Thu, 19 Nov 2009 00:40:56 +0000
Deck crew, CIC, sometimes even pilots just didn’t get it. But a (fellow) soldier always understood how it was after an engagement. The adrenaline out of control, spurring an insanity of need, tension, desperation…
Lt. M.Z. Denov (Senior grade) had a Marine she saw. He wasn’t the prettiest to look at. Certainly not the smartest. But he frakked so hard it hurt and isn’t that what mattered?
“Whore” he grunted one night, his callused fingers pressing bruises into her hips. She stiffened.
“Don’t call me that.” a pause. The truth was that his little burbles of vitriol were charming. “Somethin’ else.” she finally demanded. Call me something else.
He lifted his head, thumping it on the top of her rack “What dirty name y’want?” What a good dog, she thought, he didn’t miss a beat this time. Den let her head fall back and her fingers dig into his back.
“Petty Officer, First Class.”