wasn't in the kitchen but
served as a nightstand. Needed a paintjob. The whole
place did.
He
lay back on the mattress, closed his eyes, felt her
lift his legs and help him stretch out. The mattress
was too soft. And worn through. Springs dug into his
back, a woollen blanket kept the worst off, but they
needed a new mattress at some point.
"How
are the kids?" He asked with eyes closed.
"They
wanted to stay up, but it got too late. Fell asleep
right at the table", she said.
Nikol'.
He was reasonably sure Anoushka was his. Katya had been
a few weeks pregnant when she got silver with her epee.
Precise like a surgeon, deadly with that thin, flexible
piece of steel. If it had ever been real. Two hundred
years ago, a woman fencer like her would have caused
a sensation. She had beaten him several times, friendly
matches, he'd been intrigued by her style. Highly mobile,
and cold-blooded like a striking cobra. No, a king cobra.
Snake-eater. He'd been drunk, high on freedom. The things
he did when drunk.
He'd
never found a woman attractive. Some fumbling around
because he felt that was expected, that was how things
were, but the interest was mostly scientific.
His
masseur had started fucking him way before the Olympics,
jerked him off when he did that, and had an amount of
control that made Vadim dizzy with lust. It always needed
to be quick, the old man seemed wary and tense and nervous,
but just couldn't resist the temptation. Vadim didn't
want him to resist. Vadim wanted to feel the other inside
himself, just an extension of the massage, of making
him feel special. It never felt filthy. Forbidden, yes,
he had understood that from the start. But never bad.
A man three times as old as he when they started fucking.
He felt the other had held back with that, merely entered
him with his fingers, once or twice turned him around
and sucked him off. Told him how beautiful he was.
Katya
knew. They never talked about it, though. But even a
stupid bitch would have realized that there were things
missing in their marriage. He assumed she was shagging
the occasional guy. Bored wife of a deployed officer.
Seeing
her with Sasha had felt right - face flushed, her body
radiant, strong, lithe. Sasha probably hadn't known
what hit him. She had asked Sasha whether Vadim was
welcome, and Sasha was too far gone to care much. Vadim
assumed he didn't mind much - maybe had been fucked
before, maybe even desired him as well. He'd been careful,
and gentle, feeling oddly mellow with the both of them
in his bed. He'd had Sasha after that, the next morning.
Fucked him nice and slow, with Katya watching. Absolutely
screwed Sasha's mind - the woman he wanted, and her
husband.
Vadim
needed to encourage him. Katya had told him that there
had been "one of your people", meaning KGB,
"asking whether I was happily married to you."
Or, short, whether their marriage was more than a scam.
He needed a child to prove it. Used Sasha as a stallion,
nothing more.
Did
her a favour as well; he would probably have been able
to, had been, could bring himself to do it. There were
always physiological reactions on which to rely. He
was biologically healthy, enough friction, and things
went alright. But it felt like fucking a sister. And
her knowing that it was willpower, and not lust, made
it more difficult.
She
deserved better than physiological reactions.
He
rested, felt her hands soothing on his neck, turned
around and could smell her hair when she placed her
head on his good shoulder.
"I'm
sorry about Sasha", he murmured into the darkness.
"Yes,
he told me … what you said."
Vadim
inhaled. I've seen how happy you were. I've seen how
you looked at him when he stood there in the doorway,
dark hair, freckles, those dark blue eyes. I can still
see you sit on him, writhe, ride his cock, glance over
your shoulder, hair falling into your face. That smile
then. The way you lifted your ass to show me that cock
burrowing into you. You snake-eater.
He
placed a hand on her shoulder, pulled her a little closer.
"We have Nikolai."
"Yes."
Her voice strained. "Nikolai." She fought
tears. He wondered how she could mourn her husband's
'comrade' without betraying what she had felt. Nobody.
As far as Vadim could tell, nobody knew. Even her mother
had told Vadim that Nikolai looked absolutely like his
father. With only the eyes a darker shade of blue.
She
was silent for a long time. "Don't you get killed
down there", she said, pleading.
It
could have been so much easier without that feeling.
He had opened the cage, but she didn't leave. Just another
prisoner in a web of lies.
*
* *
Anoushka
pulled on his arm like a plough horse, tiny legs pushing
against the ground. Beautiful bright day, the sun was
out, a mild, forgiving sun that didn't burn his face.
Katya had said he looked very tanned. Looked like after
their honeymoon in Sochi. A gift from somewhere up,
Katya's trainer, probably. A mentor in the vast bureaucracy.
Vadim had felt self-conscious then. He was the second-rate
pentathlete who had impregnated a first-class fencer.
Not bad at all with the blade himself. As if they expected
Anoushka to breed true and become a champion in her
own right as soon as she had grown up.
Soviet
model family, with properly proletarian background.
Her ancestors near-starving peasants in the Volga district,
his ancestors industrial workers in Moscow. Steel workers.
That wasn't the whole story. His father had been an
intellectual before he was forced to work with his hands
instead, his grandfather had been too close to the Whites
during the revolution. But turned himself into a traitor,
and was allowed to change sides. Denounce yourself,
and the great leader will have mercy. Unless he sends
you to a forced labour camp. He shook his head. Dark
times. The lesson was clear: Keep your head down. Never
become a target.
He
followed his daughter, who insisted on heading towards
the goats. Plucked some grass and offered it to one
of the small pointy snouts, squealing in delight at
the rough tongue. "Look! He likes it!"
Vadim
smiled and looked at Katya, who had Nikol ride on her
hip, handled the heavy toddler with ease. He couldn't
even carry him yet. His daughter also had the unfortunate
tendency to cling to him, and he had to push her away
every time she tried to climb on his lap. That a child
could ever inflict pain on him was unspeakably bizarre.
"Look,
the goat is from Afghanistan. A present from the government",
said Katya, pointing at a plaque.
"That
kind doesn't taste so bad", he said.
Anoushka
stared at him in horror. "Noooo!"
Katya
looked at him, frowning, then went to great lengths
to explain that daddy had been joking. Anoushka was
not convinced and frowned at him, darkly, and his daughter
could look exceptionally dark when displeased.
Vadim
laughed and went to make amends with ice cream.
*
* *
"I
think we can take the plasters off now", said the
doctor and Vadim felt the urge to pull a knife and place
it against his femoral artery. The doctor started pulling
them off, a line of plasters, one for each letter. The
doctor knew the word, he'd checked the wounds, made
sure they healed correctly, given him painkillers for
his ribs, not nearly enough, but he was talking about
"withdrawal" and Vadim understood.
His
back felt naked. It felt as if people could see through
the uniform. Everybody could read the word. No more
cameras. No more swimming. No more sauna. He was determined
to keep this hidden forever. Switched off the light
before he took the undershirt off. He didn't want Katya
to see it. Didn't want her to know he'd been tortured.
And that he was only alive because she had given him
the strength to ask for mercy. He needed to live to
provide. As long as she stayed in her cage. As long
as she chose to stay.
And
what if Sasha had been alive and she had gone to live
with the freckled pilot who was head over heels in love
with her? What if there had been no family in his mind
when that bastard pointed the gun into his face? He
couldn't have said, couldn't have thought, but there
was despair at the thought. He pushed it away.
He
felt her in the night, long limbs, close, Nikol' mewling
in his sleep. The kid was a little ill, nothing serious,
but his bed was in their room. This had saved his life,
not mercy, not strength. He placed his face on her arm,
chin against her elbow, felt her fingers brush his cheek.
In
the morning, she brought him tea and buttered, fresh
bread. He'd been awake at five, as usual, then forced
himself to sleep on. The medics told him to get as much
rest as possible. He could stay in bed all week. He
reacted too late, too late to cover himself. Her left
hand, deadly instrument with a blade, shook as she served
him tea.
He
couldn't eat, but took the tea. Sat up in bed, leaned
against the wall, to hide the healing wounds. Saw shock
in her face, speechlessness. She looked at him as if
trying to grasp what she had seen, or what it meant.
He hoped she hadn't seen the whole word. Hated the SAS
bastard in that moment, felt his chest constrict under
the weight of her pain. "It's nothing." He
winced. "Important."
She
accepted the lie like all the other lies. Black is white,
and up is down. As long as we both understand the code.
"An enemy?"
"I
hurt him, too."
She
nodded, eyes narrow. "Good."
He
could have loved her in those feral moments.
*
* *
He
was reading when she came back. Dostoevsky. Crime and
Punishment. He would have to fight hard to finish it
before going back to Kabul. He didn't take books with
him. First, he still couldn't carry much beyond a glass
of tea and secondly, he could just see what the others
would think of a collection of the classic writers.
It was nice, however, to immerse oneself into language
that was free of all profanity - beyond the things it
described. Poverty, despair, darkness, and humanity.
It made him think, and it was as far removed from the
war as he could make it. The occupation. Raskolnikov
broke over the fact he had killed one old woman - almost
insane with guilt. It was nice remembering what that
could have felt like.
She
vanished in the kitchen, stored away whatever she had
bought on the market. "Can you get a conscript
out of the worst?"
He
glanced up. Now, that was unusual. "In theory."
"A
son of a friend was just sent to your place. She is
worried."
"What
kind of friend?"
Katya
stepped into the room, a slight smile on her features.
"A useful friend."
Influential.
Able to pull strings. Get things done, or get things
cheaper. Maybe a new flat. If she felt it was necessary.
He did need a new driver. The last one had been transferred
to a different barracks. "Can he drive?"
She
nodded, the smile grew wider, and she produced a photo.
Typical clueless conscript, looking still shell-shocked
from the hair-cutting. Dark green eyes. Broad, flat
features, lips too pretty, too curved. When he would
have filled out that frame, he'd actually turn out good
looking.
"Why
is she worried about him? Looks alright."
Katya's
smile grew a little darker, and she leaned in closer,
as if to kiss him. Her lips on his ear. "I wouldn't
be surprised if you didn't find something to …
not talk about."
And
turned around to fix up some blinis in the kitchen.
August
1981, Kabul
After
a decidedly non-remarkable welcome, Vadim changed. Changed
back into his normal gear, weapons everywhere on his
body. This was fucking Kabul. Welcome back.
Things
hadn't changed much. He sorted his clothes into the
locker, took the ring off his finger, returned the dog
tags to their place around his neck. Another excellent
English word. Dog tags.
Got
to work right away, met other officers, had a chat,
mentioned Gavriil. Pulled strings. After a signature,
the young guy was officially his.
Had
him come into the office, to tell him of his good fortune.
No mine sweeping. No truck driving. Instead, make sure
Vadim and another officer got where they wanted to be.
The
door opened, and the boy showed up, saluted. Correct
assessment. Dark hair, dark eyes, a mouth that was more
girlish than that of Anoushka. Vadim shook his head.
Fuck, he needed to get out of daddy-mode.
He
stood to circle the kid, assessed that body. Lean, bony,
good frame, he had done a lot of running, his knuckles
looked a little swollen and red, like he had been plucked
fresh from a fight.
Gavriil
tried to evade his gaze. Meeting somebody's eyes was
asking for a fight. He figured Gavriil had learnt that
lesson in the barracks. Not much different from any
kind of prison, really.
Vadim
stepped in front of him, leaned in closer, until those
eyes blinked and focused on him. Could see the kid swallow
and begin to sweat, could see tension in that body,
and Katya's word made sense. Someone to not talk about
things with. Like they never talked about the one thing
that could ruin them both.
A
friend. She knew that Gavriil liked men. That was why
people were worried. A fag in the gigantic prison that
was the Red Army. Gavriil would get stuffed so often
he wouldn't be able to move. And he could offer protection,
pluck the boy from the ranks and keep him as a driver.
And a toy. That part of the deal was the reason why
Katya had smiled like that.
Gavriil's
lips opened, he was nervous, wide-eyed, but Vadim could
feel he wasn't repulsed at all.
That
fucking cock of yours gets you killed one day, and if
not that, then it'll get you into shit so deep, your
obligations won't get you out of it.
Vadim
breathed. Entirely possible. He placed a hand against
the boy's neck, thumb brushing against his jaw line.
Good he'd taken off the ring. The boy shuddered. Vadim
could see him on his hands and knees.
Too
willing. This one didn't have a single fight in him.
But it was safe. The safest bet so far. He smiled, let
his thumb brush the corner of his mouth. Gavriil stared
at him, stared like he could hardly believe it. His
luck. The fact Vadim might be interested.
Gavriil
closed his eyes, lips moved as if in silent prayer.
"What?"
"Whatever
you want, sir."
Officer.
Superior. Para. Gavriil was first class bitch material.
Suka. He smirked. "Ain't that the truth."
*
* *
And
what a slut. At first he'd played innocent, but Vadim
could tell Gavriil had had cock in his mouth before.
He held him by the collar, not nearly enough hair to
grab, but the uniform collar was fine.
It
was strangely, darkly amusing, how embarrassed Gavriil
was about how horny it made him, but Vadim was in no
state to go for the all-out thing.
Blowjobs
was the most they could do. Or, Gavriil could do.
The
boy's body left him strangely unaffected, just not worth
conquering. And his ribs still hurt like a bitch. He
hooked a leg under Gavriil's body when the kid was giving
head, allowed the bitch to suck him and press against
his leg, rubbing against it like a dog to get himself
off. Vadim was an officer. And with Gavriil, that gap
was wider than ever before. He didn't care whether Gavriil
came. Sometimes, he'd been nice to Vanya, but Vanya
earned that with a fight.
He
did, however, like the way Gavriil flushed, liked the
way he was panting for breath, liked the feeling of
tongue, sucking and eventually trained him to take him
down the throat. That day he decided he'd keep him as
a driver. Men with that talent were rare and to be cherished.
During
the days, he did his job, inspections, military liaison
with the joke that was the Afghan army. Could as well
just stay home. A complete waste of time. The Afghans
lost a third of their number to desertion, and everybody
left who could or wanted to fight, leaving the bastards
that were too scared to run. That made for brilliant
fighters. Especially since the insurgents were their
friends and family. Vadim often had the feeling they
only stayed around so they could steal more kit when
they finally did leave. He wasn't going out of his way
to be pleasant with them. He knew everything would crumble
and fall to pieces again the moment he turned his back.
Very
difficult to stay out of the bottle after a day like
that. Gavriil soothed him. Actively sought to give him
a blowjob, like he couldn't wait. Vadim was not going
to say no. Six weeks later, his chest was much better,
but nowhere near alright, he fucked him up the ass.
Gavriil came from fucking alone. Another excellent trait
for a bitch. Needy, easily aroused, even easier finished.
He came into his trousers when fucked against a wall
or across his desk.
Not
just a bitch, but a proper whore. Breathlessly pleading
with him. Porn material. Harder, deeper, yes sir. It
was arousing, but it was too easy. Vadim wasn't even
sure if Gavriil could understand what a proper fight
was, even if he would try and explain it.
Nothing
but a doormat. Useful, in its place.
Fucking
boring.
July
1981, Old Blighty
Two
more weeks of dealing with those goat-fuckers, and Dan
was ready for some well-earned R&R back in England.
He was damn sure he'd gotten himself a veritable colony
of fleas, nits and lice, a self-diagnose that was confirmed
by a US medic who'd checked him over in one of the non-existent
camps.
There
was still no official Western intervention and even
less interest. No one was there, no one would stay,
and no one left for long.
Dan
just about managed to stop those bloody Americans to
shave his hair in their stupid crew cut, made them give
him a longer version instead, and drowned himself in
every bit of parasite poison he got his hands on. The
joys. He'd never get used to those little fuckers.
Enjoying
the luxury of hot water, he stayed longer in the showers
than usual, getting himself back up to his personal
grooming level. Consisting of cutting his nails, scraping
the half-moons of dirt from under them, getting a real
good wet shave and ... that was it. He'd never understood
the need for anyone, least of all blokes, to do anymore
than that. Wash hair, wash body, take off. Go and find
yourself a shag.
Shag.
That was it. He couldn't wait to get out of this motherfucking
Muslim country where women were swathed in drapery like
black crows tumbling with ruffled feathers in the wind.
He hadn't seen anything that tickled his fancy for weeks
on end, needed a bird with big tits to remind him of
what he really wanted, a good, long, hard fuck.
He
just needed to burrow his face in ginormous bazookas
and he would be alright. Double E cup, at least, and
a wide-load arse to grab hold of. Just like he liked
them. Not those stick-thin girls who had no curves and
no flesh on them. He'd always taken the piss out of
anyone who didn't want to suffocate in a nice, big pair
of tits. He was just like his mates, he was one of them,
when on the prowl and off duty. A lad like any other.
Fucking his brains out with a willing bimbo after a
night in the pub. Pissed to the gills, getting his leg-over,
then fucking off before the morning.
Just
like the others. He was one of them. Just like his mates.
He
chatted with a couple of US Marines, joking and telling
tall tales, watching porn in their hideaway mess, flicking
through x-rated mags, making rude gestures, smirking
and shouting out his approval at the latest pussy queen
while waiting for his flight back to Blighty.
At
night, he dreamed. Of hard muscles, angular planes,
the smell of fresh sweat and drying blood. Memory of
smooth skin beneath his hands, pale blond hairs catching
the last sunbeams over the mountains, and a strength
that matched if not out-won his own. Barely contained
power, but power he'd had in his hands.
He
woke up hard. And wanting.
*
* *
"Oy,
mate!" Dan raised the pint glass in his hand, laughing.
Already pretty drunk, he'd been on the piss every night
since he'd returned to Britain a week ago. "I'm
off in a sec." He winked at Smudge, who was groping
a brunette's tits. The girl was dressed in pink leggings
and something that could almost be called a boob tube,
if it wasn't more like a strip of fabric, stretched
across fucking big pillows.
His
mate lifted a thumb, "See ya, mate!" before
continuing to slobber the garish lipstick off the giggling
girl.
Dan
drowned the remaining half pint, turned his head to
the blond bimbo in his arm and grinned. "So, you
wanna know how Special a Forces guy can be?" Corny,
but it usually worked, and she had long proven to be
giggly and flushed enough to be flattered by his attention.
The fact that his hand was up the minuscule mini skirt,
had twisted her thong and his fingers were half-way
up her fanny, might have been a clue.
She
was ripe, and Dan was looking forward to another round
of fucking. He'd done his fair share since his return
for R&R and intended to shag his way through as
many tits, cunts and arses as he could fit into fourteen
days. He wondered if he'd get this one to take it up
the backdoor, seemed he had developed from a mere liking
to a clear preference to ram them from behind while
they were kneeling like dogs.
The
things the bloody Afghan mountains did to a man.
"Sure,
but we have to be quiet, I'm sharing a flat with a girlfriend.
She might be in." She giggled again and Dan smirked.
Threesome? Perhaps he got extra lucky.
"Got
some booze at home?" Dan stood up, just a minor
sway, he was a big bloke, an alpha male, who could handle
his pints, no question. She shook her head, that motherfucking
stupid giggle again. Dan was drunk enough to ignore
it. "Wanna stop over at the off licence before
they close, need some whisky, or whatever you Sassenachs
call whisky."
She
giggled. What else, and he wrapped his arm around her
shoulders, dwarfing the girl. Big tits, bleached blond
hair in a Farah Fawcett wannabe-mane, round arse and
killer stilettos and nothing in her brain. Just like
he liked them. Especially from behind.
A
trip to the local corner shop and a bottle of overpriced
whisky later, Dan watched the girl fiddle with her keys,
somewhat disappointed when she declared after checking
the lights were all off, that her flatmate wasn't at
home. No threesome, then, but he had another week to
go.
"Let's
get comfortable", he grinned, walked to her room,
the usual girly interior, fairy lights, cushions, throws
and all that crap. Paraphernalia of princesses, he'd
never gotten his head around the need for frills, doilies
and tables full of bottles, pots and brushes. He preferred
to focus on the bed, and that's where he sat down. Good.
Not too soft, he probably wouldn't have to risk carpet
burn.
She
giggled. Hell, fuck, heaven and earth, of course she
would. "I'll just make myself fresh, I'll be back
in a sec." She turned and swung her ass, giggling
excitedly all the way to the bathroom, leaving the door
ajar.
Dan
rolled his eyes, if she continued to giggle like that
he'd have to stuff her throat with something to shut
her up. He grinned, he knew just the thing for that,
sure she would be flattered enough by an extremely fit
soldier's attention to suck him off. Maybe this one
was better than most others, who didn't have a fucking
clue what to do with a cock. Best to get some of the
booze down his neck, just in case she was one of the
clueless ones. Dan wiggled out of his shirt and pulled
shoes and socks off his feet, making himself comfortable
on the bed in just his denims. Would leave her something
to unwrap. He grinned, uncorked the bottle and took
a long swig straight out of it.
Fifteen
minutes later she still hadn't returned and the bottle
of whisky was half empty.
He
was well down the road of piss-fuck drunk, when she
finally appeared, wearing her tits hanging half out
of a push-up bra and a tiny thong with a glittery kissy
mouth. A sight to behold, and Dan grinned from ear to
ear, his speech slurred. "Time to have fun, been
waiting for you."
"I
hope it was worth it." She giggled - hoo-fucking-ray
- but at least she climbed onto the bed, eyed the whisky
bottle but said nothing, except reaching out for it.
Dan handed it over, nothing better than some booze down
a bird's neck and her precious ring would hopefully
open for some backdoor action. He could feel the need
rising, watched her kneel and drink, the smooth neck
tipped back, the soft lines, the small sips; the lack
of an adam's apple.
"You
on the pill?" He was fumbling with his belt, ready
for action, could hardly wait to get down and dirty.
She nodded, but pointed to her nightstand. "Don't
you think we should use condoms?"
He
laughed, popping the buttons of his jeans, "Bollocks,
I'm clean. Much better without a rubber."
She
nodded and … yeah, right, giggled. He was ready
to grab her hair and push that lipsticked mouth down
his cock. Kept himself in check, couldn't do that with
girls. Bad move, had to woo them. Had to be careful.
He tried to remember what the next step in the well
rehearsed manual was? Right. Compliments, while he pushed
his trousers down and watched her avert her eyes in
a ridiculous sudden bashfulness. What the fuck. He didn't
get that bullshit either. Nothing wrong with being a
slut, why the fuck did they have to come over halfway
through like a miniature Madonna, when they'd been down
your trousers and up your body for hours in the pub.
Free drinks, yeah, that's why, and attention. Always
fucking attention.
"You're
one of the prettiest girls I've ever met." He kicked
the jeans down, wore no underwear, always went commando
when he wasn't in uniform and off duty. Cock greeting
her sight, or simply just greeting. Anything. A hole
to stuff, preferably the tightest one.
"Really?"
She flushed, leaned forward, tits bouncing into Dan's
face.
"Sure,
I wouldn't lie. You're fucking gorgeous." Sure.
Blah blah, the whole shebang, the usual shit - and I'm
off in the morning. "Come on, now, I'm desperate
for your body, you drive me wild, I really wanna shag
you."
Thank
fuck, she reached to undo her bra, tits falling out
and his hands were ready to grip the firm flesh. Pulled
himself up, burrowed his face in the warm, sweetly scented
flesh, powdered and soft, round and silky, giving way
to his hands, fingers and face, not offering any resistance.
Thought
of a heavily muscled chest.
"Fuck!"
Dan recoiled, wiped his brow, she almost jumped back
and squeaked. "What? What did I do?" He laughed
it off, the booze, too much fucking whisky. "Nothing,
just caught my nuts." Drunken laughter, she seemed
happy with the answer, snuggled back up his body, her
breasts brushing his chest, her skin freshly showered,
powdered, deodorised and perfumed. Smelling nothing.
Nothing but fake sweetness and lack of anything. No
sweat. No blood. No heat.
"Come
here." He grinned, grabbed her hips, fought and
conquered the thong, made her straddle his abs, his
cock stabbing with every movement against the voluptuous
rounds of her arse cheeks. "You ready?" He
grabbed her breasts again, did the nipple roll-tug-etc
thing, the usual shit that counted as 'foreplay' in
his books, then dipped a hand to rub her clit, ready
for his fingers to find their way inside the wet heat
of her body.
Everything
hidden, all of it out of sight and out of mind, but
ready to service his lust.
She
writhed and moaned, looked ecstatic before he had even
started. He was drunk and horny, couldn't give a flying
fuck if she faked it. Didn't matter to him if she came,
just needed a hole, would do the rigmarole beforehand,
but never after, to shoot his load and get a proper
leg-over.
"I
want to fuck you on your knees." He groaned, worked-up
while working her tits and cunt, "you got such
a perfect arse!"
She
hesitated, but he pulled his last joker out of the packet
of fucked-up cards, and pulled her down to him, to start
snogging her like he figured she wanted. Tongue play,
nibbling, show of greed, and intimacy. Gave her what
she wanted to get in return what he craved.
Power.
Hard body. Strength and defiance. Muscles coiling beneath
his hands.
Dan
shook his head, broke the kiss, she mewled, he resumed,
grabbed her arse so hard she winced but he never relented.
Girl. Woman. Soft body. Tits. Arse. That's what he wanted!
That's what he needed! That's who he was!
"Come
on …" he cajoled, she still stalled, he pushed
his fingers up her cunt, never quite got into the habit
of enjoying the slippery wetness. Useful, but somewhat
off-putting, didn't like the smell, but hell, liked
how a versatile pussy could eat his cock. She squealed,
wiggled, tits slapping his chest, and he knew he'd won.
"You'll like it."
I
don't give a shit. I just want to come.
She
nodded and he took hold of her, lifted the girl like
nothing, just soft tissue and a few bones, nothing to
hold onto, nothing to fight with. She knelt on all fours,
compliant, willing, waiting for him to take and do.
'Do'. To be active, and he peered down her back, too
drunk to focus.
"Wanna
fuck your arse." Still-coated fingers sought the
puckered hole, tried to stab more than push, too pissed
to aim.
"No!"
She shook her head, tried to turn around, get away.
"No, I'm not that sort of girl, I don't do that.
That's disgusting!" She struggled, complained,
Dan's prize win was threatened.
"OK."
He frowned, but what the fuck, any hole would do. "Is
OK, you're lovely. Really, I like you, whatever you
want. Sorry for that." Lie, lie, get what you want.
Fuck and shag, then be on your way. "I understand,
you're a special one, you're a classy girl, sorry love,
we can always meet again, get to know each other while
I'm on leave. Just have a good shag now, we can meet
tomorrow, I'll leave you my phone number in camp."
Yadda
yadda words, no meaning, just get what you want.
She
giggled. Fuck! Again! Giggled and calmed, then pushed
back and started gyrating her hips once more. Good.
Better. Much better. Dan circled her waist, focussed
on her shoulders, the smooth line of fragile bones,
then went forward like every man had done for thousands
of years.
Cunt.
Cock. Sheath. Fuck. That's how it was meant to be.
She
moaned, he groaned; she pulled, he pushed; she panted,
he fucked. Rammed his cock into her as if he were trying
to prove a point. Fucked her body with narrowed eyes,
and ragged breath, felt sweat bead, then trickle down
his neck and chest. Watched her round arse, then flickered
away, still not coming, not yet. Eyes on the narrow
waist, then up to the thin neck, couldn't get to the
point that tipped him over. Shut his mind off to her
high pitched squeals and girly noises, finally shut
his eyes, grabbed her hips. Too drunk to guard his thoughts,
too pissed to reject the images, memories, scents and
sights.
Fucked
a hard body in his mind; fought muscled strength, gripped
steel and power, tasted sweat and blood, sun-burnt flesh;
watched rope-like neck moving and turning, shaved blond
hair, thickly defined arms and shoulders; wrestled and
punched, kicked and battled a body like his own. A body
unlike the one he was shooting his load into, unseeing,
unhearing, shouting to the memory of a hard cock, ropey
abs and dog tags jarring on a pronounced chest. "Fuck!"
Dan
came. Collapsed. Discarded the girl's unwanted body.
"Where
the fuck is the whisky."
* * *
She'd
thrown him out, crying, complaining, accusing, her mascara
turning her eyes into black-smudged pandas, and he had
fled the flat, couldn't get the fuck out of there quickly
enough.
He
swayed while walking, had downed another good measure
of the booze, but she'd kept it, demanded the remainder
for her heartbreak and trouble. He was a liar, a thief,
a bastard and all the other wonderful terms he'd probably
been called more times than he could count. Whatever.
Dan
had no idea where he was, didn't care. Some part of
London, they'd taken a taxi from the off license. He'd
paid the fare but hadn't bothered to check where they
were heading. Didn't matter jack shit. Just the cool
night air in his face and the freedom to be out of the
confinement of her cute little bedroom. Cute. Fuck.
Stupid cunt.
Cunt.
Dan
growled and spit on the ground, wiping his fingers once
more on his thighs. He could still smell her. Stupid
bitch. Damned girls and all the shit he had to do to
get them. Why not just walk up, decide to fuck and get
on with it. Presents, teddies, flowers and compliments
if he wanted a regular shag. Sluts and fishy pussies
if he couldn't be arsed and just got too drunk and nothing
else mattered but a hole. Whores that sucked you off
for a tenner or let you fuck their loosened arseholes
for a fiver more. Stupid fucking girls. Not worth the
hassle. This one definitely hadn't been. Sweet innocent
girl, yeah, and his name was Abdullah.
Walking
aimlessly along the streets, drunk or not, Dan trusted
his senses to take him back into the centre of the city.
Blurred vision, but the cool air was sobering him some.
Enough to stagger on.
Fucking
cunt.
Had
already forgotten the girl, her tears and accusations,
eyes fixed on the pavement in front of his feet, wandered
without a plan, his thoughts returned to places he'd
refused to visit before.
Waking.
Night after night. Hard. Wanting.
Dan
snorted, staggered to the side, almost lost his balance,
time to stop. Patted the black leather jacket down to
find the packet of fags and leaned with his back against
the wall of the nearest building.
Fag.
Fucking
joke, that word. No way to get away from it, unless
he stopped smoking. Inhaled the first drag as deeply
as he could, stared into the sky while exhaling. Murky
stars, the night was nothing like the sky in the mountains.
The moloch of the city managed to tame even the planets
and stars. He laughed. Dry, without a hint of humour,
while disregarding the noise from across the street.
Another seedy nightclub, haunts for cheap sex and drugs
in a run-down neighbourhood of a run-down Thatcherite
country. Another drag, listening to the sizzle of the
glowing cigarette instead, and staring at the patch
of sky.
Tame.
Unlike
the other. The enemy. That goddamnedmotherfucking Russian
who had crawled into his brain, hooked poisoned barbs
into his mind, had changed everything. Everything. Unlike
he had been. Unlike he'd ever been before.
He
was normal. He shagged girls. Not guys.
Dan
pulled up his shoulders, took another drag from the
cigarette. He'd never had those thoughts before. Couldn't
remember the waking, night after night after …
He
was a bloody bad liar.
Dan
laughed, much like he had, back in the mountains, confronted
with the simplest and most truthful of answers. 'I want
you.' 'I'd take you again.' And fucking hell, how he
had wanted the bastard.
"Fuck,
fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." Muttered. This time it
hurt and it wasn't the booze that did it. Thirty-two
years. Thirty-two goddamned years and it took one enemy
to break through the mask he hadn't known he was wearing
and the lie he had believed himself.
"What
a fucking mess." Words escaping through puffs of
smoke. He was a soldier, a squaddie. He had to be what
he'd always thought he was, or he'd be busted. He had
to be like all the others, just like them - to belong.
'Them', since when had he started to think in the manner
of them and I and they and us. Had to be the booze.
He
flicked the butt onto the pavement, stubbed it out and
lifted his eyes across the road while doing so. Froze.
Stared. Mesmerized by a sight in the sickly yellow glow
of a street lamp. Two men. Kissing. No, bullshit. Devouring.
Eating each other.
He'd
never been so envious in his life before.
Dan
couldn't take his eyes off, was staring with the intensity
of a drunken guy, transfixed at the sight of those two
men. He had to be watching for minutes, standing in
the shadows against the walls, before the two guys finally
noticed him, one prodding the other, pointing to the
Peeping Tom across the street who was gawping at them.
"Oy,
you!" One of the called, gesturing over to him,
but it took Dan a moment to register. "What the
fuck are you staring at, arsehole." Both of the
guys now glaring at him. They were tall, broad, muscled.
Shit, they weren't anything at all like Dan, the gay
bashing bastard, had told himself a faggot would be.
They were like the Russian. No. Not quite. Nobody was
like that Russian cunt. At least no one he'd met before.
Not even his SAS mates.
"You
got a problem with us?" They shouted while Dan
watched with detached amusement how their fists clenched,
their leather vests and studded straps-wearing chests
puffed up, and their bodies straightened to full height.
Funny. He could kill them without effort, no matter
how hard they thought they were. The guys were taking
a step or two towards him, but he relieved them of their
trouble, making his way across the street with the deliberate
steps and the slight sway of a fairly pissed bloke.
"No."
Dan grinned, suddenly realising that yeah, fucking hell,
it was nothing but the goddamned truth. "I haven't
got a problem with you." Holy shit, if only they
knew, that before he'd gone to that shithole Kabul and
its hellish mountains, he would have kicked their heads
in. Just for the fun of it, just because they were fucking
fags, shit-stabbers, queer cunts.
Dan
laughed, shaking his head as he passed the flummoxed
blokes, who stared at this idiot who was laughing his
head off for no reason.
He
passed the open door of the club, peered inside and
caught a glimpse of men, bodies, leather, smell of beer
and smoke and a motherlode of testosterone. And he laughed,
laughed so hard in his drunken wisdom and the revelation
of thirty-two years, that he forgot that fucking revelation
of the biggest lie of his life was going to hurt like
a motherfucker. Laughed because of the insanity of it
all, and the intensity of relief. Tonight, it was just
hilarious. He didn't care what it would be like tomorrow.
My
cunt, eh? Just like him.
|
Special
Forces
