Jordan

[Crushing]

"I can't believe you turned them down, Jack. I can't believe it!"

Jordan Simms, a shy, skinny, bespectacled young girl in a clean, modest khaki dress from the charity store peeked inconspicuously around the doorframe into the kitchen.

The oldest daughter of Pastor Jack and Mrs. Monica Simms (who had just turned nine last week), was an intensely curious girl. Focusing on being able to see and not be seen, she watched her parents argue. Her mother, visibly pregnant with her third child, refused to turn around to face her husband. Jordan's mother was usually so even tempered. Sweet, even. Now her posture displayed an unfamiliar set of emotions: frustration. Even anger.

Her face was not visible–Monica leaned over the kitchen faucet as it poured out a weak stream of water into a sink full of dishes.

Jordan's father, Reverend Jack Simms, tried to put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

But she shrugged it away angrily.

"It's not a good thing, Monica," he tried to explain. "I know it's more money than we have. But it's not a good thing."

"It's not just the money. It's just…security! Advancement! This is a big church! An established, successful church! They have an auditorium for a sanctuary! They have a full time praise band! A good Vacation Bible School! Jordan could learn the Bible from a professional teacher instead of just poking through your library! You could become a famous preacher on TV! Don't you want to reach more people for Jesus? What is the downside, Jack? Tell me!"

Jordan saw her dad cringe for a moment before formulating his response.

"I know you don't really believe any of that, Monica. There are downsides. Big ones. Their church is flashy, I'll give them that. And I know they have a lot of people attending. All that money comes from a big, excited congregation. But all that money goes somewhere, too. And not where it should. I don't trust it. I know who these people are. And so do you."

Jordan's mother stopped scrubbing the plate. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I know. I know it, Jack. I'm just so tired of struggling."

"I know, honey. But we're really blessed, in our way. God will make a way for us."

"We don't have room in this little house for a third child, Jack. I thought we'd be able to move up by now."

The Reverend sighed. "I'll take care of that. I asked Lyle and he said he had some extra lumber and drywall. He said he'd come over next week and he and I can put another bedroom on the back of the house."

Monica sighed again. "That's very kind of Lyle. But he's 74 years old, Jack. I'm afraid we're going to kill him."

Reverend Simms laughed. "It'll take more than that to kill Lyle. No, he and I can tackle it together. We'll make another room for a nursery in no time. You'll see. Jordan and I can go find some shingles and a window or two at the salvage yard. And she can help us build. You know how she is, she'll love that. Maybe fetch us tools or hand us nails or help paint. It'll come together before you know it. And it'll be fun! And I'll make it nice for you, honey. You and the new baby. It'll be great. I promise."

Jordan's mother sighed again, finally turning around with a weary look on her face.

"Jack, you're a sweet man, but you're naive. It's what I love about you most days. But some days…like today…I just…"

She clenched her fists and grunted in frustration before letting her head fall against her husband's chest. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her frazzled hair.

"I know, honey. But we'll be okay. The Lord provides. Sufficient for the day."

Monica didn't respond as her husband stroked her back.

The Reverend's voice modulated to a low, gentle, reassuring tone. "You've been on your feet all day. With a baby on the inside and a toddler on the outside, honey. Go lie down and relax. I'll clean up here."

"Okay." Monica wearily agreed.

Jordan scurried away out of sight into the pantry as her mother walked by, too tired to notice her daughter standing there. After hearing footsteps up the stairs, Jordan peeked out again to see her father tending to the dishes. She cautiously stepped out and walked up behind him.

"Hey Dad…"

He turned around, betraying a weary look on his face that brightened noticeably when he saw his oldest daughter.

"Heya Jojo…How's the homework coming?"

"It's done. It wasn't hard. Is mom okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Of course, Jojo. Everything's fine."

"Are you guys fighting?"

Reverend Simms shook his head. "No. Mom's just tired. You wanna help me with the dishes? Grab a towel. You can dry."

Jordan picked a dish towel out of a drawer and stood beside her father as he handed her clean, wet dishes.

"You comb the dictionary yet, Jojo? What's your new word today?"

"Atavistic." Jordan responded proudly.

"Oooh, that's a five dollar word right there. What's it mean?"

She was ready with the answer. "Reverting to a concept that is ancient, outdated, or ancestral."

"Sounds like something a wizard would study in an old dusty library."

Jordan giggled. "Maybe."

They worked in silence for another moment.

"Dad?"

"Hmmm?" He handed her a mug to dry.

"Why does mom think you're naive? You read more books than anybody."

Reverend Simms sighed. "I guess you heard that. Well, I can be naive. Mom's not wrong about that. But being naive can be a good or a bad thing. Naive just means innocent. Someone who hasn't been corrupted by the world or the evil things in it. And that's a good thing! But it can also mean that that person can get taken advantage of or exploited by tricky or evil people. Because naive people don't understand evil or know how to fight back against it."

"Was Jesus naive?"

"I don't think so. I think he knew exactly what everyone's game was, good or evil. But he, since he was such a special kind of good, he chose to resist evil in his own way. I'm sure people thought he was naive, though."

"So mom thinks you're naive because you turned down the offer from Maranatha Fellowship?"

The Reverend smiled. "How long were you listening to us?"

"The whole time."

Reverend Simms chuckled to himself. "Can't get anything by you, Jojo."

Jordan giggled.

Her father continued.

"Mom's worried about the new baby, and our congregation isn't very big. She's right. It's not going to be easy with a third mouth to feed. And I don't make the money that the pastors down at Maranatha Fellowship make. It's tough to get by sometimes. But we're making it. I've got that job stocking vending machines in the mornings. They keep me busy, and we're getting by. I think we're pretty blessed, myself. But mom's not wrong to worry. She just wants what's best for you kids."

"What's wrong with Maranatha? If you made more money, you wouldn't have to drive the chip truck anymore."

Reverend Simms turned off the faucet and turned toward his young daughter, grasping her forearm gently and looking into her eyes.

"Listen to me, Jojo. There's nothing wrong with a man who drives a delivery truck, or who digs ditches, or fixes cars. There's nothing that makes uh…a doctor or…a professor a better man than someone who drives a truck and delivers things that make people happy. It's honorable. And an honorable job is far, far more important to a man's character than a lucrative job. A good man is a good man no matter what his profession is. Jesus was a carpenter. And the best man in the world may well be a regular old truck driver, or a plumber, or any honest trade."

Jordan hadn't seen her father look that earnest before. It hit her hard. She didn't know how to respond.

He turned back to the sink and turned the faucet back on. Jordan thought about his response for a moment before following up.

"Dad, is it bad to be rich?"

Reverend Simms shook his head and smiled. "Not necessarily. But money…has a way of rotting things. In much the same way poverty can. Having too much can be just as dangerous to your soul as having too little. It rots things."

"Rotting things? How?"

"Well, too much of something can be bad for you. You remember Mr. Wiles? He used to sit three rows from the back? He died last year?"

Jordan nodded.

"Do you remember that before he died, he didn't have his feet anymore?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, Mr. Wiles had diabetes. He'd had it for a good long while, and he got it because he kept eating things that tasted good. Now we all love candy and yummy food, right? Nothing wrong with it all by itself. But Mr. Wiles went overboard with it. Eventually he got diabetes. But then after he got diabetes, he just kept eating and eating, more and more candy and sweets…and eventually his body just shut down, a little at a time."

"Mr. Wiles' feet fell off because he ate too much candy?" Jordan asked, wide eyed.

"Well, it's a little more complicated than that, but basically, yes. Too much abundance…too much of a sweet thing…too much pleasure…too much comfort…it's bad for you, Jojo. It's nice to have nice things. You should always work hard so you can have enough. But when you get greedy, when you get too much…that's when things start rotting. It can rot your soul. Or your marriage. Or your family. You've got to be on your guard against it."

"Do you think Maranatha is rotten?"

Reverend Simms' lips pursed. "I don't like to pass judgment on other Christians. Jesus says we shouldn't do that."

"But they're rich."

He nodded. "They are. Very rich. And I don't judge them for that. But I also don't want to put my family in the middle of all that. I like our church. The people here need us. They need me preaching and visiting them when they're sick. They need you to sing in the choir and pick up song books after services. We can't just leave them. And I don't know if we're strong enough to just get rich all of the sudden and still be the family that we want to be. Don't get me wrong, I want to give a good life to you. But I don't know if I'm strong enough to resist the temptations that come with a rich man's life. Especially a man who gets rich off of Jesus' name. So you can blame me if you want to, Jojo. But I feel it deep in my bones. Nothing good can come out of having too much and still claiming to follow Jesus. That's why I said no when they offered me that job."

Jordan nodded.

"I don't blame you for anything, Dad."

Glancing sideways for a second, Jordan saw a hint of a tear form in the corner of her father's eye.

"I can help you build a new room for the baby too," she offered. "I like Lyle. I like his funny stories."

The Reverend nodded, fighting out a smile.

"Thanks, Jojo. I like Lyle, too."

* * *

Three loud, metallic slaps rang harshly through the steel fire door.

"Yeah…come in."

The door squeaked as it opened less than half way, but then held steady. For a moment, no one appeared.

Sergeant–now Corporal–Rein stood up and cocked his head to see out the door, surprised to see a shock of long red hair nervously peek in, followed by a pale, petite woman's body. The door was pulled shut–but not before Mark looked past to see Corporal Arnold–one of his former squad leaders–dressed in his guard duty belt and looking hastily both ways to ensure the coast was clear.

Molly stood awkwardly at the entrance of Mark's barracks room–a nervous, half-cocked grin on her face. Her hair hung loose and flowed down to her shoulder blades and collar bones, her ears still studded with small gold earrings sporting the eagle, globe, and anchor–the symbol of the Marine Corps. She had a cloth shoulder bag slung over her right side, and she had changed from her courtroom clothing to a more casual outfit comprised of plain blue jeans and a forest green shirt that matched the color of her eyes.

"Hey…" Her nervous grin tensed further as her head and body tensed backward a half-inch, uncertain of what Mark's response or mental state would be upon seeing her.

"Hey." He seemed to be at a loss for words. But he didn't look angry.

Molly looked around Mark's barracks room for the first time. It was not unlike a prison cell.

Jared had tried to prepare her for the spartan reality of barracks life. A concrete floor with a solid, simple tile-print overlay. Walls made of large bricks, painted plain white. No decorations on the walls. On one side of the room was a small desk and chair. next to the desk, a waist-high bookshelf positively crammed full of paperbacks. On the other side was a single bed with a plain green blanket stretched tightly over the mattress. Centered on the back wall was a small alcove with a vanity sink and two doors facing each other–probably a bathroom and a closet.

"You're not supposed to be here." Mark said flatly.

Molly took a deep breath. "I know."

She took a second look around the room, noting small indicators of Mark's state of mind. Several small, grubby red smudges were visible on the white painted brick. Matching, as she soon realized, the torn skin on the knuckles of his right hand. A trash can was on its side in the alcove behind the sink…seemingly having been thrown from across the room.

"How are you feeling?" Molly asked gently, taking a step toward him.

"I'm okay. How are you?"

"I'm good."

Mark towered, trembling, in the center of his barracks room. He was dressed in his utility uniform, but had removed his button-up blouse. He still wore his tight green undershirt, camouflage pants, and utility boots.

His eyes were wild, his posture tense.

Molly took another step toward him. He looked like a wild animal–unsure whether to fight or flee, but stuck in a cage. She became suddenly and acutely aware of their size difference as she approached.

Mark twitched noticeably as she reached out to touch him, placing her flat palms on his firm chest and looking up into his eyes.

"So…tough day, huh?"

Mark nodded silently.

She slowly ran her hands up and down his torso. Then, when the shaking of his body began to diminish, she stepped in again to press the front of her torso against his and lay her cheek on his chest.

"Are you glad to see me?"

He felt the lilt of her voice resonate against his chest and the tension began to drain from him.

"Yeah. Yeah I am, actually. How did you get in here?"

"Jared set it up. I don't know how it works, but I think he called someone and changed the guard shifts before they brought you back here. He's doing guard duty tonight, and he put someone you know as the guard on your door. They waited until all the officers and senior people left and then snuck me up."

Mark allowed himself a half smile. "Sneaky bastards."

Molly sighed out a laugh. "Yeah." She looked up into his eyes. "Mark, where are you?"

Mark's eyebrow raised. "I'm in my barracks room. On motherfucking restriction…"

Molly smiled. "Yep. But I'm with you."

Mark sighed and allowed himself to put his arms around her and squeeze. She hummed and extended her own arms around his neck. They kissed deeply.

"So…" she said, stepping back from their embrace, "what's going to happen if they catch me here?"

"To you? Nothing. They'll just make you leave and escort you off base. I'll get some shit though."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Don't really care, actually. I just got fucked over for some bullshit, might as well add it to the tab, right?"

Molly nodded sadly.

"I don't think we've got a problem, though. If Frenchie's running the shift, he'll know how to keep people out of here. We can hang out for an hour or whatever and he can sneak you back down."

Molly shook her head. "Uh-uh. I'm staying the night. I told Jared I'd leave before people get up for PT. That's when he says there's a bunch of people around."

"How are you going to stay the night?" Mark looked around, confused. "You see this bed? It barely fits me…"

"We can make it work. I don't mind being cozy. Of course, we don't even have to sleep, if you don't want…" She flashed Mark a saucy smile.

Mark allowed himself a small laugh. "Okay…I'm not going to turn down a night with Molly. Especially when I'm stuck in here by myself for the next month."

"That's what I thought…" Molly gave him another quick peck before walking over to his desk, setting the shoulder bag down on the plain wooden surface.

"I brought you something."

Mark walked over and looked down into the bag as she began emptying it of a small stack of tupperware containers, along with some paper plates and plastic utensils.

"Megan made us some dinner. We had some time to kill before they could sneak me up so we went back to hers and Jared's place and made some pulled-pork burritos. You like these?"

"Oh, shit, I love those…" Mark said excitedly.

"She's pretty worried about you, big guy. They both are. And so am I. You doing okay? For real?" Molly opened the tupperware and the delicious smell of savory meat in hot wrapped tortillas wafted upward into Mark's face.

Mark shrugged, then grinned. "I'm definitely doing better now…"

* * *

The phone rang three times before he answered.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Reverend."

"David! How are you? And we've talked about this. Call me Jack. Or Dad. But it's great to hear from you!"

"Okay Dd…Jack," David stumbled over the appellation.

"That's better. To what do I owe the honor on a Wednesday morning? Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, Rev…Jack. Just wanted to chat for a moment if it's convenient. I've got a couple questions I'd like to run by you. Are you busy?"

"I'm on my way to visit one of my parishioners in the hospital, but I have a few minutes. If you don't mind me driving while I talk. Do you mind?"

"No…no, of course not…" David shook his head, confused. The man from the older generation still had odd hangups about conversational etiquette that occasionally took him by surprise.

"Good. What's on your mind? And while I'm at it, where the heck are you right now? I know you've been globetrotting, and Jordan said you were in South America. I'll admit it, I'm a little jealous. I've always wanted to go…"

"Well, yes, I'm in Argentina for another couple days. But I don't see much when I go to these places beyond seaports and railyards. And airports sometimes. But the weather is nice…it's spring down here."

"You don't say…spring in September. Can you beat it? I mean, I knew seasons were the opposite in the southern hemisphere, but wow. What a neat thing to think about…"

"Yeah, it's nice. A lot of flowers are in bloom outside my hotel room. It smells nice. I wish Jordan could be here too. That's the downside of globetrotting."

"Yeah, she'd like to be there too, pal. She sure misses ya. So what's up? You wanted to ask me something?"

"Yeah, if that's okay."

"Nothing serious, is it?"

"Well, a little. But not bad, serious."

"Ooh, I like where this is going. Hit me with it." A small laugh underscored the reverend's quip.

David took a deep breath.

"Well, I'm not sure if Jordan told you, but the business I started is doing well. I took my ownership stake down from 40% to 20% when we hired a manager, but it's still generating a fair amount of income. Things are going well there."

"David, that's wonderful. What a blessing!"

"Yeah, well, this job pays pretty well too, and I also just got a pretty substantial bonus–some incentive pay for some changes I suggested at the Port of Los Angeles. Kinda technical, but suffice it to say, I've got a little extra money."

"Wow. I'm impressed, David. We always knew you were a hard worker. And savvy! I'm sure you've earned every penny, bud."

"Thank you."

David was surprised by the feeling that hit him when his father in law verbalized his approval. His face flushed, unaccustomed to approval from a father figure. He swallowed a couple times and caught his breath before continuing.

"David? You still there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just dropped the phone for a minute…" David lied. He stabilized his voice, then continued.

"So here's the issue, Rev…Jack. My boss in Copenhagen thinks I'm working out in this position pretty well. And that's good. The bonus I got is great. And I do miss Jordan like crazy, but after the first year with Maersk we can renegotiate my away time so I can get home more. But for now, Arne…my boss…said I should do something nice for Jordan with the bonus I got."

"Well, I'm not going to disagree with that. What did you have in mind?"

David cleared his throat. "I'm going to buy her a car. A new car."

The line went silent for a moment.

"Reverend?"

"Sorry bud, I'm just…wow. It must have been some bonus."

"Yeah, it's a pretty good chunk of change. I just wanted to get your thoughts on it. Is there any way this could backfire? Would she think it's too big of a gesture? And what kind of car should I get?"

"Well, David, I'm never going to tell you not to spoil my daughter."

His voice sounded strained. Diplomatic. The line went silent again as he paused for a moment, clearly uncertain how to continue.

"Jack?" David asked when the silence got awkward.

"Yeah. I'm here. Well," Reverend Simms replied thoughtfully, "I don't know if I can answer which car you should get. You might want to talk to her mom about that one, she's better with that stuff than I am. As far as the first question, about whether it's too big of a gesture, I guess that depends."

"It depends? On what?" David was surprised.

"Well…this is awkward. I'm better doing this kind of stuff with my pastor hat on, and I've got my dad hat on right now. And since I've got the dad hat on, I'll just be blunt. Is everything okay? With you two?"

David gulped. "Yeah. No, we're fine! I mean, being apart is awful, it's driving us crazy. But I think we're okay. I just…our car's kinda old, and I thought…"

"Are you totally sure about that? Are you two working through anything…major?"

"No…no, nothing like that, Reverend."

"Jack. Or Dad. I told you I had my Dad hat on, David!" Reverend Simms laughed.

David laughed back nervously. "No, I know, Jack. But, uh, no. No, we're good. I just thought…"

David didn't finish.

"Well, if that's the case, I think it's a wonderful idea. She'll be thrilled. Is it a surprise? Am I sworn to secrecy?"

"Yeah, actually. I want to pick it up when I get home this weekend and surprise her with it."

"Well, as long as it's not the Batmobile or something, I don't know how you could go wrong." The levity had returned to his voice.

David began to relax. "No, no Batmobiles. I was thinking like a Honda or Toyota. Something reliable but fun. Maybe one of those mini SUV things we could take hiking."

"Boy, that would be neat. Yeah, I'd give Mrs. Simms a call, run it by her. She might tell you what color she likes, or whatever they do. But I think that's just great, David. I'm so happy for you, and I'm just so proud of you. We all are!"

David beamed to himself again.

"I'm serious, David. You're a good man. You're a..uh…a terrific provider, and you take good care of my daughter. I can't tell you how happy I am about all that. Now if I could only find a young man half as good as you for Jordan's sister. She just started her freshman year at college…well, you know all that. I'm just falling all over myself worrying about her. But that's my problem, not yours. I just sure am glad someone's looking out for my Jo-Jo."

David beamed brighter.

* * *

Pacing around the inside of Mark's barracks room, Molly was struck by just how much like a jail cell it was. No windows. Blank brick walls. Hard floor. A steel fire door. Although, the small bathroom counter was wood, giving that section of the space a bit of a homey feeling. But only a little bit.

She opened the door on one side of the sink and saw a very small bathroom: just a toilet and a stand-up shower. Both were spotless. Shutting the door, she opened the opposite door facing it to find a surprisingly deep closet. The closet was neatly arranged with uniform items of varying degrees of formality hanging off a single dowel near the back, and a small cluster of footwear on a shoe rack on one side. A few large duffel bags were stuffed with something and stacked neatly closer to the front. The whole thing, even filled with Mark's belongings, was big enough to walk into.

"Jealous of my closet?" Mark said, taking his place behind her and sliding his hands around the front of her stomach and pulling her back into his body.

Molly smiled and covered his clasped hands with hers. "A little. It's bigger than I thought."

"Yeah, some guys really stuff the space. I don't like to have too much stuff in here though."

"It's nice and neat. Like pretty much everything here."

"Yeah, well. You know. Barracks life. Everything spic and span." Mark sighed.

"Except the blood smears on the wall."

Mark tucked his chin, embarrassed. "You saw that, huh?"

Molly turned around and tucked her chin with an eyebrow cocked, throwing the classic "really?" look up at him as he avoided eye contact.

"If this is going to work, big guy, you need to come to terms with the fact that I notice things. Now when are you going to let me fix up your hand?"

Mark sheepishly lifted his right hand up to her eye line. She held the "really?" look and posture for a moment, then gently took his hand and inspected it. She squeezed each knuckle and waggled each finger, then turned it over, then over again.

"Doesn't look like you broke anything. Which is lucky, since you punched a brick wall. Not the best target if you ever want to master the piano."

Mark snorted, but let her continue.

"Do you have a first aid kit? You definitely have some abrasions. Nothing serious, but could get infected."

"Yeah, under the sink."

Molly stepped over and bent down, digging out bandages and peroxide before carefully cleaning the wounds on and between the swollen knuckles of his right hand. Once all the grime and half-formed scabs were tended to, she wrapped a neat layer of gauze across his knuckles and secured it.

"You're pretty good at that." Mark's voice was tinted with admiration.

"Yeah, well, you know…" Molly smiled, still looking down as she finished wrapping up his hand. "I've had lots of practice."

She finished up, then returned all of the first aid supplies under the sink., throwing the bandage wrappers in the trash.

"I kinda lost it for a bit when I got back," Mark admitted sheepishly.

"I can see that," Molly replied.

"And a little bit when that lady was giving me shit."

"I saw that too."

"Molly?"

"Yeah?" She looked up after throwing the last bandage wrapper away and closing the cabinet door beneath the sink. She saw Mark standing awkwardly, his eyes glistening with a new look.

Shame. Embarrassment. Fear.

"Molly, I'm really sorry. I just…I don't know what…"

"Shhhh….." Molly stepped in to rub his chest and lean against him. "There's nothing to be sorry about. Just a really bad day."

She heard him clear his throat and try to swallow his emotion.

"Nobody's mad at you. Nobody's disappointed in you. We all just want to be there for you, okay?" She looked up at him, hooking her hands up and over his broad shoulders. He smiled stoically and nodded.

"Okay. Thanks, Molly. I'm really glad you came."

"Me too, honey." She stretched up to kiss him. He kissed back.

"Sorry about the accommodations and stuff. Not a lot to do in here."

"That's okay," she said brightly. "We had Megan's dinner, we got you cleaned up. We're on our way."

"Yeah."

Molly laid her face against his chest, rubbing his torso with the flats of her palms until she felt some tension release from his muscles.

"You want me to make you feel good?" She said into his chest.

Mark laughed, the vulnerability of a few moments ago fading from his voice. "Yeah. Obviously."

Molly grinned, then pointed to the small chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat…"

Mark made his way to the chair and flopped down, exhausted. Molly sauntered up and nudged his knees apart, kneeling between them and pulling her hair back into a ponytail. She wordlessly unbuttoned the fly of his fatigues and reached into his boxers, retrieving the ample fistful of his cock and setting it down in the open air. She looked up at him and smiled, running her fingertips up and down his length as he took a deep breath and began to relax.

Molly's smile slowly faded and her face took on the amorous gravity of her task. She gripped his now-stiffening cock at its base, stretched upward to give him a deep kiss on the mouth with a sensual sweep of her tongue, then knelt back down and bent over to take him into her mouth.

Mark's breathing began to even out, roughly matching the slow bob of Molly's red hair over his crotch. The sweet, warm welcome of her mouth provided him a comfort and intimacy he sorely needed, but could not articulate. She seemed to relish the opportunity to meet his needs, stopping only occasionally to kiss and lick him, but focused mainly on maximizing the moist friction between his cock and the inside of her lips, tongue, and cheeks.

She felt his body sink into deeper relaxation, and she smiled–only within herself of course, as she was unable to extend her lips beyond the tight stretch required to snuggle her lover's manhood. She began to purr gently, not sensing a building of arousal on his part, but rather a gradual easing into a zen-like state. Sitting quietly in shared intimacy with a lover.

She paused after a moment, looking up at him. "How am I doing?"

"Good…" Mark mumbled with glassy eyes.

"Do you want me to keep going? Do something else? What's good for you?"

"This is good…" Mark mumbled again. "Take your top off, maybe. Wanna see you."

Molly smiled, pleased that her ministrations had lulled him into that level of relaxation. She cheerfully leaned back and pulled the hem of her shirt up until the garment dropped her bright red ponytail out of the collar. Dropping it behind her, she winked up at her lover as she reached behind her back and unclipped her brassiere, letting it slump off her shoulders and fall limp across her kneeling thighs.

Mark absently began to cup and pinch her small breasts and pink nipples as she leaned forward to give him all the head he wanted.

The two were comfortably settled in their complementary postures, Mark seated in a chair, leaning back slightly while the young wife and mother kneeled in front of him and lovingly attended to his physical needs.

The joint meditation went on for a few more moments when three hard, metallic slaps on the door jarred them both out of their stupor.

"Shit…" Mark stood up, scrambling to tuck his large, hard member back into his pants.

Molly, too, shot upward, instinctively covering her naked breasts with her hands and looking desperately around at the empty room.

"Just a sec…" Mark bellowed toward the door, then hastily turned to Molly.

"Closet."

Mark whispered it urgently.

Molly nodded and darted back and into the closet, quietly shutting the door behind her.

Mark finished buttoning his fly, tucking his member off to one side.

Still visible, but not as much.

"All right, come in."

The door squeaked open and Jared walked in, wearing the sergeant-of-the-guard belt, armed and coiffed for duty.

"Hey man. How you holding up?"

Mark grinned. "Oh, shit man…I'm glad it's you."

Jared looked down, indicating toward the woman's shirt and brassiere still lying on the floor in front of the chair.

"Where'd you hide her?"

Mark grinned awkwardly.

"Molly, it's Jared," Jared said loudly into the air. "Are you in the closet?"

Silence. Then, a humiliated female voice seeped through the wooden door on the side of the sink.

"No…"

Mark and Jared laughed out loud.

"Want me to bring you your shirt?"

The door opened slightly and her green eyes peeked through. "Can I come out?"

Jared motioned her over, and she came out, wearing a large green undershirt she found in the closet. One of Mark's Hilariously oversized.

"Are we in trouble?" Molly asked Jared.

"Nope. Just dropped by to say the officer of the day is Lieutenant Snell."

"Fuckin' Snell? Really?"

"Yep," Jared grinned.

"Who's he?" Molly asked, confused.

"Total shitbag," Mark said confidently "He never makes the rounds, and usually sleeps through the night shift entirely. So no one's coming by tonight."

"Except me, obviously," Jared clarified. "You two can rest easy. Just be ready to slip out a little before 0500. That's when the staff and officers start getting in."

Mark nodded. "Sounds good. And seriously man, thanks. I really appreciate this. I was feeling…kinda fucked up after that whole thing. It's good to have my girl here." He reached around her shoulder and pulled her close to him. She blushed deeply.

Jared grinned again. "Glad we could pull it off. Arnie's on your door until 0500, so let him know if you need anything."

"Cool. Also, tell Meg thanks. For dinner. And everything. It was great. You guys are great. Sorry if I act all shitty. Just trying to figure this shit out, you know?"

"Yeah, no problem," Jared said, extending his hand for Mark to shake. "We'll get through it, man."

Mark grasped his hand and pulled him in for a tight hug.

"You're the best, Frenchie."

Jared slapped his best friend's back, then broke the embrace. He nodded toward Molly, then grabbed the dinner bag off the desk and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Mark turned toward Molly, his eyes bright.

"Now, where were we?"

* * *

J:

D: I'm really sorry, baby. I underestimated traffic in Buenos Aires. This is completely my fault. I will be on the next plane home, I promise.

J:...

D: I'm so sorry…nothing can prepare you for the traffic in Buenos Aires. I know that now.

J: It's okay, honey. I understand. I'm just disappointed, I've been so excited to see you! When is the next flight? Do you know yet?

D: Looks like I can get on a flight to Panama, then a connector in Houston. Should get me home a little after midnight.

J: Okay. Let me know when you know for sure and I'll come pick you up at the airport.

D: I will.

J: Excited to see you!

D: Me too!

J: 🥰

David put his phone back in the inside pocket of his sport coat just as his taxi pulled up to the car dealership a few miles from his apartment. A small smile broke across his face as he savored the little white lie that would allow him to surprise Jordan with her new car.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the sales office and David stepped out, hauling his carryon bag out behind him. He reached through the window and paid the driver, including a generous tip, then stood up straight and adjusted his tie.

"Showtime…"

David had grown up around car lots, and was a veteran of their game. He had already picked out the car recommended by her mother, a brand new light blue Toyota Rav-4. Sporty, yet feminine. It had all sorts of extras–seat warmers, a great sound system, backup and side cameras, and he even negotiated some fancy black rims that matched the tires and accented the color of the body quite attractively.

Now all that was left was to mindfuck the salesman into dropping the price another thousand or so.

He didn't need the discount–the entire price of the new car with the extras was still less than the sizable bonus he had received. But ratcheting down the sale price of a car just felt good. Not only because he was an accountant at heart, always looking to trim expenses and increase efficiency, but also because he had spent his youth watching his morally reprobate father screwing over vulnerable customers in order to move junk cars off his lot and put dirty money into his wallet.

The thought of sticking it to a dealership was, indirectly, a way to fuck his dad over.

Which felt good.

He walked through the door to the sales floor with the goal of knocking $2000 off the final price. He ended up getting the discount up to $3500 when, defeated, they handed him the keys.

David knew their margins and tactics, and he knew just how to smile and take the same pressure they put on him and throw it right back on their shoulders. Once they were squirming, he made a counter offer, and it was accepted.

They were even more floored when he waved away the financing documents and simply pulled out his checkbook. Not a lot of young men in their mid twenties could do that.

He thoroughly inspected the new sporty vehicle inside and out before signing the final papers and receiving the title. Once he was satisfied, he flipped his carryon into the back storage area and waved to the humiliated salesman as he slipped into the drivers side of the car and left the lot.

He parked in a guest parking space, a few spots away from their old Camry, parked in their usual spot. Jordan was home–not surprising on a Friday afternoon. Whistling, David walked into the building and made his way to their apartment. He fumbled with his keys, then, thinking better of it, decided to knock on the door instead. A better surprise if she opened the door to find him.

He knocked, then placed his index finger over the peephole, hearing footsteps pad tentatively toward the door. He heard his wife lean up to look through the peephole, and, not seeing anything, carefully opened the door and looked through the crack. The chain latch was still on–a woman living alone couldn't be too careful. He stepped out of the line of sight so she couldn't see her.

"Ummm…hello?"

David pitched his voice up to mask his identity. "Good afternoon miss. We're Jehovah's Witnesses. Would you like to hear about God's good news for the world?"

Jordan wasn't fooled. She squealed in delight, slamming the door and fumbling to unhook the chain latch before throwing open the door and lunging at her husband. She threw her hands around his neck and squealed again, right in his ear, hopping about for a moment before kissing him wildly up and down both cheeks. Finally she settled into a nice, deep, wet kiss, holding his body close to hers, then pushed him playfully back against the opposite side of the hall outside their apartment.

"You punk! You said you weren't going to be here until midnight! Oh, I'm so mad at you!"

David grinned. Jordan's giggles and delighted smile gave the clear lie to her outrage.

"Sorry, honey. I just wanted to surprise you. Is that okay?"

"Is that okay? Baby, anything that gets you home to me is great…" She leaned in and kissed him deeply again.

David felt relief spread through his body. Jordan's touch had an incredible capacity to emotionally feed him. He hadn't realized quite how drained he was after yet another intense three weeks of work in foreign countries.

He broke the embrace and walked through the door, swinging his carryon jauntily over his back.

"Soooo good to be home!" He moaned loudly, elated.

He heard Jordan close the door behind them as he headed back to the bedroom to put his bag away and sort his clothes for the laundry.

"No wait…" David heard Jordan squeak out an objection as he turned the doorknob and walked in.

The room was disheveled. The top dresser drawer was open, Jordan's full length mirror was askew, and the bed unmade. Jordan's laptop was open facing toward the pillow, the screen not visible from where David stood. But about two feet to the right of the laptop, coated with moisture and glistening in reflected light on the nightstand lay a prosthetic penis.

It was long. Pretty thick. Tan. Circumcised. A slight bow in the shaft drew the eye to the prosthetic scrotum and a prominent suction cup at the base.

David turned around to look at Jordan, finding her cringing painfully.

"Are you mad?"

David stood in bewildered silence for a moment, then walked over to the laptop and turned it around. On the screen was a paused video: a naked young woman, bound in some decorative colored rope with her arms behind her, desperately sucking on a dildo. A dildo not entirely unlike the one currently in repose on his nightstand. He looked over at his wife again, who was now crossing her arms across her chest and looking down at the floor, blushing.

"I'm sorry honey…" she explained. "I know we have a deal, but I was just trying it out…and I thought you were on the plane, and I thought you were going to be late, and I got a little impatient thinking about you, and…"

David cut her off by lunging at her with more ferocity than she had when she lunged at him earlier. Her surprise dwarfed his, at least in his mind, and his mind was exploding in all the possibilities of his wife utilizing that…

After kissing her passionately for a few moments, he stopped himself. He had forgotten the real surprise.

David took Jordan's hand and headed down the hall to their living room.

"Come with me."

"Baby, we can talk this out, I'm really sorry. Oh my gosh, I'm so embarrassed, I just…"

"I'm not mad, Jordan. Really." David turned around to reassure her.

Jordan looked surprised, then her face softened into a shy smile.

"Really?"

"Really! No, why would I be mad? God Jordan, you're so, so, so, so hot!" David grunted.

Jordan looked down and blushed, looking shyly up at him again after the delighted shock of embarrassment passed.

"Thank you baby…" she said with a shy grin, twisting her torso playfully back and forth like an impatient schoolgirl.

"Get your shoes on, honey. We're going outside for a minute. I want to show you something."

"Umm…okay…"

She was dressed in casual wear for an autumn day: sweatpants and a hoodie.

Wardrobe choices which were probably useful in facilitating her earlier solitary activities, David thought to himself.

Jordan shuffled uncertainly to the shoe rack and slipped on some loosely tied tennis shoes. David opened the door and led her outside.

When they reached the parking lot, David turned to his wife, beaming. "It's for you, baby. A little gift to show you I care."

"What's for me? I don't know what…"

David pointed to the new Rav-4 with the dealer's plates on them. "I got a bonus. Your mom said this was the car you wanted in high school but they couldn't afford it. I got it for you."

Jordan's mouth dropped open. She looked at the new car, then her husband, then the car again.

"Baby…are you serious?"

"Yes, I am."

She walked forward and put her hand on the hood, still in shock.

"David…baby, this is so much money. Is this new? Like brand new?"

"Yep."

"Baby, you should have talked to me about this…what kind of loan did you…"

"Paid cash. I got a bonus for my audit in Los Angeles. It was big. I wrote a check. After I haggled them down, of course."

Jordan's eyes bugged out. She put her hand over her mouth. "Are you serious?"

David nodded proudly, loosening his tie in a playful gesture. "You like it?"

Jordan's mouth hung open, still speechless. She turned to look over the car once more, then back at her husband.

"David…I don't know what to say. I love it."

David's grin got wider. "Good. Glad to hear it."

Jordan ran up and threw her arms around him, holding their bodies close together for an extended period. David fished the keys to the vehicle out of his pocket, and dangled them over his shoulder, in front of his face.

"All yours, Jojo. You deserve it."

She squealed in his ear and broke the embrace, grabbing the keys and running to open the door. David excitedly walked her through all the features, stopping to grin at her every time she felt the need to do a little dance to let her excitement out.

After the tour, Jordan threw her arms around him again and began kissing him excitedly. In between her urgent displays of affection, David smiled at her again:

"So, you like it? I did good?"

"Good…baby, so good. You did so good…"

David's heart sang, seeing the look of pure excitement on his wife's face, inches from his.

God, she was beautiful. Even in Friday afternoon sweatpants–she just glowed.

She kissed him deeply one more time, grasping his hand and leading him urgently back into their apartment building.

"Get in here, mister. That thing you saw earlier…I'm gonna put that thing away…we're definitely not going to need it now…"

* * *

Tucked tightly in the embrace of her lover, Molly wiggled her body to drape her leg over Mark's waist, leaning into his large, slumbering frame. She awkwardly pulled the blanket higher until it covered her bare shoulders.

She wasn't accustomed to falling asleep in a space like this.

The windowless brick and cement quarters where her boyfriend lived were dark and quiet, but also felt hollow and cold.

Had her visit been planned, Mark likely would have tried to alter his sleeping arrangements to accommodate her. But Molly was determined to make it work as the two of them clutched each other on his twin bed, the configuration precarious for both of them. It was tight. Molly, at least, had the blank brick wall at her back, holding her in place, but Mark's long left leg threatened to tumble out of bed at any minute, with the rest of him following.

Luckily, that hadn't happened. Luckily, he was sound asleep. After Jared had left them alone, she had lovingly continued to suck on him until he asked her to fuck. She had shed her pants and panties and climbed onto his lap on the chair, stifling the exhalations of her own pleasure as she gave herself to him to use. Thoroughly stimulated by her mouth, and clearly exhausted by the day, Mark had sat still for the most part while she bobbed and bucked in slow, gentle motions, giving him soft, gentle kisses until his breathing thinned into a rasp and his cock spurted thick, copious warmth into her body.

She had settled him in bed, and tried to lay down beside him before finding that his blanket was not big enough for the two of them. He floated the idea of unzipping his sleeping bag for old time's sake–reminding them of their first sexual encounters on the beach–but finally exchanged a few hushed words with his door guard. The guard had made some subtle gestures to the other marines in adjacent barracks rooms, who quickly produced another, larger blanket from somewhere. Mark had settled sleepily into bed again and Molly had joined him, covering them both with the shared blankets.

Now spent, Mark's breathing settled into a steady rhythm, his large body finally fully relaxed. Molly's head rose and fell gently with his breath.

This time was definitely different. As she had ridden his hard cock, the familiar pleasure of his body filled hers, but she couldn't build toward a climax of her own.

Maybe it was the austerity of her surroundings. Being surrounded by blank brick and concrete, sleeping in a single bed on a government issue mattress.

Locked in a room with no windows.

It just wasn't very sexy.

Actually, the unusual absence of a powerful orgasm drew her attention to a striking contrast in the two relationships she found herself juggling.

She was, after all, actually quite accustomed to sex without orgasm. But that sex was always with her husband, Chris. An utterly selfish lover with a shrimpy little penis. Although he had become more attentive in the last year. He definitely tried harder now, likely aware of the overwhelming strength of his competition in bed.

In clear contrast, Molly had never coupled with Mark without coming. Hard. So it was strange that she didn't this time.

Perhaps she was taking on his stress. Perhaps she was just overly concerned with the acute mental crisis he was dealing with, and, as a result of focusing overly on him, had not been able to relax sufficiently to focus enough on her own feelings.

Whatever the reason, she noticed it. The first time having sex with her dream lover where she remained unfulfilled.

It likely had something to do with the outbursts. The mental breakdown he seemed on the edge of when he was triggered. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but something had changed in her view of him today. When he had snapped in the courtroom. When she had found traces of blood from his knuckles on the wall.

It was scary.

He was a large, strong man. Trained to kill. A man who had killed–she was fairly sure. Granted, that didn't make him a murderer, or even dangerous on his own. The nature of combat changes the moral evaluation of killing. She knew that. And since he had returned from the combat zone, she had felt intense admiration for his known–not merely vaunted–heroism among his peers.

But today she had seen the dark side of it. The wild, uncontrolled rage that his enemies likely saw before he pulled the trigger. Or snapped their necks. Or beat them to death with his bare hands.

However it had happened. Over there.

She wanted to tell herself that such rage would only ever be used in her defense. Never against her.

But she had worked in an emergency room too long not to be a little wary. She had seen young women that looked like her lying to her about bruises on their bodies. She had set broken bones that were most certainly not the result of a clumsy fall. Or a misunderstanding. And she had had to feign credulity when these young mothers explained away the bruises on their children.

Molly forced the thought away from herself. That wasn't Mark. It just wasn't.

But what she saw in the courtroom…the wild eyes…the armrest ripped off the chair…the young woman tumbling backward in fear…

That wasn't Mark either.

But there it was. Right in front of her eyes.

Molly's phone buzzed on the small metallic nightstand next to Mark's bed. She reached over her lover's chest and picked it up.

Mark didn't move, still deep in sleep.

A text message from her husband.

C: Hey. Haven't heard from you. Everything okay?

M: Yeah, sorry. A lot of stuff went down, and it didn't go well. I spent the day with him.

C: Are you with him now?

M: Yes. Staying the night. I'll drive back early tomorrow.

C: OK.

M: Everything okay?

C: Yeah, everything's fine. Lucy's jump-start math class is doing algebra now. She's in a whole new world. You should've seen her. She's loving this.

Molly smiled to herself in the dark.

M: Sorry I missed that. Lucy loving math, I mean. Just like her dad.

C: Just like her mom, too.

Molly smiled again.

M: Yeah, I guess you're right. Max okay?

C: Fine. Finished his Lego model of a star destroyer. So he's happy. They're both asleep now, obviously.

M: Good.

C: So, you and Mark get up to anything?

M: I mean, we had sex. But we always do.

C: Was it good?

Molly huffed, then typed a response, irritated.

M: It's never bad, Chris. I know this is a thing you get off on, but I don't want to turn this into a porno tonight. Mark had a really bad day.

C: Oh. Yeah, I guess you mentioned that. I'm sorry, Mol. I'll back off.

M: It's okay. Just not in the mood to push your buttons right now.

C: OK. Did you make a decision about JH yet?

Molly paused.

M: No, I haven't thought much about it. I guess we should talk about it. You really want to move to Baltimore?

C: I'll move anywhere you want, Mol. Just proud of you.

Molly allowed herself a quick smile, then hesitated before answering.

M: I don't know if we can afford it. I can't keep working if I'm doing full time medical school. It's too much. And you don't have any job prospects in Baltimore. Seems risky.

C: My software's got a bidding war going over it right now. Most of the deals have me staying on as a design and implementation consultant for at least a year, plus the sale price. I'll probably be involved for longer. Maybe 3 years. Or 5. I think we can make it work if you want to do it.

M: Is it a sure thing?

C: Not yet, but honestly, it's way closer than anything I've done before. I've talked to some real-world financial guys who looked over the offers. They all seem to think it's a lock.

M: When will you know?

C: Couple weeks. When do you have to respond to Johns Hopkins?

M: A month.

C: Well, maybe we can talk about it again when I know more.

M: Yeah, probably. I'm just scared, Chris. To start a new thing. I mean, being a mom and full time in medical school?

C: People do it, Mol. And if you want it, you should go for it.

Molly smiled in the dark again.

M: Who are you and what have you done with my surly husband? You're starting to sound like you did when we were dating. Still an arrogant prick but…like…you care about me.

C: I do care, Mol. I've been a prick, but I want to be better.

M: Well, I'm not going to say no to any of that.

C: To that end, I found a couple marriage counselors…if you want to try again. No pressure, just figured I'd tell you I'm willing if you are.

Molly hesitated.

M: This is a weird conversation to have when I'm in bed with another man.

C: Yeah, but you know I love those conversations.

M: God, you're weird.

C: Yeah.
C: …
C: So what do you say?

M: I guess I'll try again. I'll hand it to you, Chris, you've really been trying hard. We can try counseling again. See what happens.

C: Great. I'll set it up. And have fun with Mark.

M: Fine, perv.
M: Chris?

C: What's up?

M: Thanks for supporting me. With the whole med school application and stuff. I know we're not where either of us want to be now, marriage wise. But it means a lot. Your support, I mean. Whatever happens with us, I just want you to know that.

C: I'm glad it helps. And I'll keep trying to help.

M: OK.

C: Goodnight, Mol.

M: Night.
M: You want me to throw you a bone?

C: What?

M: I could wake up Mark and fuck him for you right now. Would that make you excited?

C: God yes…seriously?

M: Yeah, I could use another round with a real man. You got your little guy out?

C: Yes. Holy shit.

M: OK. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Right now I'm gonna fuck my boyfriend. You can play with your little dick thinking about it. Night, hubby.

C: OMG…I love you Molly…

Molly set her phone down and looked at Mark's sleeping face. His eyes were twitching, clearly in REM. But no sweating, no twitching, no heavy breathing or weird sounds. No clear signs of nightmares. She gently rubbed his muscular chest with the palm of her hand, then nestled back into the crook of his arm and slowly settled into sleep herself.

* * *

Jordan couldn't sleep.

She reached over to her nightstand to check the time on her phone.

11:34. Not even midnight.

As of 12 hours ago, she hadn't even expected to have David home by now.

He said after midnight…

But then he surprised her. It was delightful to find him at the door–the exciting cocktail of shock, relief, and excitement all mixed when she realized her husband was home. Even if he had interrupted her in the middle of...

And the extent of David's surprise still had her reeling. She still couldn't believe she had a new car. She hadn't even driven it yet!

Although, after she had dragged David into the apartment and jumped his bones, he had insisted they go out and look at it together again. He walked her through all the features again, and she had been bewildered at the sight of an odometer with 7 miles on it. She'd never seen anything like that before. She had never driven a new car before. And David had picked out the exact model she wanted. And in a color she loved, too!

She was flushed with excitement, moved to overwhelm by the gesture and generosity. She had even soberly asked David if they really could afford it. Ever the careful money manager, David had shown her the spreadsheet of their current finances, with assets spread across three income streams, with David's two incomes each dwarfing hers, with a total balance of…

More money than she had ever seen in one place before. A lot more.

Her mouth had gaped, knowing that more was to come each month. As they lived quite frugally–the recent car purchase aside–that number would continue to go up. David's business was doing very well. David's job had an impressive salary. And the bonuses that David had told her not to count on were already arriving in their bank account. And reaching seven figures.

It was a lot to take in. And it was clear from the look on his face that David's love language of providing for her was reaching the full breadth of expression. So she bracketed her shock…knowing that the right response to such a grand gesture was to gush out her appreciation and admiration to her beaming husband.

That appreciation led to another hasty trip back to the bedroom, where she had seated him on the edge of the bed and sucked his penis. He had thrown his head back with a huge smile on his face that filled Jordan's heart with glee.

It didn't take long before the hint of semen dripped onto her tongue. She had looked up into his eyes as his hips twitched, pulling his modest member out of her mouth and treating him to a wide smile. He had reciprocated her efforts, pulling her bottoms and panties off and nuzzling affectionately between her legs until she treated him to a mild but sensual climax of her own.

They had ordered takeout and watched a few episodes of Farscape before David's head had drooped with jet lag. She had nudged him awake and led him back to bed, turning off the lights as she went.

After settling him in bed, she had removed all her clothes and mounted him, hoping to wake him for more sex. Rubbing sensually up and down his short length, she reveled in the sensual warmth of intimate connection with her husband. He didn't wake up, however, and she soon gave up and snuggled up next to him.

She loved to feel his body in bed with her. She loved this man more than anything in the world. And the bed had been empty for too long–another three week stretch of loneliness and sexual deprivation.

Yet here she lay in the darkness, unable to sleep. She was afraid to feel what she was definitely feeling. She was afraid to admit the thoughts she was actively avoiding. But David's generosity had sparked some emotions in Jordan that she didn't know how to deal with.

On the one hand, the obvious expression of love and caring, the desire to provide her with everything she needed and wanted was a beautiful gesture spoken loudly in her husband's love language.

I have provided for you. I love you.

On the other hand…it was too much. It signaled something in their relationship that threatened her. She wasn't quite sure what it was.

The generosity, the talent, skill, and hard work that led to David amassing enough resources for this gift…all of those things were wonderful. And immensely attractive to her.

That was it. Attractive. She had been surprised by being attracted to David?

No, that wasn't it. But something like that.

Maybe a new dimension of attraction.

Jordan took a moment to think it through. She loved David because he was such an obvious fit for her. He was handsome in a nerdy sort of way. He was sweet, generous, hardworking. He was fiercely devoted to her, and supportive of her. He took firm control of his own life, success, and opportunities. And in his way, he was a very strong man. Tough. Smart. Even ruthless when it came to negotiating–as apparently (he couldn't help bragging) he had gotten a deal on the car.

In a word, David was a successful man. And given his talents and affinity for hard work, he seemed likely to be more successful in the future.

Jordan couldn't identify why a pang of panic hit her stomach as she thought of David as a successful man.

He would likely be a rich man. He was well on his way.

The panic grew.

Money rots things. Relationships. The love of money is the root of evil. It is easier for a camel to squeeze through a needle's eye than for a rich man to enter heaven.

Tropes of her childhood. Still believed.

Of course David could manage wealth, Jordan hastened to reassure herself. It was a primary skill of his. And his heart was good. And he was faithful to a fault. Look how much good he had done in Hamad and Aisha's life. How generous he was in giving ownership stakes to people he easily could have exploited as employees. He was good to the core. There was no reason to suspect his integrity would degenerate into corruption. He wouldn't let money, or anything, rot their relationship.

Except…

He had told her that he wanted her to have her own sexual "space." Space in her sex life which didn't include him.

Isn't it only natural that she, too, should allow space in his sex life which didn't include her?

The stab of panic turned the blade in her stomach. Jordan saw dimly into the future as her husband's business grew. As he became more of a player in global logistics. She imagined him being promoted into powerful executive positions. His clothes would get nicer. Fancy cars. A nice house. Maybe big-city condos.

Women would notice him. How could they not? A rich wunderkind, shaking up world-economic supply chains and watching money rain down around him. His easy smile when he was relaxed. His cute laugh. His jokes–he could be really funny.

Other women. Women with perfect bodies and big boobs and sophisticated pedigrees would begin to see him as a catch. Women with vast sexual experience, skilled in the art of allure.

And here she would be. A skinny, auburn haired pastor's daughter eking out a living as an assistant professor of psychology at some third-rate college?

She would age. The list of women who wanted to be with a smart, successful man–her man–would always include younger competitors.

She imagined one. A young blonde with D cups in a halter top. She probably had an impressive extracurricular resume too…something she couldn't compete with…maybe an olympic pole vaulter and New York economist. This younger, more attractive, more impressive hypothetical woman would talk about finance with David. The conversation would be easy and free flowing. She would laugh at his jokes. They would get a drink sometime when David didn't have his boring wife hanging around him.

And David was traveling for business now. A lot.

Jordan now found herself chewing her nails. She hadn't done that since junior high school.

The cuckold thing–maybe it was a real fantasy that David enjoyed now. But how could it not evolve? If she actually went through with it again…if she started seeing other men while David was away, why in the world wouldn't he see other women when he was away? Hot young secretaries, eager to please…

Jordan's heart raced.

She couldn't compete. She didn't have the body…she didn't have the personality…she didn't have the sexual "moves" that she was sure these other women had.

Jordan paused and took a deep breath. This level of panic was irrational. She was catastrophizing. An expert in human psychology, she was well aware of the signs of irrational anxiety, and she had some idea of how to keep herself from spiraling.

But the new facts were troubling. She had never encountered a threat to her marriage before.

She rolled on her side to face her sleeping husband, and pinched his member between her thumb and two fingers. She rolled it, then caressed it, causing David to moan out in sleepy confusion. He woke up, groggy, just as she straddled him again and tried to direct his half-stiff penis into her body.

"What's up, Jo? You okay?"

He wasn't hard enough. She pinched it closer to the tip, and then attempted to sit down on it, but it wouldn't go in, nestling inertly between her folds.

She rocked her hips back and forth in the dark, resting her palms on David's chest.

"Baby…wake up…I need you…" she whispered urgently.

David's eyes were bleary. "I love it baby…but you wore me out earlier. Not sure what I got left right now. Kinda tired after my flight."

He looked up at her in the dark. She was naked, he could see that in her outline, and he could feel her naked womanhood, soft and furry, grinding gently back and forth on top of him. But he couldn't see her face.

"Tell me you love me, baby."

David squinted in surprise. "I love you, Jo. You know that."

"Please, honey?"

He heard the choke of a sob in her plea. He sat up quickly and tried to look into her eyes.

It was too dark. He reached over to turn on the lamp, and saw tears streaking down his wife's face.

"Jordan…honey…what's the matter?"

She wouldn't look at him. She put her hand over her face to block the sight of her tears.

"Please David."

He grabbed her shoulders and tilted his head to try and catch her eyes as they looked away.

"Jordan. I love you. I love you more than anything! Just tell me what's the matter…"

She sniffled and looked back at him.

"Say it again?"

David half smiled nervously.

"Jordan Stark-Simms. I. Love. You. You are everything to me."

She sniffled again. "Okay. Thanks."

David's smile widened. "Where is this coming from? Did you have a bad dream?"

She shook her head and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

"No. I just really miss you when you're gone." She sniffled one more time.

"I miss you too, baby. Where is this coming from?"

"I just want to make sure you have enough. Because we don't see each other as much."

"Enough what?"

Jordan bucked her hips gently, drawing attention to their intimate touching.

"Oh, that…" David laughed. "Believe me, baby. You take care of me so good…"

Jordan half smiled, trying not to blubber. "You'll tell me if you need more?"

"Honestly, baby. I can't imagine wanting more than we have."

"Promise me you'll tell me if you want more from me." Jordan's face was serious. Pleading.

"Okay, Jo. I promise. I won't though. You're my own…personal…goddess. I get everything I want and need from you."

A final sniffle. A final tear wipe.

"Okay. Remember you promised."

David looked slowly up and down at her lithe, naked body perched on top of his. He turned his attention downward and felt the soft down of her pubic hair and the warm, moist skin of her vagina cradling his manhood. He felt himself stir between her legs.

"Hey baby. I think I'm waking up. I think I'd like some more."

Jordan's half smile broke into a grin, the tear tracks still lightly visible on her cheeks.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I think so…"

"Okay. Good."

* * *

An uncanny whine jarred Molly out of her sleep.

It was an awkward, uncomfortable sleep on a narrow twin mattress. Crammed between the large, dense body of her boyfriend and the blank brick wall.

Her eyes were fixed open, staring out over the vague landscape of a blanket stretched over Mark's chest. She had been up for some time, worrying about him. And about her future with him. Uncertainty about his mental health. About the effect this bullshit legal trouble was having on an already acute anxiety condition.

But eventually, after worrying her way into deep fatigue, she had been able to drift off. But her sleep remained troubled.

Now she blinked in the dark, confused by the sound that woke her.

She had trouble seeing Mark's face in the blank darkness of his barracks room, but she could feel the periodic twitching of his arms.

Still fuzzy from waking suddenly, she became aware that, with his arm wrapped around her body, his hand was squeezing her shoulder.

Hard.

Harder than she'd ever felt his touch before.

She heard the whine again. Nasal. It was him. Crying out.

Grimacing at the pain in her shoulder, she gently tapped on his chest and whispered to him.

"Mark. Wake up, honey. You're here with me…wake up…"

The whine quickly dropped its pitch, landing and transforming into a pained groan. The pressure on her shoulder lessened. Molly reached over and turned on the lamp next to his bed. Then she propped herself up, rubbing his arms and chest.

"It's okay, Mark. It's Molly. You're with me…"

His eyes opened slowly, a disorienting fuzz apparent in the rapid shift of his pupils.

Suddenly Molly heard a metallic scratch and a fumbling sound.

Keys making their way into the doorknob.

Molly yelped and pulled the covers over her head, hiding.

Suddenly aware of an intruder, but still not fully oriented, Mark shot out of bed and bolted to brace the door. A struggle ensued, Mark violently throwing his huge shoulder against the door over and over, a loud metallic thwack ringing out each time until an urgent whisper floated through the door.

"Sarge! I'm just making sure you're okay. I heard some weird noises…"

Molly peeked above the blanket.

"Honey. It's your friend. Arnold, I think? It's okay. He's okay."

She began to see Mark slowly orienting to his surroundings. Eventually he relaxed, then stepped away from the door.

It opened tentatively, and Corporal Arnold peeked in.

"Shit. What's the matter, Sarge? Seriously…"

"I don't know man. Sorry. Don't know what came over me. I'm fine, though. I just…hang on, I gotta piss."

He stumbled back toward his bathroom as Arnold stepped into the room.

Molly cautiously sat up, clutching her blanket up to hide her naked body from this stranger.

Arnold nodded awkwardly toward her. "I'm sorry to bother…I just heard…you know..."

Molly nodded in understanding. "He's okay. He just had a nightmare. Sometimes he makes noises. But he's okay."

"Okay. Good. I just want to talk to him to make sure. Sorry, it's just my job. I'll be out of here in no time. Don't mind me…"

He was clearly trying to avoid looking at the fit young woman, clearly naked underneath the single blanket she clutched around her.

"No, I know you have your duty…" Molly offered. "What was your name again? Arnold?"

"Yeah. It's my last name though. And you're Molly?"

She nodded.

"Pleased to meet you, Molly. Like, officially. I know you kinda slipped by earlier…"

Molly nodded again. "The nightmares…I think…I know you guys don't get treatment for mental health, but is there any way…?"

Arnold shook his head. "Nope. Career killer. But Sarge'll get past it. He's the toughest man I've ever met. Don't worry about him, he'll power through."

"It's not about tough…" Molly muttered through a pained smile, but knew the conversation wasn't going anywhere.

They heard the toilet flush from the bathroom, and Mark walked out in his boxer shorts. Arnold straightened up as he approached.

"You good Sarge? I just gotta check."

"Not Sarge anymore, Arnie. And yeah, I'm alright." He turned around to look at Molly. "Bout to get real good, actually. You're probably gonna hear some more noises. Be a bro, and don't come in."

Molly blushed and pulled the blanket up over her face. Arnold laughed out loud.

"Alright sarge. I'm out."

He slipped out the door, and Mark pushed it closed behind him. With one hand still on the door, he turned around and looked at Molly.

"Alright, little lady. If I'm gonna be up in the middle of the night, I want pussy. Spread 'em."

Molly curled up her body defensively, giggling in surprise. He usually wasn't frisky after she woke him up from nightmares…but he usually just went right back to sleep. Maybe it was different when he got up and walked around…"

Her train of thought was interrupted by Mark walking over to the bed, grabbing her feet under the blanket and pulling her body aggressively toward his, laying perpendicular on the bed with her legs extending over the edge.

She squealed as he flipped the blanket up over her head, lewdly exposing her bare cleft to the lamplight. He pulled her knees up and apart as she protested, pulling the blanket off her face.

"Wait. Mark…"

He stopped moving and looked down at her.

"I need a minute, and I need to know you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just want this." He gave a playful tap between her legs.

"Are you sure?" She was still uneasy.

"Yeah, no, I'm good. I woke up. It's gone. But then I found you here. And now I want your pussy. Why…am I not allowed to have it?" Mark furrowed his brow, confused.

"No, honey. You can…you can always have it. God, take it. But I still need a minute I can't just…go like that."

Mark squatted down at the edge of the bed and began kissing her thighs. "Can I taste it?"

Molly smiled, blushing. "Yeah…"

"Good. I'm gonna taste it. I'm gonna get it nice and wet. And then I'm gonna fuck it full of cum."

"Okay…" Molly sighed as his tongue found her cleft, shocked at the sudden turn of tone in the room.

"Tell me you want it."

She moaned in the dim lamp light.

"God, I want it…"

* * *

Jordan woke up to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee.

David was home!

She had become so accustomed to waking up alone, it was still a surprise to wake up with her husband in the house. She smiled excitedly and hopped out of bed, pulling sweatpants and a plain tank top over her naked body.

She trotted to the kitchen to see the love of her life cooking breakfast for her. He turned and smiled at her. Her heart glowed.

"Good morning, Jo."

She darted forward and threw her arms around his neck, giving him a wet kiss on the cheek. David set down the spatula and turned to squeeze her back, leaning in for a kiss on the lips.

"Mmmmm…" Jordan said, turning away. "Morning breath…don't smell my morning breath!"

David laughed. "I don't care about that…"

"Nonono!" Jordan darted down the hall into the bathroom and hastily gargled mouthwash. After quickly putting it back in the cabinet, she darted back to the kitchen, threw her arms around David's neck again and kissed him deeply with tongue.

"Mmmmm…. I like that…" David purred into her grin.

"That's good. Because I. Love. You." She punctuated each of the last words with an affectionate peck on the lips, then followed it with another deep kiss.

"Eggs Benedict?"

"Baby! You treat me so good!" Jordan cooed, reaching for dishes to set the table.

"So what do you want to do today?" David called out as she arranged the table setting.

"I'm easy. I had no real plans. But we probably ought to take a ride in my brand new car, don't you think?"

"Yeah, that sounds fun," David replied. "Anywhere in particular?"

"I thought maybe hike the falls? It's a nice day, and we haven't done that since you got your new job."

"Sounds great," David said, carrying the hot food over to the table and plating it.

Jordan poured coffee, then got juice out of the fridge to pour into glasses. "I figured we could catch up, see some beautiful nature, hold hands, maybe kiss a little bit, and then we can slip into the bushes somewhere and I can suck that hog of yours."

David snorted. "What has gotten into you? Are you serious?"

"I'm so serious, baby…" She stopped pouring and locked eyes with her husband. "I'm so freaking horny today, you have no idea."

David shrugged, flabbergasted. "Well, I'm not gonna turn that down."

"Darn right you're not, mister. Not when my engine's this hot. I may need to drag you to bed after we eat here. Take the edge off before we get dressed and go."

David beamed as he blushed. They sat down and said grace, then began eating.

David spoke first. "Seriously, Jo. What's gotten into you?"

"I don't know!" she emoted. "I guess I just really, really missed you. I'm all pent up. Need my man." She moaned in ecstasy as she ate another bite of breakfast.

David beamed again, looking down at his plate to obscure his shy, involuntary grin.

Jordan actually had some idea what had gotten into her. After last night, when she had spurred a second round of sex with her desperate display of moral insecurity, David had taken genuine delight in her body, pawing at her, groping and stroking her skin, suckling on her sensitive parts. Revving the engine of her arousal to its red line. All while she delicately mounted his stiffening penis, bucking and wiggling subtly, careful so he wouldn't slip out. Her enthusiasm had led to a powerful release for him. And given her insecure drive to satisfy him, to "be enough" for him, she had clung to his body after uncoupling, her engine still at a red line, her emotions needing the validation of a satisfied husband.

He had promptly gone to sleep again.

Jordan had steadfastly ignored the call from the girl in the mirror. She knew what would happen if she ignored her, but she would not leave David alone with his thoughts. Not when she could be there to entice him with her body. To be everything he needed.

She couldn't shake the thought: claiming her own sexual space as her own meant ceding his own sexual space to him.

And, as the catastrophizing reverie that led to that second round of sex clearly indicated, Jordan did not like what separate sexual spaces could mean for their relationship.

But ignoring the girl in the mirror had lingering physical effects. And those effects could make things weird.

"So what's up?" David interrupted her thoughts.

"Hmmm?" She looked up.

"What was that last night?"

"What was what?"

"When you woke me up last night. You were crying. While trying to get me to have sex. It…was weird."

"Oh, that." Jordan looked back down.

"Do you not want to talk about it?"

"No, we can talk about it…" Jordan said quickly. "I just…I really miss you when you're gone. And sometimes my imagination kind of runs away with me. It's stupid. I'll get over it."

David reached across the table, extending his hand to hers. "Come on, Jo. We're not together as much as we want. Let's not play games during the time we have. Something's bothering you. Let me in."

Jordan took another bite, not looking up. "It's really fine, honey. I'm just being dramatic. These eggs are fantastic, by the way."

"I'm glad you like them. And you're allowed to be dramatic. That's fine with me. Just tell me what's on your mind."

Jordan looked up, insecurity flashing in her gunbarrel blue eyes.

"It's fine, baby. Don't worry about it. I just miss you when you're gone. That's all." She smiled awkwardly.

David nodded gravely. "Okay. Well, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But when you're ready to talk…"

"You're getting rich and traveling." Jordan blurted out, then ducked down and covered her eyes with her free hand. She quickly put two more forkfuls of breakfast in her mouth and chewed quickly.

"I'm getting rich and traveling?" David asked. "Am I saying that right?"

Jordan didn't answer.

"Help me understand, Jo," David pleaded.

"Baby," Jordan said at length, "too much money…it's dangerous. It rots relationships. I'm scared for us." She didn't look up, but began gesturing with her hand, emphasizing each word.

"Money rots relationships? I don't understand…"

"It's just…dangerous to have too much. I worry that if we do too well…if you do too well, we'll drift apart. I picked a profession that I knew would give us enough money to live, but not too much. And I was fine when you drove a delivery truck."

"You want me to go back to driving the flower truck?" David asked, confused.

"No, baby. It's not that. I want you to do whatever you want to do."

"Well, I want to do what I'm doing. And I don't see how being financially secure is a bad thing."

"I've seen money corrupt people, honey. And I've seen it ruin families. Look at us. I grew up pretty much hand-to-mouth with my family. We had enough for a roof over our heads, food for our bodies, and a few books to read. My grandpa used to carve the toys we played with out of firewood. And my parents are still together. And happy!"

"Well, there are plenty of people who have money who stay together. And are happy…"

"Look at your parents." Jordan dropped her fork and looked into his eyes helplessly.

"My parents…there's more going on there than money, Jordan…" David's voice took on a warning tone.

"Your dad was a sleazeball and beat you and your mom. And cheated on her constantly. But he was a successful businessman. You guys were rich."

"No, he was a successful cheater. He got money…dirty money, by the way…and he got it by cheating people and screwing people over. That's not a good businessman. And I am not my father!"

His face was red, his fingertips purple as he death-gripped his fork in his left hand.

Jordan's face broke. Tears began to run down her cheeks.

David softened.

"I'm sorry, Jo. I didn't mean to yell…I just…" His head dropped in shame.

"No, I'm sorry baby. I didn't mean to compare you to your dad. I know you're not your dad. I know it." She reached across the table and took his hand in hers. "Baby, look at me."

David looked up.

"David Stark. You are not your father. You are my husband, and I love you. I'm just…worried about this. I don't know how to handle it. And then you lie about when you're coming home and drop a car in my lap…it's just…I don't really know what to think."

"Think happy thoughts about a new car!" David pleaded. "Just think of it as…my love on four wheels. That's all."

"I want to, honey. And I do. But with all this money, and all this time apart…"

"You think I'm cheating on you?" David recoiled, trying to pull his hand away from hers.

"No…" Jordan squeezed his hand. "No, David. I don't. I'm just afraid. Too many resources. Too much time apart. It's a combination that's a little scary for me. That's all."

"Well, I'm not quitting. I'm doing too well." David answered firmly.

"I don't want you to quit. I don't want to change anything." Jordan explained calmly. "I'm just…scared about how to make this work well. I never thought about how to be married this way. I just didn't prepare myself for it. I don't want to change anything, but it's scary for me. That's all."

"What's scary? Where is this coming from?" David seemed genuinely frustrated.

Jordan let go of his hand and resumed eating, looking down at her food.

David took a deep breath and asked again in a more measured tone.

"Jo. Where is this coming from? Did something happen?"

Jordan ate another forkful. "You said…you said you were okay with me having my own sexual space."

David squinted. "That's it? That…that has nothing to do with my job, or travel, or money, or any of that. That's just…Jo, that's just…me being a weirdo pervert. That means nothing."

Jordan continued to look down. "You didn't think that if you told me I should do my own thing sexually, that I might wonder if you wanted to do your own thing sexually?"

David was stunned into silence.

Jordan looked up at him, chewing her food matter-of-factly. "You travel three weeks out of every month. To places I've never been. You have money. You'll have power and influence soon. That always comes with money. You have more freedom than I do. How could I not worry about that? You're going to get approached, David. By women. It's going to happen. How could I not worry? At least a little bit. And each of us cultivating our own "sexual space?" It's almost a guarantee that you'll cheat on me. Eventually."

David's mouth hung open. "I…I didn't even think of that."

She looked down again and took another bite.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence. As David gathered the dishes and began running the sink, Jordan slunk behind him and slipped her hands around his waist, holding him tight.

"I love you, David. I really do. And I trust you. It's just happening fast. Six months ago we were budgeting half-tanks of gas and walking to church. We'd splurge on a weekly blizzard from Dairy Queen. Now you're paying cash for my dream car. I'm just a little overwhelmed, that's all. It's just whiplash. But I trust you."

David nodded, looking down at the dishes.

Jordan kissed his cheek gently, then walked back to the table with a washcloth and began wiping it down.

"Jordan?"

"Yeah baby?" She looked over her shoulder.

"I'm not my dad."

Jordan let go of the washcloth and walked thoughtfully over to him. She turned his chin to face her, locking eyes with him.

"I know that. If you were anything like your father…even one tiny little speck like him…I wouldn't have married you. But I did. You are a good man, David Stark. And I trust you."

David nodded silently, a glimmer of a tear in the corner of his eye.

"Just give me some time to adjust to this, baby," Jordan pleaded. "I'm so happy things are working out for you. I just…I just need time to figure out our situation. I need to wrap my head around how to be married this way."

"What do you need to figure out? I really don't understand."

"It's nothing serious. It really isn't. I'm just finding that some of the things I thought…you know, about how marriage works…are complicated. We're adjusting, and it's working. But I'm still trying to figure them out."

"We don't have to be poor to be happy, Jordan. And your parents would still be happy if they were more comfortable."

"I know that. And we're not my parents any more than we're yours. It's just the model for marriage that I know, you know? We're making our own way. And it's different from what I thought. From what I grew up with. Give me some time, baby. I'll figure it out."

David nodded, seemingly reassured. "Okay. I think I get it now."

"In the meantime, I love you. I trust you. And I'm so, so, sosososo glad you're home."

David smiled, placing a drinking glass in the dish rack to dry.

She kissed him on the cheek and walked to the edge of the kitchen, finished wiping the table, then tossed the washcloth into the sink where David was finishing up. She stood silent, looking at David for a moment, until he turned his head to look at her.

She wore a strange smile.

"What..?" David asked.

Wordlessly she grasped the hem of her tanktop and pulled it over her head, her auburn hair tumbling down around her shoulders.

David's eyes fixed on her perky bare breasts for a moment, then looked back up to her face, still wearing an ambiguous smile.

"I'm going to get back in bed. Finish up the dishes, then come and get it."

Her smile widened enough to show a hint of teeth, and she turned to walk provocatively away toward their bedroom.

* * *

3:00 AM.

A couple more hours before Molly had to dress and slip away in the morning darkness before anyone above Jared in Mark's chain of command reported to work and spotted her.

Mark was asleep again. Molly was once again crammed between the warm density of her boyfriend's body and the brick wall. Still, he seemed to be sleeping more peacefully now.

Although still troubled, she basked in the warm knowledge that her boyfriend had taken comfort in her body. That the hellscape of his unconscious psyche was charmed into restful sleep after she offered her body to him.

The sheer size of him struck her. As if for the first time. He was such a large man. So unlike her husband. Her only other sexual partner. Chris was an average sized man, a few inches under six feet. His frame was skinny with the loose flab of a sedentary lifestyle hanging off of his midsection. He wasn't ugly, just…small.

And she never seemed to be enough for him. She couldn't satisfy him. Couldn't satisfy his intellectual restlessness, couldn't evolve his emotional immaturity.

He had gotten better recently, but much of their marriage had been defined by her seeming helplessness to calm him down or satisfy him.

When she had met Mark on that beach campground…when she had slowly become enchanted by his kindness, his engaging and curious personality…when she had finally capitulated to her desire for his body…it was a total reversal of her experience with her husband. An antithesis.

Before meeting Mark, Chris was moody, demanding, unconcerned with her needs, and instantly dismissive of her when his own needs were met. He was passive, his body soft, his penis small, and his sexual style stiff and transactional. And his climax was a point of rupture–he would withdraw and turn away from her, or even leave the room and go back to his video game.

She could never figure out why she couldn't satisfy him. Why she couldn't make him happy. Why she was never enough for him.

Then she met Mark. And though sex with him was astonishingly powerful–she didn't even know such physical experiences were even possible–she was initially suspicious of her ability to satisfy him.

It didn't make sense. Mark's body was bigger. Much bigger. More muscle mass. Bigger, broader torso. Longer limbs. A much, much larger penis–especially when erect. Molly had of course reveled in the pleasure Mark's body brought to her. But she was certain that–as she was unable to satisfy her much more diminutive husband–there was simply no way she could satisfy a man like Mark.

Yet she did. Opening her body to him, he would accept her welcome and relish the union of their most intimate parts. She would peak, usually more than once, before he shuddered and released inside of her. And then he would lie back and exhale deeply, inviting Molly to snuggle and be intimate, gently holding her pale, soft body in his arms as she held the thick residue of his relief in the warm depth between her legs.

She felt strangely powerful. Being needed by a powerful man, and potent enough to meet his needs. Something she simply had not experienced in her marriage. Why could she be a ravishing, capable partner for such a powerful man, and utterly incapable of satisfying a petty, superior, moody, shrimp-dicked little man?

It didn't make sense.

But the contrast was now heightened even more. Now, in the vulnerable throes of a damaged psyche, Molly's touch and voice could pull Mark, the war hero, out of dark places. In fact, that very thing had just happened, here in that cinder block cell he called home. A nightmare she had perceived…she had answered with a caress and a gentle waking–albeit complicated by an interruption from the guard outside the door. But then he bluntly expressed a need that she could happily meet. Baring her body and opening her legs for him–relishing the pleasure of his tongue before again taking his thickness into her body. She had held him close as his frustration pounded into her body, and she had shuddered in deep orgasm as he had flooded her for the second time that night.

He had lain next to her on the narrow, spartan bed, and slipped back into deep sleep, apparently unperturbed.

Molly reached between her legs, feeling some of Mark's semen beginning to pool on the inside of her left thigh as she lay on her left side. Almost unconsciously, she scooped it and tucked it back into her body.

She was in love with this man. Her body and soul craved him, and she had never felt more complete as a woman. She loved the feeling. She never wanted it to end.

But a small set of bruises was beginning to form on the pale skin of her right shoulder. Where Mark had gripped her in his sleep. She had seen him, still coming out of the twilight stages of his nightmare, throw his huge body violently against the door, clearly unaware of his surroundings. The guard–Arnold was his name–he could have gotten hurt.

It was only 12 hours or so ago that she had seen him nearly catatonic in the courtroom, ripping furniture apart while triggered.

She couldn't help herself imagining what he would be like if he had a nightmare, then woke up like he just did and stepped on one of Max's legos. Would the sudden shock of pain make him think he'd stepped on an IED? Or what would happen if some other sensory trigger was activated that made him think he was in another place while watching a school play that Lucy was in?

A brief hypothetical vision flashed in her mind's eye–Lucy's body dangling, feet wriggling in panic with Mark's powerful hand wrapped around her throat. That vacant, thousand yard stare in his eyes as he did the unthinkable without knowing where he was.

Molly shook her head. That would never happen.

No. Mark would never, ever hurt her kids. Or anyone.

The counter narrative ran into her mind–this time a real memory.

Mark diving into the water in the bay when Max slipped out of his life jacket. How he didn't come up for several gut-wrenching seconds, but when he did, he produced a sputtering, coughing Max and lifted him effortlessly back into the boat. How he comforted the terrified little boy while he cried.

That was the real Mark.

The one before Afghanistan.

It was still the real Mark. When he knew where he was. When he wasn't dissociating.

She reached between her legs and probed herself, feeling for the reassurance of his cum in her body.

She looked up at his sleeping face.

He really looked peaceful now.

She had helped him sleep.

It felt good. In a weirdly deep way. An emotional fulfillment she couldn't begin to quantify.

She didn't want to admit it, but she had a choice to make. And she had to make it soon. If she waited too long, and she made the choice she desperately didn't want to make, she would hurt him. Badly. Maybe beyond repair.

If she didn't have children…if she was just married to Chris, this wouldn't be a dilemma at all. She was in love. She would simply put in two weeks notice at the hospital, hand Chris divorce papers, and get a job at the hospital nearest Mark. She would go wherever he went. She would find a discreet, off the books psychiatrist and pay cash to get him the help he needed without damaging his career. She would try to make him happy. She would stay with him. Carry his children for him, and raise them.

She could see it. She could see that life.

But that wasn't her situation. She had children, and they were her priority. And with Mark's current mental condition…

With the clear fact that an active duty Marine simply would not seek treatment for obvious, acute PTSD…

The unpredictability of his symptoms–coupled with the terrifying size and reach of his body so near her young children…

It was more complicated than what she wanted it to be.

It was more complicated than what she wanted.

What would make her happy.

Maybe she would continue to be enough for him. The way things were now. She could calm him with her love. With her body. With her caring, nurturing devotion.

Maybe it would be enough…

Maybe…

The alarm on her cell phone went off.

4:45.

Time to get up.

Time to get dressed and slip away. She heard a gentle, discreet knock on the door. Arnold was signaling her to get moving.

"Mark…" she whispered in the dark, holding back tears.

"Hmmm?" He grunted, his eyes fluttering open.

"Mark, wake up. I have to go…"

* * *

It had been a relaxed, even frisky Saturday. David and Jordan had rolled happily around on their bed after breakfast, the awkwardness of the breakfast conversation forgiven in the haze of playful physical affection. They had finished, showered, and taken their first ride in the new car, stopping for Clif bars before arriving at the trailhead.

Jordan was over the moon to spend a Saturday with David, and it was a beautiful fall morning. Leaves were not yet turning or falling. But the air was crisp–not cold. And the sky was clear. Not a lot of people were on the trail, although they passed some groups of younger students along the way, a few older couples enjoying the morning. Some cute dogs.

True to her word, Jordan had grabbed her husband's hand on a deserted part of the trail and led him into a small copse of trees. She had leaned him against a boulder, knelt in front of him, unzipped and pulled down his pants, and sucked on him.

He was too nervous to finish, but Jordan really seemed to get a kick out of it. Giggling, face flushed, she would look up at him with bright eyes, then drop and bob her head against his lap as he relaxed against the sun-warmed boulder.

A quick trip to the grocery store, the couple stopped by Jordan's office space to pick up a packet from Professor Lukacz before returning home. David took a quick jet-lag nap while Jordan did some homework, then David emerged from the bedroom with a quip about whether he was allowed to take her to a nice dinner without raising questions about infidelity.

They went to Jordan's favorite fancy place–an Italian restaurant two towns over, and had a good talk about life, love, and work. David's business was still going well. Jordan's dissertation was ahead of schedule, but she had to respond to a famous professor's lecture in a couple weeks, and she was worried about it. David had stories from Brazil and Argentina, including some recipes he wanted to try for her while he was home.

Jordan felt much closer to him on the ride home, gently taking his hand in hers as she drove them home in the brand new, modest-but-sporty SUV. She parked next to their much-shabbier-by-comparison Camry, and they retired into the house.

David was checking work and business emails in the kitchen when Jordan emerged in lacy black lingerie. A black bustier with a lace front that obscured but did not conceal her nipples. A high waisted thong. Garters that clipped to the bustier. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun. David stopped typing mid sentence as she beckoned to him, and stood obediently to follow her down the hallway like an eager duckling.

"Tell me what to do, baby…" Jordan had purred as she shut the door behind him. "I like it when you tell me what to do."

"Okay…" David said nervously. "What do you want me to tell you?"

Jordan giggled. "If I wanted to tell you, I wouldn't ask you to tell me, would I?"

"No, no. Of course not." David coughed. "Well, um…I guess, uh…let your hair down?

Jordan wordlessly reached behind her head and undid her hair tie. Auburn hair tumbled down over her ears and across her shoulders. She looked innocently at David.

"Thank you…"

Jordan smirked. "No problem. Anything else?"

"Uh, yeah. Um…maybe take off your panties?"

She instantly complied, hooking her thumbs under the waistband and shucking the panties down before stepping out of them. The bustier and garter clips attractively framed the thin, soft, auburn colored mass of hair that rose above her cleft.

Jordan stood silent, expecting David to continue.

"Ummm…suck my dick?"

Jordan smiled. "Yes, master." Her voice was silk as she took the remaining two steps toward her husband, kneeling before him. Pulling him out of his pants, she kissed, then gently sucked him.

A moan escaped from his throat.

Jordan stopped and looked up, holding his rigid penis next to her face. "Does that feel good, master? Am I pleasing you?"

"Oh god, yes…"

She licked his tip as her eyes held his with an innocent look.

"Would you like me to do something else to please you, master?"

David began to tremble with excitement.

"Anything?" He whispered.

She smiled, then took him in her mouth again.

"Mmmhmmm…"

"Like, for real, or in fantasy?"

She shrugged, then pulled back, her lips creating a small, wet popping sound as he left her mouth.

"Is there a difference? Aren't I your fantasy girl? And aren't I right here?"

"Yeah…you know what I mean…"

"Mmmm…" she said, moving to fellate him again.

David felt a climax build. He took a deep breath.

Jordan looked up at him again, popping his stiffness out of her mouth.

"Why don't you tell me what you want, and we can decide if it's real or fantasy."

"Okay…" David groaned as she continued to please him with her mouth. He stayed silent while she worked, watching her hair sway sympathetically with the smooth, sensual movement of her head.

At last she pulled back from him and looked up. "You're not saying anything. Do you need my help, master?"

"Are you gonna help? How are you gonna help?" David's words started to slur in hazy delirium.

"I'm a good girl, and I know what my master likes…" she purred, taking him in her mouth again. She swirled her tongue easily around his modest girth, holding eye contact straight up past his torso into his sagging eyes.

"I can help master by giving voice to his fantasies. Would my master like me to name his fantasies?"

David moaned involuntarily, nodding.

Jordan looked down to sensually stroke her husband, then looked back up.

"David? Do you want me to fuck another man?"

David twitched, then convulsed, then grunted in a high tenor. The requisite drops of semen dribbled out of his body and dripped onto the floor under his wife's crooked grin. She still held his painfully stiff penis between her thumb and forefinger until his twitching subsided.

Holding the crooked grin, she stood up and kissed him gently.

"Stay there, David. Don't move."

He watched her turn, her exposed buttocks teasing him in his new clarity of mind. Jordan picked up her laptop from the nightstand, and opened a video, maximizing it to full screen. David could only just see the picture over Jordan's shoulder–it looked like a young woman sitting alone in a chair. Some kind of interview. The woman looked excited but nervous. It was paused at the beginning of the video. Jordan set it down gently on the bed, then walked to the other nightstand.

Opening the top drawer, she pulled out the large, brown, suction dildo David had seen when he arrived yesterday afternoon. Jordan flashed a smile at him, looked at the dildo, then back at him, setting the object gently next to the laptop on the bed.

David's heart began to race as she walked demurely toward him, still partially concealed by lingerie but with her crotch fully uncovered. She slid a finger between her legs, then lifted her hand to his nose. The clear aroma of her arousal wafted into his head, causing blood to race to his cock again.

She wiped the hint of moisture onto his upper lip, then took his hand and kissed him gently on the lips. She then walked past him, still holding his hand, and turned him around and walked him out of the room.

Stopping him barely on the other side of the threshold of the bedroom, she smiled and kissed him gently on the lips again.

Then, stepping backwards into the bedroom, she smirked as she closed the door between them.

[Crushing]

I've absolutely enjoyed the first handful of chapters I've read. The quality (grammar, style, dialogue) is everything I look for when investing into a story.

Crushing, any general estimate when the whole story will be finished? (Sorry if it's been asked before! I'm the type of reader that prefers to binge in as few sittings as possible.)

So no specific estimate or timeline, just a general idea. I will say that my current map for the project is in three parts. The chapter I just posted is chapter 44, and in terms of the narrative arc I've laid out, we're about 3/4 of the way through part 2 of 3.

I try to knock out about a chapter a week on average. This last one took longer because it was longer than they usually are. But I'd guess another six months before I finish fleshing out all the ideas and characters I have mapped out.

But there is good news--44 chapters are already laid out, and some of them are long as hell. So there's a good amount to chew on if you dig what I'm doing.

But I'm glad you're enjoying it!

[lkh96]

My favourite story on ohw so far

[guitarman]

This is simply masterful! Keep up your excellent work. I always look forward to the next chapter in this wonderful missive.

[nnjcpl2002]

Thanks, Crushing. Great work.

[Johng1953]

Loving this too. Thank you.

[Crushing]

"Easy there, big guy. I need you in fighting form later…"

Molly's pale hand rested on her boyfriend's wrist as he reached for his third beer. They had only just sat down to dinner. The entree was nowhere near arriving.

The restaurant was packed on a Friday night–weekend liberty at the popular off-base establishment. Good food, not too expensive, mostly enlisted guys. A large bar took up half the building. Along the bar line, amorous young marines enjoyed side-eye glances from equally amorous town girls. Obnoxious music played–loud enough to dance to, not too loud to talk.

Jared and Megan had set up a double date with Mark and Molly for his first weekend off restriction.

Jared snickered from across the table as Molly restrained Mark. "Don't worry, Molly. He's just pent up. Spent a month on restriction, first weekend off. I'd want to get hammered too."

"Can't get too hammered…" Megan insisted, sipping her wine. "He's not going to be the only one who's pent up."

"No comment…" Molly responded, suppressing a smile as the table shared a laugh.

A hint of awkward silence followed, then Mark spoke up.

"Frenchie here's been killing it as platoon sergeant. He's got real chops."

"Really?" Molly said brightly. "That's awesome, Jared."

"I'm just holding down the fort until they put the Hulk back in charge," Jared admitted modestly.

"No, no…" Mark insisted. "You're more than ready man. If anyone asks me, I'm gonna tell them you should be promoted. Meritorious. I don't know if anyone'll ask me, though. At least not for a while."

"Bullshit…" Jared rejoined. "You got the same reputation you had before. Everyone knows that entire court martial was bullshit. Cap Wolfe even gave you a positive fitness report this quarter. After the court martial. And Colonel Chen signed it, too. That never happens. You still got all the cred you had before, man."

"Maybe more…" Megan suggested. "Taking it on the chin like that and not flipping out. That shows real dedication. People notice stuff like that."

Mark looked down, unsure of how to respond. He wasn't used to being propped up. He was used to being the one who propped others up.

Molly sensed her boyfriend's ambivalence to the conversation and steered the conversation back to Jared.

"So what happens if you're promoted?"

Jared shrugged. "Not sure. I mean, I'd be a higher rank, they might give me a permanent billet, like platoon sergeant of another platoon or something, but probably not now…"

Mark looked up. "What do you mean 'not now?'"

Jared grimaced, clearly hesitant to answer.

"So…Megan and I…we both some news."

Molly squealed, putting her hands over her mouth excitedly.

Megan laughed at Molly's reaction and put her palm down on the table, signaling Molly to restrain herself. "No Molly, not that news."

"Oh. Sorry." Molly's hands dropped onto the table.

The quartet of friends laughed again.

"So what's up, Frenchie?" Mark asked, grinning. "What's your news?"

Jared cleared his throat. "My request for orders got approved."

"Holy shit…" Mark said, a little too loud.

Molly turned to Mark, not understanding. "What does that mean? What's happening?"

"He's moving to DC. He's going to be in the presidential guard."

Molly's jaw dropped. "Really? Like…you'll be working at the White House? That's so cool!"

Jared smiled proudly. "Yeah, I didn't think they'd take me. But they did. So, pretty cool."

"Better get used to wearing that stiff-ass dress uniform every day…" Mark quipped, not entirely hiding his disappointment.

"Oooh, the fancy dress blues! I've seen those on TV. I bet you look so handsome…" Molly punched Jared's shoulder from across the table.

"More than handsome," Jared responded with a grin. "That uniform is full-on panty peeler. Straight up pussy magnet."

Molly's jaw dropped in shock. "Really?" She asked, looking over at Megan.

"Okay, well, first off, I hate that phrase…" Megan put up a warning finger at her husband.

"Which one? Panty peeler or pussy magnet?"

"Both. Don't get smart with me, Jared Poisson. You will have a dry dick for the foreseeable future if you keep that up."

Mark grinned as Jared clammed up.

After holding her warning finger in Jared's face for a moment, she turned back to Molly.

"But to answer your question, yes. Jared puts on the blues, and it can have a powerful effect. Combine that uniform with a couple drinks, and I'm a puddle."

"Hmmm…" Molly said, stroking her chin playfully. "Interesting."

"And you think Jared's dangerous in that thing? Wait until you see your boyfriend in his dress blues."

Molly looked playfully over at Mark. "Even more interesting."

"You should have seen it. Last Marine Corps Ball, before the deployment, and before he met you, obviously, your boyfriend goes stag. No date. Then after the ceremony and dinner he goes out and starts salsa dancing with like half the women there. They pretty much had to call in a mop crew after a half hour of that."

"Is that so?" Molly asked Mark, delighted. "You salsa danced into a bunch of horny women's pants?"

"I remember it differently," Mark responded noncommittally.

"Of course you would," Megan said, rolling her eyes.

"So when do I get to see this…interesting display? Of fancy clothes and salsa dancing?" Molly asked Mark.

He shrugged. "Next Marine Corps Ball is in November. So…then, I guess?"

"And I'm going, right? This is how you ask your girlfriend to a formal ball?"

He shrugged again. "Obviously."

Molly turned to Megan with a hopeless look, shaking her head in mock disgust.

"So you guys are going to DC! That's so awesome. That's your news?" Mark asked.

"Well, that's not all of it…" Jared clarified.

"You are pregnant!" Molly squealed at Megan.

"No, still not that," Megan laughed.

"Oh. Sorry." Molly looked sheepish. "So, what is it?"

Megan and Jared looked at each other, as if bracing each other. Then Megan looked at Mark.

"I got into law school. Georgetown."

Molly's jaw dropped again.

"No shit?" Mark exclaimed happily. "That's so awesome, Meg! That's a good one, too, right?"

"Pretty good." Megan said, smiling.

"It's one of the top schools in the country!" Molly emoted.

"Badass. That's so cool, Meg. You're gonna be the best lawyer!" Mark slapped the table excitedly.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," Megan responded, blushing happily. "It'll be crazy hard, but…here we go!"

"So you two are going to be crazy busy when you're in DC…" Molly suggested.

"Yeah, looks like. Gonna be a wild time." Jared nodded in agreement.

"I'm so happy for both of you…" Molly said cautiously. "And I…have a little news of my own."

Mark looked at her quizzically. She turned to face him. "I was going to tell you first, baby. But this seems like a good time."

Mark's eyebrow lifted, uncertain what was going to come next.

She took his hand in hers. "I'm moving to DC too. Well, to the DC area. Baltimore."

"What? Why?" Mark was confused.

"You know how you said I should look into med schools? Well, after I took the MCAT, I applied to a few. And I got into Johns Hopkins."

Now it was Megan's turn to squeal. "Oh my God! Molly! That's incredible!"

Molly blushed, nodding excitedly. "I'm so, so, so freaked out. But it is exciting."

She turned to Mark. "Isn't it?"

Mark's eyes glimmered. "Fuck yeah it is! We're all going to DC!"

"Really?" Molly asked, her eyes sparkling. "You are too?"

"Well, not yet. Not like, officially. But Jared and I put in for the same orders. If he's going, I'm probably going."

Molly looked over at Jared who all of the sudden looked extremely uncomfortable.

Mark followed Molly's eyes and saw Jared's face falling.

"Frenchie? You know something I don't?"

Jared shook his head firmly. "No. I just haven't heard yet. When I got my answer, I asked about you. They said your request was under review. Not denied, just didn't come through at the same time as mine."

"Oh." Mark responded, dejected.

"It's just administrative shit, man. I'm sure of it. Everyone I talked to said it was a lock, just a hiccup in the approval process. It's just paperwork, man. I'm sure it's coming."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure it is." Mark said, a little more quietly.

Molly squeezed his arm. "If Jared says it's coming, that's good enough for me." She looked briefly over at Megan, who also looked worried.

She squeezed Mark's arm again. "It's good enough for me, honey. I'm sure it'll come through."

Mark nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Me too."

* * *

A greasy hand shot out in front of his chest and barred the way forward.

"Easy there, poindexter. That chair is for the founder. David Stark. He hasn't got here yet. You don't want to piss the boss off on your first day, do ya?"

David smiled to himself, then nodded agreeably and took another seat a few rows back. Adjusting his glasses, he looked around. The space was pretty full. Nearly all of the folding chairs were occupied by mechanics wearing the same matching work shirt with the embroidered company logo that he was wearing.

Clint had done an excellent job with staffing. David only knew about a third of the guys there–the ones he had hired before starting his job with Maersk.

The room fell silent as Hamad and Clint walked in from a side door. Hamad looked around and caught David's eye, and gave a confused smile.

"What are you doing there, David? We have a chair for you here…it has your name on it."

David stood up and walked to the front of the room, purposefully shrugging off the slight of the new mechanic who didn't know who he was. He shook hands with Hamad and Clint, then sat down in his chair at the front of the room.

Clint, a short, beefy man in his mid-forties, stepped forward toward the seated employees and spoke up.

"Alright guys, listen up. Some of you don't actually know David Stark, but this is the guy who founded the company and secured about 75% of our most lucrative contracts. This is the guy who bumped up all our paychecks, then took off to go fix the global supply chain. Let's give him a hand before we get started."

The room burst into genuine applause. David was taken aback, unsure how to react. He smiled and waved it away. The man who had barred his way earlier held his eyes wide open, fearing retribution. David stood up and turned to face everyone.

"Hey everyone. I'm David."

Clint briefly leaned over to whisper into David's ear, then took a step back, turning on a projector that threw a blue screen onto the white wall behind them.

David nodded, then stepped forward to address the company. He briefly realized that the last time he was in the middle of a crowd like this, he about to be savagely beaten by Vinny on the loading dock.

A few of the men he recognized in the chairs were actually in that crowd.

Clearly Hamad and Clint had poached some mechanics from Consolidated Logistics.

Funny how things worked out.

"So, good morning guys. Sorry I haven't been around a lot, but I've got another gig that keeps me pretty busy. I'm actually only here in town for a week before I take off to a few countries in Africa.

"So yeah, I'm technically part time here, but Clint is right, I did secure several of the initial contracts, and I do the accounting, and consult on the business end while Clint and Hamad handle the day-to-day. So you're not going to see a lot of me, but I see everything you guys do on spreadsheets and through calls with customers. And I want you to know, I'm impressed. You guys are killing it."

A murmur of approval rippled through the room. David continued.

"So I want you guys in on the story, since you're all a part of it now. About six months ago I pitched an idea for a new business model to my good friend Hamad, and we launched this venture with a single contract changing oil for a yard full of school buses. We're about 5 times larger than that now, and Clint keeps finding new work. If this keeps going, the sky's the limit. But it only works when you guys do. So here's my promise. You guys keep doing good work, and when the company grows, your paychecks grow. Deal?"

The murmur of approval pitched upward in enthusiasm. David read the room, and decided to ride the wave of approval for a moment before continuing. Eventually the noise died down.

"So, I'll play it straight with you guys. A mobile, subscription based auto maintenance business model isn't the only innovation we're trying out here. I think it's important that you guys understand that Hamad, Clint, and I all come from the blue-collar world. It's true, I'm a college boy and I've got some professional credentials, but I grew up elbows deep in engines, working in the mechanic's bay on my dad's shitty used car lot. And I drove a delivery truck out of the Consolidated Logistics depot to make rent and put food on the table until very recently. In fact, I see some of our new guys here, and I actually recognize some of you from Consolidated, where I used to run the early-morning flower route. Some of you probably remember the time I got my ass kicked in loading bay 4."

The room laughed, a few random claps appreciating the self-deprecating humor. David grinned, then motioned to Clint to turn on the powerpoint projector. The wall lit up with a graphic breakdown of revenue for the company. A simple pie-chart with names, percentages, and raw amounts of money.

"So here's the deal," David took control of the room again. "This is a profit-sharing enterprise. Founding members–that's Hamad, me, Clint, Jeff, and John–we split the revenues of the company, and your salaries come out of our shares proportional to the amount we own."

David flipped to the next slide, showing a money-in, money-out breakdown by month.

You can see what we're billing, what we're actually receiving, and where the money is going here. You can also see how much the founders are making. Hamad has the biggest share, of course, at 40%. Then Clint and me at 20 each, and Jeff and John at 10. You can all hit up Hamad if you want to borrow money now, 'cause he's gonna be a rich motherfucker pretty soon here."

The room laughed again. Hamad grinned.

"But every dime that comes through includes kickbacks and incentives for you guys. That includes not only the work you do, but any other revenue the business generates. We save $10,000 on parts? You all get a cut of those savings. We land a new contract and get another $50,000 in billings? You guys get a cut of that. On the other hand…we lose a contract because someone screws up? We might not be able to do bonuses. That's just business. You guys may not be owners on paper, but really? This is everyone's business. We own it together. If it succeeds, we all succeed. If it fails, well…we go back to an hourly rate at a dealership with an asshole boss."

David looked around to gauge the room. He had everyone's attention, and they seemed to be following. Good sign.

"So I mentioned making this an innovative business. Well, one big innovation in how we utilize our employees. I've always wanted to see a business like this one run kind of like a labor union. I know there's some shitty unions out there, but I want you to think of us as one of the good ones. I want us to feel like we're on the same team. So, to that end–management will be absolutely transparent with you guys about revenue, profits, contracts, and the business in general. We will meet once a month like this and give you guys the breakdown on how things are going, and then we'll propose changes that we as managers think are prudent. Any changes that may affect pay–and that's most of them–you guys vote on, or they don't happen. Understand?"

A murmur of approval whipped through the room again. David took a deep breath.

"So here's the other side of that innovation. You guys want to be involved in how the business runs, you guys gotta start thinking about things like businessmen. We're gonna let you in on this stuff, and we'll explain it in the most plain terms we can before the vote. But then we'll honor the vote. And we're gonna try the first one right now."

David flipped the slide to show the projected revenue, profit, and bonus breakdown for the next six months.

"Alright. Based on what we've been billing, this is my estimate for what we're making in the next two quarters. As you can see, there's pretty reasonable growth here. Personally, I'd be plenty happy to see this kind of money come in over the next six months, and I've got no reason to think we won't hit that goal."

David paused and looked around the room. He'd never seen an entire room hang on his every word before. It was a weird feeling.

"But, something's come up that I wanted to run by you guys. We have an investment opportunity. Another potential revenue stream that may make more money for all of us.. I was in Brazil a couple weeks ago, trying to figure out how to make forklift wheels work better on the shitty asphalt they have between different warehouses down there. I noticed that even though the asphalt was weak as hell, and crumbling all over the place, all the painted lines on the asphalt were super bright. Like they were painted yesterday. So I asked the foreman how often they repaint, and he said the last time they painted was 18 months ago. And it rains all the time down there. Like, constantly.

"So I was blown away by that, and I looked into what kind of paint they use. Turns out it's a local manufacturer, they have some special chemical formula, I didn't understand it, but I checked it out with a chemical engineer I knew in college. He looked at the formula and he thinks it's really good stuff.

"So by now I'm interested. And I looked up what kind of road paint we use here in the states. Turns out that there's no single product, which wasn't too big of a surprise. What kind of paint they use depends on a bunch of different things depending on the state and locality and climate and whatever. But long story short, I found out we repaint lines about 3 times more often than the guys in this part of Brazil do. And their paint is about half the price of ours."

A hand shot up near the back of the room.

"We don't use road paint. Why does this matter to us?"

David laughed. "No, we don't. But we could import it and supply it. To the state. Maybe more than one state. We already have contracts with multiple counties here, and Clint knows guys at the state Department of Transportation. We could mark up the price 25%, and the state would still get a 25% discount from what they're paying now. And each line on the road would last twice as long, at least. I think we've got a good shot at selling it."

"So what do we gotta do? Do we gotta paint roads now?" A different voice rose from the other side of the room.

"So that's the thing," David said, smiling patiently. "You don't do anything, in the sense of doing the work. You don't have to do any road painting. We're just suppliers. We get it from Brazil, mark it up, and sell it. Then we all get more money depending on how much profit we get from those sales."

David looked around at the nods of understanding in the room.

"But it's not all about the work we do. This is an investment, and it's possible that it won't work out. There's risk involved. So basically, here's the pitch. You guys see the graph here…how we grow doing just what we're doing now. You see that bonuses and incentives are going up…looks like between 5 and 10 percent over the next six months. What we're suggesting is capping your bonuses at the rate you have now for the next six months. Then we tap that revenue to pay for what we need to get this going. We'll need some lawyers to negotiate customs and get the import deals on paper, and we'll need to hire a salesman or two to go out there and make deals with buyers. Then if those deals come through we need to figure out how to get the paint to the customers, either hire a logistics subcontractor or get a couple of guys on our payroll just to move the product when it comes in."

The room was silent. David made the final pitch.

"So, that's the choice. Keep the pay where it is for 6 months, and have a shot at more…a lot more…or we just pass on this investment and your bonuses will go up. Just less than they would if the investment comes through. So less now, and a lot more later, or more now, and no more later. Got it?"

The room was silent again. Then another hand shot up.

"How much do we stand to make if the deal goes through?"

David restrained a smile. "A lot." He turned to the next powerpoint slide. "Here's the projected profit if just our state signs on to supply through us. This is the most likely outcome in the next six months, since we have the most contacts here, and Clint knows people in the right places."

A groan of surprise murmured through the room as they saw the numbers.

"I looked at a couple other possibilities, depending on how good the sales guys we hire turn out to be. If we sell to another state, a small one like…let's say Delaware…this is how much we can add to it."

The surprised noises spread.

"And this is what would happened if we landed a whale state. Like New York or California."

The surprise turned into shocked laughter. David smiled.

"I'm not saying we'll land those. There's politics involved, and big contracts like this can be tricky and take time. There's just…opportunity. That's all."

Clint stepped forward. "So, do you guys want to vote now, or you want the five owners to step out and let you guys talk it out?"

"Vote now…" seemed to be the consensus, as the crowd shrugged to each other.

"Works for me…" Clint said, matter-of-factly. "All in favor of capping bonuses for six months and investing in the road paint deal, raise your hand."

David counted the hands, then wrote it down, looking over at Clint. "24 in favor."

"Alright. How many opposed?"

David counted the hands, and wrote it down. "6 against."

An excited whoop was punctuated by spontaneous applause. David smiled widely, turning off the powerpoint.

"Thanks for your attention, guys. We'll try not to let you down here, but I'm pretty confident we can make some money doing this."

They cheered him. A spontaneous cheer from a crown of men. A first in the life of David Stark. He grinned.

"That's it for now, guys. Let's get back to work. Grab some donuts and coffee on your way out. All that stuff's on me. And if you want donuts or whatever from your favorite place, just let me know and I'll get 'em from there. Then get out there and crank some wrenches. Have a good day, guys."

David's cadre of mechanics stood up and began making their way out of the room. Several of them went out of their way to introduce themselves and shake his hand, including the one that barred the way to his seat when he arrived.

David was gracious and friendly, surprised at how differently he was treated from his time on the loading dock.

Clint slapped him on the back as the room emptied out, and Hamad shook his hand warmly. As he did, David noticed a shiny new watch on his friend's wrist.

"Good first meeting, David. You are natural business man." Hamad said warmly.

"Thanks, Hamad. That means a lot. And you guys are killing it on the ground here. I'm really impressed with how smoothly everything's going."

"I gotta ask, David," Clint said after a moment. "You had everything for this Brazil paint deal set up already. Why not just start a new company on your own? Just for the paint deal itself? You're making enough here to fund the investments you need. You could make a killing. You've already got all the contacts, you know all the ways to do something like this. I might've asked for a finders fee to set you up with buyers or salesmen or something, but that's it. Why cut everyone in? You would make way more money doing it on your own."

David shrugged. "Well, Clint, I just bought my wife a brand new car with cash, and then I got the third degree for being a rich guy. Some things in life can't be solved with more money."

Clint broke into a belly laugh, slapping him on the back again. "Well, I'm certainly not gonna say no to splitting up that kind of money if it comes through. When do you want to interview candidates for salesmen?"

"How soon can you set them up?"

* * *

"Rein."

"Yes sir?" Mark perked up as his new platoon commander–Macintosh's replacement–called his name.

"Report to Captain Wolfe at Battalion. Now."

"Aye sir…at Battalion?"

Captain Wolfe was the company commander. His office was in Company Headquarters. It was strange for him to be at Battalion. Something was up.

"Yep. BC's office. Go."

"Aye sir."

Mark stood up and walked quickly toward the door, looking over toward where Jared was inspecting a pile of broken equipment with one of the squad leaders. Jared didn't look back at Mark.

He was busy being a good platoon sergeant.

Mark smiled briefly to himself and pushed out the door, walking briskly through the grass until he arrived at the battalion headquarters. Entering the building, he found the commander's office suite and announced himself to the commander's secretary, who pointed to the door and told him they were waiting.

Mark took a deep breath and stepped into the office, snapped to attention, and reported as ordered.

"At ease, Rein." Lieutenant Colonel Chen's gravelly voice acknowledged the professional courtesy but indicated the meeting was going to be more casual than formal. He indicated toward an empty chair in front of his desk. The other chair was occupied by Captain Wolfe, his company commander. Mark nodded respectfully to Wolfe as he sat.

"Wolfe," Chen grumbled, "He's yours first. You want to tell him?"

Captain Wolfe sat stone-faced. He shook his head. "No. But I will."

"No need," Chen assured him. "I'll take it."

Lieutenant Colonel Chen was the only man in the battalion whose physicality matched or possibly exceeded Mark's in sheer intimidation. Tall and broad, he had the build and complexion of an outside linebacker–the very position he played for the Naval Academy prior to starting his career in the Marine Corps.

Mark was an inch or so taller, and of similar weight and build. But nobody–nobody in their right mind at least–would pick a fight with Chen instead of Mark. His dark, almond eyes screamed "fuck with me at your peril" with intense credibility.

"Rein. Your orders to Washington have been denied. The court martial conviction pre-empted the necessary security clearance to be a Presidential Guard."

Mark said nothing. His stare grew blank.

"Captain Wolfe and I have done our utmost to run interference here, but frankly the call was over our heads. It's a stupid call, it's wrong, it's not fair. But it is what it is."

Mark nodded.

Captain Wolfe spoke up. "Sergeant…"

"Corporal." Mark corrected him, his voice flat.

Chen shot forward like a lightning bolt. "Did you just correct your CO, Rein?" he growled.

"No sir." Mark's eyes shot forward.

"Good." Chen's growl got lower. "We are aware of your technical rank and billet limitations. You may not realize that they fuck us over as much as they fuck you over. You think I want to red shirt you? I can't give you that third chevron back for 6 months. By law. But 6 months and 1 day, I will pin that third chevron back on your collar, if I have to pull it out of the Division commander's asshole. Fuckin' watch me."

"Thank you, sir." Mark nodded, his eyes betraying a mild sparkle, a little taken aback by the sentiment. He turned back to Captain Wolfe, who continued to explain.

"The court martial came from over our heads. The conviction was a dirty trick. We're living with it, and everyone agrees it isn't fair. And there's no way around it: it has negatively affected this particular stage of your career. But we just wanted you to understand that there are many paths forward. You do well at your next duty station–and I think you know we have every confidence that you will do well–and you're going to be back on track."

"It's a kick in the ass, Rein. But there's light at the end of the tunnel here." Chen's tone softened.

Mark nodded again. "So, what are my options?"

"Brass gave you three choices, and you've got two weeks to decide," Chen explained. "First option, drill field. MCRD San Diego. You'd be a boot camp instructor, bustin' recruit heads. It's a shit job, but San Diego's a nice place to live, and it's great for your career. Most successful sergeants major I know were on the drill field at some point in their career. Second option, combat instructor at Camp Wilson, Twentynine Palms. They want your chops and combat record to teach deploying units how to kick ass in real combat situations. You'd be in charge of training infantry units in urban warfare as they come through. Also good for your resume, and you'd interact with a lot of brass in the infantry world. Good networking. The job isn't as intense as being on the drill field, but Twentynine Palms is a shitty place to live. So there's a tradeoff."

"Okay…" Mark said, not liking either of his choices so far. "What's the third?"

"Out." Chen growled.

Mark blinked, then turned to Captain Wolfe. "Out?"

Wolfe nodded gravely. "You haven't officially re-enlisted. They're willing to accept your re-enlistment package now, since it was on hold for the court-martial. But if you want, they can just void the package and you can be discharged. Honorably. Colonel Chen and I will make sure of that."

Mark was stunned. "You want to get rid of me?"

"No!" Captain Wolfe was adamant. "Absolutely not. We're just as pissed about this as you are. But those are the options they're giving you. And the two on the west coast, even though they're not what you want, are both good career options. Now if you want to get out of the Corps and move on with your life, that's your business. But if you take either of these other options, and you do half as well as you did here, nobody is going to question your court-martial in two years. You'll be back on track."

Mark set his jaw, grinding his teeth. The room suddenly appeared smaller.

"My girlfriend's moving to Baltimore," he said at length. "I was hoping to get posted at DC because I want to be with her. I wasn't that excited about standing in front of doors in dress blues every day in the first place. But I don't know if I want to go to the west coast. Those are my only options?"

Chen nodded. "Want my advice, kid? You're young. Don't sell out your career for some trim. San Diego's got more hot girls than you can work through in a lifetime. Beaches full of 'em."

Mark's eye twitched, not at all happy with that advice.

"Whatever you decide," Wolfe added, softening the blow, "you should know that if you stay in, you've still got a bright future. And if you get out, you have to start over. If you want to talk about how to set up a path forward to something specific, say Special Forces, or officer training, or something else entirely, we can make that happen too. We can introduce you to the right people who can get that moving after your next duty station."

"Fuck yeah we can…" Chen barked. "You are a marine to keep and cultivate, Rein. Don't leave and start over flipping burgers or some shit. This is your path to greatness." He pointed down at his desk. "Right here. Follow it."

Mark nodded again, trying to ignore the rising volume of ringing in his ears. "May I go?"

"Yep. We're done here, Rein. Think it over, and reach out if you want to talk. Dismissed."

Mark snapped to attention, acknowledging both officers before leaving the room.

The main hallway of battalion headquarters seemed to teeter to one side as he turned to walk down it.

Mark put a hand on the wall, steadying himself for a moment while everything leveled. His eyes swam with unfamiliar emotion.

Shock?

Sadness?

Betrayal?

Rage?

Whatever it was, it was taller and broader than he was.

He shook his head trying to knock the feeling loose, then walked out the front door past the sentry.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Rein…" the unfamiliar voice seemed to come from much farther away.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Mark heard his own voice say it, and felt his body dart toward the junior marine. He found the terrified, acne pocked face of the battalion guard uncomfortably close to his, his eyes wide.

"Look at my collar, asshole. You see three chevrons?"

"N-no…"

"Count 'em!" Mark screamed down at the guard.

"Two chevrons. Corporal. Corporal Rein…"

"Goddamn boot…can't even count. GET IT RIGHT!" Veins bulged out of his neck as he let the full force of his voice, given stronger momentum by the huge mass of his body, assault the face of the new private.

The new kid seemed on the verge of soiling himself.

"Corporal. Corporal Rein. I'm sorry, Corporal. I won't…I just heard about you from…"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" Mark screamed at the top of his lungs. He grabbed the duty logbook off the guard stand in front of the terrified private and hurled it onto the roof of the building. Then, glaring malevolently at his victim, he turned and stormed off, leaving the bewildered guard teetering back and forth in fear behind him.

* * *

Jordan was finding it difficult to concentrate on her work. She kept daydreaming, her thoughts drifting back and forth between memory and fantasy.

In particular, her mind kept drifting back to Saturday night…

It should have been awkward.

After catching her breath and removing RICARDO from between her legs, Jordan had blinked twice to regain her composure and sense of self before standing up next to her bed and walking to the closed door.

David had been standing hunched on the other side of the bedroom threshold, his small penis erect between his fingers, with noticeable drips flecking the carpet below him.

Jordan had been dazed but relieved.

It was weird. Shutting her husband out of the room while she masturbated should have been awkward.

But somehow, in the moment, it wasn't.

But now that she had felt the full-body relief of a good orgasm, her head began to clear.

And she knew what would happen if she went straight to the bathroom.

Jordan didn't want to endure a smug I-told-you-so from the girl in the mirror, so she had simply handed the glistening dildo to her bewildered husband.

"Can you wash that for me, baby? Thanks."

She had shuffled past him, bypassing the bathroom and heading to the kitchen to get a glass of juice from the refrigerator. She had noted–with a sly, unconscious smile–the tremors in David's hands as he took custody of her toy–the tool of her recent wave of pleasure.

That had been three nights ago, and David had been so frisky since that night that Jordan had trouble keeping her clothes on when they were home together.

It seemed her worries about whether or not she would "be enough" for her husband were ill-founded.

At least for now. While they were physically together, anyway.

It was Wednesday, and their one week together was more than half over. David's flight to Africa was to depart on Saturday night.

And Jordan still had work to do. Classes to teach, research to do, a dissertation to chip away at.

Still, she found herself distracted. She thought about taking off early, right after her afternoon class. But David had set a business meeting for his company that morning, and said he'd be busy until dinnertime.

A shame, really.

Or so she thought as she flipped through pre-writing assignments handed in from her morning class. She could easily catch up on all this grading next week. She would be perfectly happy to walk straight home after her afternoon class, find her husband tapping away on his laptop at the kitchen table…filling out spreadsheets or whatever it was he did…and simply stand in front of him, pull her panties off, step out of them, and straddle him.

No words. No explanation. Just assertive, sexy, wet, wifey time.

Jordan looked back and forth in her office space, as if subconsciously checking to see if any of her colleagues saw her thoughts. But they were all absorbed in their work. She smiled to herself and returned to her thoughts.

She was enjoying the frisky reverie. Perhaps a little too much.

David would like that, wouldn't he? He seemed to like it when she did stuff like that. Just…spontaneous, sexy stuff.

And such displays seemed to come more naturally recently, as her baseline level of arousal seemed to be…elevated. Of late.

In the last month or so…really since the nature of her assignment to respond to Dr. Schenk's lecture had spilled over into her personal time, Jordan had simply found herself thinking more and more about sex. Not just conceptually, either. She wasn't probing the socio-economic constructs of divergent sexualities. She wasn't doing deep reading and thinking about the phenomenology of arousal in the abstract. Nothing like that.

No, it was much more… personal.

No, not personal exactly…maybe…first-person oriented?

Was that the way to characterize the shift? The kind of thinking that was concrete and action based.

The kind of thinking that wondered what she would do if Patrick, currently absorbed in writing his own dissertation three desks down, simply stood up, walked over to her desk, unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock?

It was an interesting question. With some interesting possible answers.

And it was not the kind of question that Jordan found herself entertaining on a normal workday.

It was almost as if the girl in the mirror had begun to occupy the space behind Jordan's eyeballs.

Jordan's face flushed mildly.

Was the room unusually warm? She didn't want to ask.

She was fully aware that the girl in the mirror was all an unconscious construct. Just a quasi-voluntary projection of herself…and projected by herself. She was both creating and experiencing the girl in the mirror. A suppressed sense of identity thrown into the frame of the mirror. A part of her own psyche that she was trying to negotiate into either total moral rejection or perhaps a partial, but tightly controlled assimilation.

While that sense of identity seemed to have a weird, almost demonic pull at times, she had remained firmly in control of it…apart from a few isolated moments here and there.

But this research project, which had set her watching online videos that featured young women taking off their clothes, submitting their bodies for decorative bondage, and hungrily seeking the dominant vigor of aggressive men…

The half dozen times she had watched these half-stage scenes–including multiple viewings of the first one she took notes on, which remained her favorite–had fed the pluck and outrageous forwardness of the already-too-forward girl in the mirror.

The other Jordan seemed to have grown stronger. Bolder. At the very least, more prominent in regular Jordan's conscious, day to day experience.

In short, the girl in the mirror seemed to be a little more…in charge of things lately.

Regular Jordan remained in control, of course. For all intents and purposes, Jordan was still confident that she remained–herself. For lack of a better term. All outward signs pointed to her professional dependability. Her work held to its top-notch quality, her classes were taught effectively, and her writing continued apace.

But larger chunks of her day seemed to be colored with the impish notions of the girl in the mirror. That little quip earlier about what she would do if Patrick exposed himself to her. She didn't mean that. That wasn't serious. Patrick was a friend and colleague, and he had a girlfriend.

But he also had a great runner's body. Good hair too. And he was easy going. Nice. The kind of guy that might play with your hair while you blew him.

That wasn't a serious thought. She didn't mean it. It was just an exercise in…involuntary imagination. Identity projection brought out by hormonal imbalance…A kind of thought experiment, in a girl-in-the-mirror kind of way.

The kind of thought experiment that imagined what Patrick would do if she just walked over to him and kneeled between his knees. Would he get the hint? Would he awkwardly ask her what was the matter? Or would he simply pull it out and tell her to get to work?

Jordan shook her head clear of the thought, then looked at the clock. Another half hour before she had to leave for class.

It was okay, Jordan thought to herself. She was still in control. She could wait for a few hours, then channel that energy into more fun with her husband. He would love that. He loved when she was clearly worked up. He loved reaping the benefits of her recent research. He seemed to encourage such research.

Although, to be fair, she wasn't sure if David had made that connection–the one between her recent research and her recent spike in enthusiasm. He didn't seem to have put those pieces together. The connection between her recent research foray into a specific type of psychologically fraught pornography and her extra enthusiasm. But he did seem particularly keen to know when she was aroused. Maybe she should let him in to what aroused her?

It was so embarrassing though. Without fail, once she had come down from the endorphin rush of masturbating to the virtual sights and sounds of smooth young skin being marred by ropes and whips, she felt silly.

Regular Jordan inevitably took over and shamed the girl in the mirror. And Jordan was sure that David, while intrigued and aroused by the girl in the mirror, was primarily in love with Regular Jordan. The good girl. The Bible-literate, small town choir girl who loved to go on hikes and not debase herself by pulling her man off the trail and into some bushes to suck on him.

The girl in the mirror was fun, in certain contexts. But she had to be contained. If she wasn't, Jordan stood to lose so much–dignity, reputation, perhaps her career, her marriage, the respect of her family…

It wouldn't do.

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and stole a glance over at Patrick, leaning back thoughtfully in his chair.

She would fit so nicely there. On her knees and between his legs…Snug and sound, her body hidden by his desk.

She could help him think. He could think real hard, looking down at her while she helped him think.

And then she could swallow it…

Jordan shook her head again, frustrated with herself.

Snap out of it, Jojo…Good girls don't do this…

* * *

Mark was fixated on a photo on the nightstand.

Molly's attention was elsewhere. Still panting, coming down from their frantic coupling, her spread knees slowly drooping after Mark had pulled out of her, leaving his liquid claim to her body pooling deeply in her warm, welcome space.

The photo was black and white: Molly and Chris' engagement.

They were both ten years younger. Molly had aged extremely well–she looked like a literal child in this picture. The photo itself was clearly cropped, as Molly had explained before. Concealing a swollen belly, as she was carrying Lucy at the time. She had been a teenager.

He reached out and slapped the photo down onto its face.

"Mark?"

He turned to face Molly, who had a concerned look on her face.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Great, actually. I'm in bed with you." He sat up and leaned over to kiss her.

Molly blushed as she kissed him back.

"So…the kids are spending the weekend with their grandparents again?" Mark asked, rising from the bed and walking toward the bedroom door. He picked up his boxer shorts from the floor where Molly, after eagerly dropping to her knees, had yanked them down about 45 minutes before.

"Yeah. Chris' parents' place…" Molly said, sitting up and clutching the sheet to her chest to cover herself. She watched as Mark's heavy cock, still hanging low and thick as it recovered from her vigorous probing, was soon covered by the fabric of his boxer shorts.

"Right on," Mark interrupted her thoughts. "You want something to drink? What's in the fridge?"

"I'm not sure, actually," she said, coming to her senses. "Chris got the groceries this week, since I worked late yesterday. I don't know what he bought." Molly reached into her nightstand drawer and pulled out a silk bathrobe before standing up. Shuffling the thin covering over her naked body and tying it closed, she followed Mark out toward the kitchen.

She arrived to see him bent over, examining the contents of her refrigerator.

"Oh god…" Molly said, embarrassed. "You're seeing how dirty my house is…I don't know the last time I cleaned out the fridge."

"It's fine…" Mark reassured her. He found a gatorade tucked in the door and pulled it out. "So…Chris went with the kids?"

Molly nodded. "Yep. He could have stayed, his parents don't mind watching Lucy and Max…but he…wanted to give us some space."

"No camera this time."

"Nope. No camera. He's gotten a lot of use out of the one movie we made for him, though."

Mark took a big swig from the gatorade, then extended the bottle over to Molly, offering her a drink. She took a swig and handed it back.

"I know…" she cringed slightly. "It's weird."

Mark nodded. "It is, a little. What's the deal with that? Just something he pervs on or something?"

"Yeah, well I believe the term is cuckoldry. At least the research I've done on the internet seems to prefer that term. It's a pretty specific fetish."

"Guys get off on their girls sleeping around? That kind of thing?"

"That's part of it," Molly explained, still a little uncomfortable. "I'd never heard of it before. When Chris was actually happy that we hooked up on the beach, I didn't know what to think. I thought for sure he'd leave me. But it had the opposite effect. I understand it a little more now. But it still throws me sometimes."

Mark took another drink and nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I've…encountered something like it before. So what's the other part?"

"What other part?"

"You said getting off on the girls sleeping around was only part of...what'd you call it?

"Cuckoldry."

"Right. What's the other part of cuckoldry?"

Molly leaned against the counter, gesturing for another drink. Mark handed her the bottle, and she took a swig and handed it back.

"Well, it gets weirder, actually. It fetishizes a kind of humiliation. Poking at inadequacies, making unfavorable comparisons, that kind of thing."

"Like…you make fun of him for being bad in bed or something?"

Molly nodded. "Yeah, kind of. Or making fun of how small his penis is. That really gets him going. Also denying him. Telling him he can't have sex with me. Telling him I'll only have sex with you because he's bad, and small, and doesn't make me feel good. That kind of thing."

"Wild. Yeah, I've never heard of that before. He really gets off on that?"

"Yeah…" Molly laughed to herself. "Like a rocket."

"So what's my role? Like…just a stunt cock or something?"

Molly laughed. "Well, the term of art used in that lifestyle…you are the bull."

Mark grinned in surprise. "The bull? What?"

Molly grinned back. "Yeah, that's the guy who comes in and really gives it to the lonely, unsatisfied wife. The hotwife."

"Hotwife?" Mark's eyebrows shot up.

Molly giggled. "Yeah, I like that one. Better than being called a bull, I guess."

"I guess," Mark chuckled, finishing off the gatorade and throwing the empty bottle in the trash. He leaned against the counter. "So I'm a bull, huh?"

"No…" Molly insisted. "I mean, yes, in the context of the whole cuckold marriage dynamic thing. But you're also my boyfriend."

"There's a difference?"

"Yeah, there's a difference…" Molly walked over and leaned against his body, resting her chin on his bare chest. "A bull is just for sex. You know, like bulls do. You ever spend time around bulls? Like real ones?"

"Of course…" Mark said quickly. "I grew up in Texas. I know what bulls are for. Breeding and breaking shit."

"Yeah…" Molly laughed. "Yeah, that's kind of what they're for in the cuckold marriage dynamic. At least according to the research I've done. But there's a pretty big difference between a bull and a boyfriend." She began rubbing his chest lovingly with her palms.

"Yeah? What's the difference?" Mark wrapped his arms around her silk-robed back.

"My bull is just here to give me a good time. But my boyfriend is here because I love him."

Mark smiled and kissed her red hair. "So I'm both."

"Kind of…" Molly explained. "To Chris, you're my bull. To me, you're my boyfriend. He loves that you fuck the absolute stuffing out of me. I just love…you. So it's kinda complicated."

Mark took a deep breath, relaxing as he exhaled. Her hair smelled so good.

"And I'm a big fan of the fucking too…" Molly added.

Mark laughed out loud. They stood in a silent embrace in the kitchen for a moment before Mark spoke again.

"So…this is what it would be like…if I lived here, huh?"

Molly was silent for a moment, then began giggling. Quietly at first, then rising in pitch and volume as she lost control of herself. Eventually she hunched over, holding her stomach as she laughed.

"What's so funny?" Mark insisted, smiling.

"You think it's just a sex and snuggle fest here, don't you? Every day. All day. Just great sex and quiet relaxation." She looked up into his eyes, grinning impishly.

Mark shrugged. "Yeah. Why not?"

She laughed again, dropping her forehead into his chest. "Mark…on any given night, I'm rushing around either getting ready for or getting home from work, and I'm completely exhausted. Lucy always has homework, Max has made three messes in four rooms, there's stuff all over the floors, the kitchen and bathroom is a mess, and a million things need done. This house is absolute chaos most of the time. You have no idea."

"Yeah, well…you're here, right?"

She looked up at him again. "I mean, sure. When I'm not working. Or running the kids around to sports games or activities, or doctor's appointments, or god knows what-all."

"But I could sleep with you every night?"

Molly's eyes softened. "I mean…yeah. Yeah, you could."

"And I could fuck the stuffing out of you before we go to sleep?"

Molly snorted, blushing. "I mean…we'd have to learn to be quiet. We can't be traumatizing the kids."

"I could handle some chaos for that tradeoff." Mark smiled down at her.

Molly smiled, her eyes glistening. She briefly blinked back tears. "I love the sentiment, Mark. But I…I don't know. And I don't think you actually know what you're signing up for. Plus, we're moving, and med school…"

Mark hastened to silence her. "I can move with you. I can get out of the Corps and get another job. My contract is basically up."

Molly shook her head insistently. "No, Mark. I can't have you torpedoing your career for me. Especially not when I'm doing a huge career change myself. I've got med school starting, and…what would you even do?"

Mark shrugged. "I don't know. Who cares? I'll be a janitor or a plumber or something. Or a cop, maybe. I don't really care. We'll be together. I'll make it work."

Molly shook her head more vigorously. "No, Mark. This relationship can't continue on that foundation. That you threw away everything to be with me. It might be great for a while, but you might grow to resent me. Especially since I'm not going to have any free time with all the studying and residency and…and Chris is still going to be supporting us through med school…"

"Fuck that. I don't want to hear about him. Fuck that little pervert. I'll take care of you."

Molly's tone got sharper. "Mark, I know you don't like sharing, but he's my kids' father. Even if I leave him, he'll be in the picture. And you'll have to live with that."

Mark looked away, chastened.

"Can you live with that?" Molly prodded.

Mark shrugged dismissively. Molly looked up in his eyes, a hint of sternness mixed with worry in her face.

"Why don't you want to go to San Diego, Mark? Or that other place, with the palm trees?"

"I don't like where this conversation is going," Mark said suddenly.

Molly blinked in surprise, then answered in a measured tone. "I don't like where this conversation might go either. But you and I…we both come from careers where…you have to deal with what's in front of you. Good news or bad news. We should both be used to dealing with hard truths."

Mark's head dropped again. He didn't answer.

"We can't ignore it, Mark. It's a fork in the road, and we need to be honest about that. And we have to be honest with each other, and with ourselves, about what's down both roads."

Mark stared silently at her, an anticipatory pain beginning to creep into his gaze. He cleared his throat, and then matched his girlfriend's measured tone.

"The palm tree place is a base in the Mojave Desert in California. Twentynine Palms. I've been there for training exercises, and it sucks. But I don't care about the transfer, I just want to be with you. They said I had to go to the West Coast or just get out. I don't want to go to the West Coast. I want to be with you."

Molly's lips pursed as she prepared to rip off a band-aid. She cleared her throat nervously and spoke softly.

"It's not that simple, Mark. If you want to be with me, you're going to have kids in your life. All the time. And you're going to have Chris in your life too. Maybe not as much as the kids, but he's gonna be around. A lot. And right now, Lucy and Max don't know about us. Right now if you show up, they'll like you. They'll be excited to see you and hang out with you. You're that cool guy from the beach that helped them with their sand fort. But if we go public…if we get together and I leave Chris…then you're stepping into their dad's place. And they may not like you. They might actually hate you. At least for a while. But maybe forever. You can't control that. I can't control that."

Mark was stunned. His head dropped, uncomfortable with the thought. "Yeah, I guess I didn't really think of that."

"There's so much more going on here than just you and I sleeping together every night. Which I promise you…Mark, look at me…"

He looked up to see her emerald eyes fixed on his. She stepped closer to him and picked up his large, copper hands with her pale, petite fingers.

"Mark, I want that too. I want to go to bed with you every night and wake up with you every morning. But we have to think about all of it before we seriously consider taking that step. And we can't put off thinking about it any longer. Not as a fantasy. But as it really might be."

Molly's voice rose in an intensity of concern as she tried to explain. She seemed increasingly panicked as the reality of the next step in the relationship set in.

"That's all I'd want, Mol," Mark insisted. "I'd want to share a bed with you every night, and see you when one of us gets home from work every day."

Molly's head dropped, her bright red hair covering her face. Mark extended his hand to move it out of the way. She still wouldn't look up at him.

"I'd totally deal with all that other stuff." He waited for her response. Nothing. "I don't really have experience with kids or whatever, but I can figure it out. I just want to be with you. Don't you want to be with me?"

Molly finally looked up into his deep brown eyes and cracked. She buried her face in his chest and began to sob.

* * *

Jordan's face was still red. Flushed from activity.

David's face was red too.

Panting from exertion, his body spent, he rolled off of his wife's body and onto his back, adjusting the bed covers around him.

Man and wife lay next to each other in bed. Both glistened with sweat. David was spent, exhaling happily as his body relaxed.

Jordan's flushed face and body turned to lay on her side, facing her husband. She could almost see the oxytocin coursing into and out of his brain: The happy fog in his eyes, the tension draining from his body, the slow, even breath. He was definitely satisfied. Down to his bones.

She ran her hand up and down his chest affectionately.

"How'd I do?"

David laughed. "How'd you do? You…you're amazing, baby. I don't know how I got so lucky."

Jordan grinned happily. "Good. Glad to hear it."

David turned his head to kiss her. "So how'd I do?"

Jordan nodded, smiling indulgently. "It felt good, honey. It's always good…"

"Did you…?"

Jordan's eyes briefly flitted down. "No. But that's not the point. The point isn't always…you know…to finish that way. It's really just being intimate with you. That's what I want."

David reached around the back of her head and stroked her hair. She cuddled up to his chest.

"Your skin's super warm."

"Yeah…" She trailed off.

"Are you okay?"

Jordan nodded, not looking up.

"Do you want some water or something?"

"No…it's…nothing. Kind of embarrassing. But I'm fine."

She seemed distracted, her face determined and focused. As if she was trying to talk to someone else. Or ignore someone. But she was silent.

David was confused, but waited for a moment before responding.

"Okay…what's embarrassing?"

Jordan shook her head again, keeping her eyes down.

"Come on, Jo…you can tell me…" David coaxed.

"I'm just…gosh baby, this is mortifying."

"What is it, baby? You can tell me anything, I won't judge you. I just want to help."

"I'm just really needy. Like, really aroused. It's like my body has been sitting in a candle warmer all day, and I'm kinda…worked up, I guess. Warm. That's all. There. You happy?"

Mortified, Jordan pulled her hair over her face to hide it from her husband.

David nodded slowly, proceeding cautiously. "So…you're…horny?"

"I hate that word…" Jordan retorted, still hiding.

"Sorry. You used the candle warmer analogy…you're…warm?"

"Mmmmhmmm," she said quietly, not daring to look up. Then, all of the sudden, her head jerked up to look at her husband, her right hand shooting up to cover his mouth.

"But it's okay, baby, you didn't do anything wrong. If I go and splash cold water on my face, and then wait a while, it goes away."

David was stunned. "It goes away? I don't understand.You said you've felt that way all day. Does this happen often? Like going whole days where you're…warm?"

Jordan's face contorted into a vulnerable insecurity.

"I mean…sometimes."

"Like…what times?"

"I don't know…certain times of the month…and then, when you come home after being gone for weeks, I kinda just…stay warm sometimes. I think it's because now that you're home with me, I get to touch you alot. I think it's just like…getting pent up when you're gone, then you come home, and…you know? Anyway, it's not a big deal."

"So you don't feel the way I feel after we make love? I mean, I feel like I just got a massage or something, I feel great. But you look really tense. Almost stressed."

"No, it's not that…" Jordan reassured her husband. "I actually feel really happy and relaxed. And I feel close to you, and that's like…my all time favorite feeling. Of all time. The bonding. So I don't feel bad. Just…kind of warm, I guess. But I'm very happy. And satisfied."

She tacked on the last two words abruptly. As if they were contractually mandated.

David nodded. "Okay. I think I understand. Do you feel this way even when you do…you know…finish?"

She hesitated. "I mean…it's different. I'm still warm, but I guess I am a little more relaxed. But I think it's just different for girls, you know? Like…we're primed to last as long as our men last, so we just burn slow, and we stay warm for a while after. You know, the whole men-are-microwaves and women-are-ovens thing, right? Microwaves cool off as soon as they're done. Ovens take a while to cool down. That's all."

"Okay," David said, a little relieved. "Do you want me to help…with my mouth? Or something..?" He gestured vaguely down her body.

"Oh, no, no baby. You just…I mean, you just finished down there. That would be gross. I don't want to make you do that. Maybe later."

"Okay." David's memory flashed to the sight of his wife's hairy thatch slowly descending over his face, the thick nectar of her other lover still speckled in with her auburn tangles. More of it would slide onto his tongue as she gently rocked her hips back and forth when his tongue parted her opening.

They lay silent for a moment, Jordan running her hand up and down her husband's torso.

"Were you, uh, warm like that after…you know?"

"After what?"

"When you were with…him."

"Oh…" Jordan's voice took on a cautious tone. "I thought we weren't talking about that."

"No, I know how you feel about that. And I'll drop it if you want. I was just curious if it was…you know…the same. When you were with him."

"I thought you were okay with me having my own sexual space. Isn't that information kind of in my space?"

"No…I mean yes, it is, but no, that's not what I meant when I said…I mean, I want to give you space to…whatever, but I like to, you know…know about it. I like knowing about it. What's in your space."

Jordan looked up at him, her eyes tinged with concern. "David, I know you know how I feel about this."

"I know, yeah." David admitted. "But I know you know how I feel about it too."

An awkward pause settled over the bed as both of them struggled to find the next words.

David found them first. "I mean, it's in the past, right? And I'm not going to get mad or anything."

Jordan frowned, unsure, but her hand stopped caressing his chest and migrated downward to find his quickly stiffening penis.

"Yeah, I know how you feel about it, baby."

David's legs stiffened in excitement.

"Okay…so maybe we can agree to just, you know, talk about it sometimes? If you're not too uncomfortable?"

Jordan sighed, defeated. "I guess so, honey. Against my better judgment." She began to caress his excitement, a weak smile breaking through the flushed concern on her face.

"OK. Here's my compromise. I'll let you ask three questions. But they can't be too graphic or anything. No porno questions. I don't want to go there."

"Okay…" David said excitedly, his torso twitching. "Ummm, let me think. Okay, the first question was the one I just asked. Did you feel like you do after we…?"

"After we have sex?" Jordan asked, her eyebrows raised. "You mean, did I feel the same way after having sex with Mark that I feel after having sex with you?"

She felt him twitch between her fingers. Just the phrase "sex with Mark" seemed to light him on fire.

"Yeah…" David whispered.

"Hmmmm…" Jordan intoned thoughtfully. "I'm not sure I really remember, it's been a while."

David looked pained, aching for an answer.

Jordan smiled, then answered in a comforting tone. "Honestly baby, I just remember being tired. Like, exhausted. Like I just wanted to fall right asleep."

"So you wouldn't feel…warm? Like you do now?"

"I mean, not exactly. Like I said, I'd just feel super tired, but then by the time I'd get home to you, I'd be like…hot. Not warm. Hot. It was a delayed effect. I mean, you remember, right? I'd do all those crazy, naughty things when I got home."

David nodded, holding his breath as she continued to stroke him.

"And then sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night, all raring to go. So yeah, I guess it's kind of the same, but like…hot instead of warm. And it kind of came over me in intense waves. So it's a little different than this…slow burn."

"Better?"

Jordan shook her head, then gently kissed her husband. "Not better, baby. Just different. I love being with you. I love it. So intimate. So close. Just what I want from my man."

David grinned, his torso beginning to tense as he felt himself building toward another powerful climax.

"Okay, those were your three questions, mister." Jordan kissed him again, then grinned. "Did you like the answers?"

"God, yes…David's head lolled back, then snapped forward. "But I only asked two."

"No, the third one was if he was better, remember?"

"Oh. I thought that one didn't count. It was just…like a follow-up question."

"Oh, I see…" Jordan shot back playfully. "Okay. Well, since I'm in such a good mood, I'll give you one more."

"Okay…" David whispered eagerly. "Was he bigger?"

Jordan's eyebrows shot up again. "That's awfully close to a porno question, Mister Stark."

"Sorry. If that's against the rules, I withdraw the question."

Jordan smirked, then leaned forward to kiss him, then kissed him once more.

She let go of his penis and flipped onto her other side, digging into her nightstand drawer for a moment before pulling out her new toy. Then she flipped around again, the same smirk holding on her face.

"You really want to know?"

David nodded eagerly.

Jordan laid the large, light brown faux penis on her husband's chest, then rested her hand on the top of the shaft, extending her finger out one knuckle past the tip.

"About there. And…"

She lifted it up and extended her thumb and index finger around the circumference of the shaft, a small amount of space visible between her finger and the shaft of the toy.

"There." She looked up to see if David understood. "Does that help establish the facts, Mister Stark?"

David moaned, his eyelids drooping in obscene pleasure.

Jordan giggled. "Okay, I'll take that as a yes."

"Is it better when it's bigger?" David's eyes were nearly closed, his breathing shallow.

Jordan hesitated.

David seemed to be beyond the playful stage, and was now in deep arousal. Would it be cruel to stop the train now, or should she stick to her guns and keep playing the game, making him wonder?

"I mean, it's different…" she let the dildo drop lengthwise onto his chest and began caressing his torso around it again.

"Better?" David could barely form the syllables.

"It's not better. Good sex isn't just about how big your thing is, baby. I prefer being with you to using this thing…" She playfully slapped the dildo.

"It's bigger than me…"

"Yeah, it is honey," Jordan cooed. "But not better."

"Mark made you tired?"

Jordan hesitated again, then nodded.

"Yeah, honey. He made me tired."

"Made you cum?"

Jordan hesitated for longer.

"Yeah, honey. He made me cum."

"Because he's bigger?"

"No…I already told you."

"Why then?"

Jordan was taken by surprise. She paused again, this time for thought rather than effect.

"I don't…actually know…I'd have to think about that."

"You liked it?"

"Mmmhmmm…"

Jordan reached down to stroke her husband's penis again.

He murmured, barely enunciating the syllables as her hand and words captivated his mind.

"What'd you like about it? With him?"

Jordan almost answered, but quickly stopped herself when she heard her husband emphasize the last phrase.

"With him…"

This seemed dangerous. Was she allowing this to go too far? Was she indulging an unhealthy tendency?

Jordan looked over at her husband, his eyes closed and locked in the paroxysm of fantasy.

She sighed. They were already over the cliff. She mentally shrugged to herself and relaxed, just allowing herself to think out loud.

"I'm not totally sure what it was. But I think it was just how…in control he felt." Her thoughts were halting and widely spaced as she allowed herself to probe and analyze her memory for the essential source of the pleasure she shared with another man.

"I mean, If I have to put words to it…I don't know if I can. It's just hard to describe. I mean, it's hard to describe…how it was. He would just kind of take charge, and then he'd…use me. It wasn't intimate. At all. It was almost emotionless, honestly. For both of us. If I had to describe it, it was just…pure…sexual need. He needed me for sex, so he used me. And somehow that made me…made my body…kind of need him back. So it was reciprocal. But it was only in the moment, you know?"

David moaned, clearly wanting her to continue. Sensing this, she obliged.

"But even though he had needs, he wasn't wild. He wasn't erratic, he wasn't out of control, or violent, or whatever. He was just…I don't know. Cool head, strong body. Deliberate. Powerful. He was…commanding. And I…my body really responded to that, I guess."

She could tell David was close. Picking up the speed of her stroke, she kissed him gently as he panted with his eyes closed. Then she put the cherry on top.

"And the fact that he had a huge dick probably had something to do with it."

* * *

The morning form-up. Marines milled around in their physical training clothes. The platoon sergeant hadn't arrived yet.

"Corporal Rein."

"Sup, Jackson?"

Mark looked up, glassy eyed.

Corporal Jackson, Mark's new squad leader squinted in concern. "You alright?"

"Peachy man. How you doin'?"

"I'm fine. It's 0500, man. You been drinking?"

Mark put a lazy finger in front of his lips.

Jackson rolled his eyes. "I can't have that in my squad, man. I know shit's weird now that you're not the boss. But that kinda means you should definitely know I can't let this fly."

"You ain't gotta let jack shit fly, man. I'm straight. Ain't nobody gonna know."

"I know. And I wasn't looking very hard."

"Well, let's get runnin', and I'll school your ass. We'll see who notices then."

Corporal Jackson sighed, then signaled to one of his fire team leaders to keep an eye on Mark. The platoon formed into a box, Mark's head noticeably above most of the others, wobbling slightly.

Corporal Poisson, the acting platoon sergeant, walked out in front.

"Morning marines. Let's make this one count. Six miles, lap ups. Gonna do some hill climbing and a couple calisthenic stations. Keep it under an hour. Nobody falls out today. Got it?"

The platoon barked out acknowledgement, and they took off down the road.

True to his word, Mark kept up with the platoon, showing no clear signs of intoxication. Once the group made it back to the lawn outside of Charlie Company headquarters, huffing, puffing, and sweating, Jared dismissed the platoon to shower and get breakfast before the workday started.

"Jackson. Rein. On me." Jared sounded annoyed.

Corporal Jackson sighed again, then turned to walk toward the platoon sergeant.

"Sup, Frenchie? Good run, brotha…" Mark grinned, his eyes bloodshot. He reached a long arm across Jared's shoulders, yanking him in for a hug. Jared patted him on the back, then stepped back, grimacing.

"You got your meeting with battalion this morning, man. You straight?"

"Straight. So straight. Like a…a bridge or somethin'."

Jared looked at Jackson, an eyebrow raised.

Jackson shook his head, his lips pursed.

"Fuck." Jared said under his breath.

"So…we good here? I just spent an hour outpacing all you motherfuckers. I could eat a whole buncha breakfasts." Mark slurred happily.

Jared walked over to the pile of cinder blocks near the entrance to the Company Headquarters building. Picking one up, he walked purposively back over to where Mark and Jackson were standing, and casually tossed the cinder block on to Mark's shin, where it rolled down and slammed onto his foot.

Mark leaped up in pain, kicking the block off his foot and reaching down to grab his foot, howling.

"What the fuck, man? Seriously!"

Since they were meeting for early morning physical training, they were not wearing the usual steel topped boots and tear-resistant pants. Rather, they were wearing high cut green shorts, t-shirts, and tennis shoes. The impact of the block, therefore, tore into Mark's skin, leaving a noticeable gash, and the corner of the heavy stone made an audibly sickening thok when it landed on his foot.

Mark grabbed his foot and began hopping around, cursing his friend. Jared calmly picked up the cinder block and returned it to the pile. Returning to converse with Jackson, his instructions were calm and straightforward.

"Corporal Rein tripped during the run,and he seems to have a foot injury. He can't meet at the scheduled time this morning. He'll be in medical. He's probably fine, but they're getting an X-ray just in case. He can't meet with the battalion reps until after lunch."

Corporal Jackson's eyes widened. "Do…do you want me to tell them that..?"

"Yes. Go. Now. Tell them I'm taking him to medical."

Corporal Jackson took off at a gallop toward battalion. Jared pulled Mark's arm over his shoulder and helped his limping friend back to his barracks room.

"We going to medical? My foot kinda hurts."

"No shit, dumbass." Jared was impatient. "We're going to medical, but we're going to your room first. And we're making a pot of coffee, and you're going to drink all of it."

"Okay." Mark hopped along, compliant. Jared clenched his jaw as he helped his larger friend begin to hop up the stairs.

"What's wrong with you, man? Today is not the day to pull something like this. You have to give an answer on whether or not to re-enlist. This is a career day for you, man."

"I think Molly's gonna break up with me."

Jared paused, feeling Mark wobble on one foot next to him.

"I didn't know that, man. I'm sorry."

"I don't know what to do, Frenchie. I really like her."

"I know you do, man. I do too."

"What do I do?"

Jared paused, then began to climb the stairs again.

"You figure out the right thing to do, and you do that."

"I tried to do the right thing, Frenchie. And I got court-martialed."

His tone wasn't bitter or resentful. Just hurt. And confused.

Hearing that was like a knife in Jared's gut.

He nodded, shifting Mark's weight as he pulled him up the next step. "I know you did, man. I don't know what you should do. But whatever you do, you need to be sober to do it."

"Yeah. That's probably a good idea."

They arrived at Mark's barracks room. Jared turned the knob and hip-checked the door open. He set Mark down in a chair, pulling his shoe and sock off, noting a significant bruise on the top of his foot beginning to form. There was swelling, but the bones didn't appear to be broken. He sighed in relief, then stood up and turned on Mark's coffee maker.

"I ain't got nobody, man…" Mark said as Jared filled the pot with water from Mark's sink.

"Bullshit. You got me. You got Meg. And Arnie, and Cap, and everyone here."

"You're goin' to DC, man. Gonna spend all day in dry cleaned suits saluting dickheads in different dry-cleaned suits. If I stay in, I'm either hanging out with tarantulas in the desert or yelling at zit-faced recruits all day."

Jared grimaced. "Yeah, I know."

"If I get out, I can move up there with you guys. And Molly."

"If you get out, I'd really miss you, man."

"I'll still be around. I'll be a plumber or something. Ain't no plumber gonna get court-martialed."

Jared started the coffee maker, and then opened the bathroom door to turn on the shower.

"Yeah, but I don't really see you as a plumber. Too big. They gotta fit in tight places sometimes."

"I can make it work. I fit in Meg that one time. She's a pretty tight place."

"Yeah. Okay." Jared nodded, grimacing again.

"I'll be a plumber, man. I'm serious. I don't give a fuck."

"Well, it's your choice," Jared said, trying to redirect his stream of thought. "But think it through. I'm sorry about Molly. But people break up sometimes. It's just life, you know? You'll meet someone else.There are women in Twentynine Palms."

"No there aren't."

Jared laughed. "Yeah, maybe not. There are tons in San Diego, though. Just hit up the beaches."

Mark shrugged, shaking his head sadly.

"I wanna be with Molly."

Jared sighed again, then grabbed his best friend's hand and pulled his arm over his shoulders again before standing him up to walk toward the shower.

"Get your shit together, man. Take a shower, get some coffee, and we can talk on the way to medical. Nothing's final yet. We can figure this out. Just get your head straight man…just get it together."

* * *

Navigating airport security was taking on an unconscious dimension now. It was such a part of David's routine, that he found himself losing chunks of time along the way.

He naturally remembered deeply kissing Jordan, who was holding back tears as he moved away from her toward the checkpoint. Then he found himself gathering his shoes off the roller belt. But he didn't remember taking them off, putting his bags on the search tables or X-ray conveyor belt, or walking through the metal detector.

All he could remember was Jordan's tight embrace, unconsciously not wanting to let him go.

It had been a lovely week back home with her. And surprisingly productive, too. He had moved forward on another lucrative deal with the potential to net his company millions. He had established himself as a valuable leader in the company he started, and had caught up with Hamad and Clint on the running details of the company's day-to-day operations. He had left feeling involved and contributing to the company, even though his attention was elsewhere most of the time.

It felt like the two ends of his work life were in balance.

And, of course, he had spent several days and nights just enjoying his wife's company. Going on hikes, going to dinner, movies, chatting about her work and his travels.

Holding hands, kissing, snuggling.

And she had been more than a little forward sexually. David never had to ask for sex. Not once. She seemed to be on some kind of horny husband patrol, ready to respond to his arousal at a moment's notice.

So it had been a great week for him.

And she had insisted over and over that it had been great for her, too. But after every time they finished, she had that flushed look on her face. She had wiggled her nakedness up to and all over his body, soaking up their intimacy with hot skin and a dim look of frustration concealed under a tight smile.

The one exception had been when she had gently banished him from the bedroom and masturbated alone with her new toy.

David had been shocked at the intensity of his arousal as he had pressed his ear against his bedroom door. He had heard the sounds of the video coming from her laptop. And a few low, subtle grants that he identified with Jordan's voice. After about twenty minutes of that, he heard her gasp audibly, then fall completely silent for about fifteen seconds. Another moment passed, and she had opened the door, a visible look of relief on her face as she had plopped the slimy toy into his shaking hands.

"Can you wash that for me, baby? Thanks."

It was almost like she was a different person. And while he was never even remotely disappointed in the sex they shared, there was another layer of allure about Jordan when she was like this.

This…other Jordan had a particular curve to her smile. It was easy. Disarming. Almost dismissive. The kind of look that says…don't worry buddy, I'll get mine.

The other Jordan moved differently too. He had turned to watch her naked body as she moved toward the kitchen. Her movements were smooth. Easy. Relaxed.

Her hips had swayed seemingly without voluntary thought. Her hands had seemed loose, her arms flowing. A casual look over her shoulder at him probably would have driven him insane with desire.

But she didn't look back. And for some reason, that hit him even harder.

Sitting down at the gate before his flight, he looked at his phone. She had already texted.

J: Miss you already, baby. I'm back in the car. Loving the seat warmers in my brand new ride! 🥰🥰🥰

David smiled to himself and responded.

D: Anything to keep you…warm…right?

The response was quicker than he anticipated.

J:
J: Don't worry baby. I'm always warm for you.
J:

D: Okay baby. Drive safe. My flight's pretty long, I'll let you know when I land in Lagos.

J: Okay baby. Fly safe! I love you!

The initial boarding call came over the intercom and David stood up to file onto the plane.

He was struck by her use of the term "warm" to describe how she felt when aroused. Naturally, being a red-blooded heterosexual male, David loved the idea of a persistently "warm" wife. It had certainly worked out well for him this week. The craven intimacy that his wife had initiated each day, sometimes multiple times each day, had contributed quite a bit to his sense of balance. He was going into the West and South Africa leg of his worldwide audits refreshed and clear headed. Jordan had seen to that.

He was quite sure, however, that Jordan was not going into the next three weeks with the same advantage. Of clear-headed equilibrium.

It was fairly apparent that he didn't satisfy her, and that she was actively sexually frustrated to some degree. He was thrilled to see she had taken her own trip back to the sex shop, and that she found some things on the internet that stimulated her enough to practice sexual self-care.

And his excitement at this was only partially motivated by an altruistic desire for his wife's well being. Jordan's sexual pleasure was an erotic end in itself for David. The fact that she pursued–and occasionally caught–sexual relief through erotic self-exploration lit David's fire like nothing else.

Yet when they were together, it was clear that she was very much out of balance. Unlike him. She could meet his needs easily and routinely. He struggled to meet hers even occasionally. His memory dropped back to their first sexual experience…their wedding night. She had removed her bra for the first time. He had been transfixed at her beauty, and she had fumbled his pants open.

It took longer than he cared to admit for her to find his penis. Once she did, however, he shot off instantly. He still remembered the surprised laugh that came out of her mouth, and the damning question that both haunted him and brought him to a powerful climax when he recalled it during his own private sessions self-care:

"Is that it?"

God…there was something overwhelmingly powerful about the casual cruelty of that phrase.

"Is that it?"

Implying the need for more. No. Asserting it. Eventually begging for it.

There was no accounting for it, but David had a primal desire for his wife to have more.

He fumbled with his bag as he found his seat on the plane, trying to handle himself in a way that would obscure or conceal his erection while he sat down.

Fastening his seat belt, he felt his own face get hot at the memory of her description of her former lover Mark's sexual prowess.

Cool head, strong body. Dominant. Powerful. Commanding.

She had described a Newtonian reaction in her arousal following his. A powerful call to fulfill another man's needs. He could only imagine how hard this man made his wife come. He strongly suspected that she didn't feel flushed, needy, or frustrated after he was done with her.

Actually, he didn't have to suspect that. She told him. She said that she only felt…sleepy. After he was done with her.

David's ears burned at the thought.

She would have been satisfied. After Mark was done with her.

In a state of equilibrium. Not out of balance.

Satisfied.

Sleepy.

Fulfilled.

David opened his phone screen to text her.

D: On the plane. Just sat down. You home now?

J: Yep. Just got here. Gonna try and get some writing done, I'm a little behind…and I have to be ready for Professor Schenk's visit next week.

D: Okay. I'm a little worried about how stressed you are. You haven't used that massage subscription yet, have you?

J: No, not yet. I'm sorry baby.

D: You should use it. As much as you need to keep your head clear. And you can use more than the subscription, too. They have my credit card on file. Book as many as you need. We can afford it.

J: That's soooo sweet honey. I'm just a little nervous, actually. I've never gotten a massage…I'd feel kinda weird having someone like…touching me all over, you know?

D: Don't worry about that, honey. And you can request a woman therapist, too. If it makes you feel weird. I just want you to be taken care of when I'm gone.

J:
J: Thanks baby. You take such good care of me!

D: Well, you need to take care of yourself, too.

J: I will, don't worry. Text me when you land in Lagos. I should be up by then. And try to get some sleep on the plane!

David read the phrase over and over again:

"I will, don't worry."

His cuck fire flared as he imagined the possibility of strong male hands working over Jordan's body. He wanted her to make a massage appointment so bad. Not that he thought the massage would go dirty…although if it did…if she wanted that, even better, right?

What was he thinking? He was too fired up. He had to calm down. This flight was 13 hours long.

But he struggled to restrain himself. He opened the text chain and typed one more message, his thumb hovering over the send button, his heart beating audibly as he weighed the possible outcomes of sending it:

D: ?

* * *

It was a horrible idea, in retrospect.

But although he thought about that night for years afterward, he was never quite sure if it was just poor impulse control that actually ended things that night, or if the train had already jumped the rails.

But it was easy to see after the fact. He should not have just shown up that way.

But there he was, half a bottle of Jack Daniels already coursing through his veins, his left hand pinching together a set of Star Trek Legos and a fresh new copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight between his large thumb and forefinger. His equally large right fist knocking on the door of the quiet, cape style suburban home.

The look on Chris' face when he answered the door to see his wife's lover was priceless. He completely froze, his face locked in shock.

Mark grinned at him, as they both processed seeing each other in person for the first time since the beach vacation more than a year ago.

Mark could see in Chris' eyes the full realization that Mark was the better man. That he had utterly conquered Chris' wife. That he had charmed her, enraptured her, fucked her, inseminated her repeatedly and regularly, and that he held her heart in his powerful hand. That the very house he was now occupying was only one of the several sites of his own thorough cuckolding.

And now the bull had arrived to claim the rest of it. The home. The children. The love of his life and the life he, Chris, was fighting to retake.

"Hey man. Molly home?" Mark asked casually.

Mark was dressed well for a civilian. Tan slacks and a light blue button up shirt. Tucked in with a new belt. He had freshly shaved and was wearing a cologne he knew Molly liked. He had bought new dress shoes earlier that day after moving all of his belongings from his old barracks room into his 4Runner and driving away from his life as a marine.

"Mark. I didn't expect…we weren't expecting you…"

Suddenly Molly appeared in the hallway behind her husband, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and an old sweatshirt, her red hair tied back in a ponytail. She, too, froze, her eyes fixed and wide.

"Hey baby. I'm home."

Molly took a step back, bracing herself against the wall. Within seconds, a visibly taller Lucy and a Max with longer hair appeared behind their mother.

Lucy spoke first.

"Mister Rein. I'm glad you got back from Afghanistan safely. We were just having dinner."

Mark grinned. "Lucy! So nice to see you again. I see you've improved with the…you know…the lisp seems to be gone."

"I've had some speech therapy at school, and they tell me it's much better. I'm glad you noticed too."

Precocious as always.

"What's in your hand?" Max walked past his mother, then his father, and looked straight up to Mark.

"I brought some stuff. I got a lego set for you, and a book for Lucy."

"Cool, thanks! Star Trek…is it a space ship?"

"Technically a space station."

"Whoa…that's cool! Thanks Mister Rein!"

"And here's a book for you, Lucy. One of the King Arthur stories."

Lucy walked around and took the book as her father, who was still recovering his senses, stepped back a little as the children crowded in front of him in the doorway.

Lucy was questioning Mark about the book when he looked past Chris and saw Molly's hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. For the first time, their eyes met and held. He smiled broadly, expecting to be welcomed into the home.

Instead, he saw Molly's head slowly shaking. Back and forth.

"What's a critical edition?" Lucy asked, breaking Mark's concentration.

"It's just a version of the book with some extra stuff in it. You know, Literature professors write articles about it and that kind of stuff. You'll probably like that stuff when you're older, I just thought you'd want to keep this one for a while."

"That's very generous of you, Mister Rein. Thank you. I love it."

Mark's heart sank as he looked up to see Molly hastily drying her tears before her children turned around. "Yeah, well, I was…just kind of in the area, and I remembered you guys lived here. So I thought I'd drop by and…I brought a couple fun things. That's all."

"Well, thanks for dropping by," Chris said awkwardly. "We're kind of in the middle of dinner, and it's a school night, so…"

Molly turned around and darted down the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

"No, I understand."

Mark felt utterly defeated. A dagger to the heart.

"You should come by again, maybe on a Saturday." Lucy said brightly. I'll read this, and we can discuss it. I'm getting good at discussing books now. We have a whole class for it in my new grade."

"That sounds great, Lucy," Mark said flatly.

"Well, good luck to you, Mark."

Chris extended a pale, pudgy hand. Mark limply grasped it, then took a step back on the porch, letting the screen door flop shut. Chris nodded at him, took a step back, and closed the door.

The rest of the night was a blur.

In the months that followed, Mark would occasionally tried to piece it together, but the salient moments always dominated the memory more than the details or chronology. Molly freezing. Molly shaking her head. Molly turning and running away, her hand still over her mouth.

But one more memory poked through occasionally.

It Involved a checkout counter at a state liquor store, another bottle of Jack Daniels being set in a paper bag as Mark's flip phone buzzed on the counter next to it.

He remembered ignoring it, a feeling of pervasive numbness fogging his mind. But the buzzes of the phone on the counter kept coming.

He remembered walking unevenly out to his 4Runner, all his possessions still stuffed in the back. He remembered flipping open his phone and denying the call. He remembered hearing the buzz again, as he sat down in the driver's seat and put the keys in the ignition.

This time, a text message.

Please pick up, Mark. I don't want to end things this way. Please pick up.

Please?

[subtoall]

Damn! You sure know how to cultivate sympathy for your characters. Powerful chapter.

[nnjcpl2002]

Excellent chapter, Crusher. Thanks!
More please?

[MustBeDenied2]

Thank you for another great chapter, Crushing!

MBD

[Fred_Garvin]

This is one of the best-written, most engaging stories I have read on this site.

[Fred_Garvin]

It's been about a week since the most recent chapter, so I keep checking to see if the new one has dropped.

I'm definitely dialed in on this story!

[Crushing]

"Marco. Arregla tu corbata."

The gangly ten year old scowled and reached up to straighten his necktie.

"I don't want to go now, mom. I look stupid. Can we just stay home?"

"You don't look stupid. You're a businessman. With a brand new haircut, too! You look handsome. Successful. All the girls will like you."

The boy pouted visibly. "I'm not a businessman, mom. These are just my church clothes, and they don't even fit good anymore."

He was right. The suit pants were visibly short, clearly showing his socks sticking out of his church shoes, and his shoulders were beginning to extend beyond the width of the suit coat.

Leticia Martinez-Rein frowned, rustling her only son out the door of their apartment.

"Well, this is what we have, mi amor. You'll be handsome if you don't pout. Keep your head up. You're taller than the other boys, and stronger. Nobody will make fun of you if you carry yourself well."

If they hurried, they would just make it to the church, where Mark's rowdy group of other ten year old boys was gathering to go trick-or-treating for Halloween.

Even though she wouldn't tolerate his pouting, Leticia did worry about his church clothes. He was growing too fast. His nice pants kept rising up on his ankles, and his shirt cuffs were visibly gravitating toward his elbows. She simply couldn't afford to get him new church clothes as quickly as he grew out of his old ones. Nor could she get a Halloween costume from the store like his friends had.

It broke her heart, but she could only do what she could do.

Making their way down the hall, a familiar door opened.

"Hey Benny…" Mark greeted the old man glumly.

The older neighbor squinted and answered back in a gravelly voice.

"Hey yourself, bean pole. Where are you going all dressed up like that on Halloween?"

"We're going trick or treating. It's my costume."

"Oh. You like dressing up in suits then?"

Mark looked away, a sour face poorly concealed from his mother's eyes.

Benny stepped out into the hall and had a quick whispered exchange with Leticia. Then, beckoning subtly to the boy, the old man squatted down conspiratorially.

"I think I might have a different costume for ya, bud. You're just about big enough. Wanna try it out?"

"Yeah!" Mark answered brightly.

Leticia beamed as they disappeared into Benny's small apartment for a few moments, then reappeared.

Mark now sported an old Korean War era olive-drab combat uniform with the ankles and sleeves rolled back. The uniform was complete: boots that were two sizes too large, laced as tightly as they could go, a clanky old steel helmet, and a hitched-down web-belt with several empty ammunition and grenade pouches dangling harmlessly down his back and sides.

Mark completed the ensemble of Benny's old uniform, with a grin so wide and sharp it threatened to pierce his earlobes.

Benny stood behind him, holding his church clothes draped over his forearm, nodding toward Leticia.

"I'll hang on to these until you get back, and we can trade back. Okay?"

"Okay…" Leticia smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Benny."

"Happy to do it. Just one thing before you go, bean pole…" He squatted down to make eye contact with Mark again.

"You like wearing that uniform, buddy?"

Mark nodded eagerly. "It'd be cooler if I had a gun!"

Benny shook his head. "Nope. Don't need it. A Marine's weapon is his body. And his mind. Understand?"

Mark nodded again, more solemnly.

"So here's the deal, bud…" Benny continued. "If you're going to wear that uniform, now or ever, you can never dishonor it. You can never pick on anyone smaller than you, and if you see anyone else bullying someone smaller than them, your responsibility is to step in and stop it. Never lie, never cheat, never do the wrong thing and call it the right thing, and never, ever, ever do any less than your absolute best when you wear that uniform. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir!" Mark grinned.

"Alright kid. Go get 'em." He patted Mark on the shoulder.

Mark tore awkwardly down the hallway in his ill-fitting boots and loosely cuffed pants. His mother trailed behind, looking over her shoulder and waving gratefully to the old man.

Benny stepped back into his apartment, smiling quietly to himself as the door clicked shut.

* * *

D: Just got to the hotel. Going to sleep in a while, then heading to the port in the morning.

J: Hey baby! How's Lagos?

D: Still a little jetlagged. The first day is always rough when you change this many time zones. Still getting used to it.

J: I'm sorry baby…🥺 It's night time there now, right? Just drink lots of coffee when you get up!

D: Oh, don't worry. I will. Did you sleep okay?

David held his breath, waiting for the response.

Before he had take off, when the plane had pushed back from the gate and the crew ordered all cell phones turned off and stowed, he had finally opted not to send the dancing girl emoji with a question mark to Jordan. As much as he liked the idea of his wife enjoying himself, he didn't want to push his luck by nudging her into it, or making her feel obligated to put on a show for him.

He also knew that the day he flew off was always emotionally raw for her, and she may feel pressured to do what he wanted, rather than what she felt drawn to, which dulled the erotic effect for him. So he simply deleted the emoji and turned the phone off.

However, he had hoped that she had utilized RICARDO to help her sleep.

David had spent a sizable chunk of time on the flight imagining her fumbling underneath the covers, her spread knees causing two twin hills to rise symmetrically under their shared bedding, forming the bottom corners of a triangle with her flushed, beautiful face as it peeked out from under the covers. He had imagined himself standing in their bedroom at the foot of their bed, or perhaps off to the side a bit, seeing her glassy eyed stare in his direction: her eyes on him but her mind elsewhere as she carefully arranged RICARDO inside of her, moving him in and out, this way and that, in ways that pleased her and relaxed her.

He wanted to ask her if she had had fun with RICARDO last night after he left. Or perhaps without him, utilizing only her own slim fingers to help her sleep.

But he chickened out.

His phone buzzed with her response.

J: I slept okay. I'm kinda stressed about this conference coming up.

D: Your response paper? I'm sure you'll crush it, Jo. How's it coming?

J: You know how I am. I write something, then I hate it and have to start over. I've done that a few times.

D: Are they different each time?

J: The first couple drafts were, but the last few have been pretty close to each other. In substance, at least.

D: Sounds like you're about where you want to be, then. Just go for it now! Just throw it down until you're done saying what you want to say, then edit it the next day. That usually works for you, right?

J: Usually, yeah. This one's a little different.

D: What's different about it? What's this paper even about, anyway? You usually tell me all about it and you haven't breathed a word about this one.

David waited for the response. He saw the three blinking dots on the screen, indicating she was typing.

They appeared, then stopped, then started again.

He squinted, unsure of what to think. Finally:

J: Yeah, I haven't told you, honey, because it's kind of embarrassing.

David's heart fluttered.

D: Is it related to the "research" you were doing when I came home early last time?

J: 🫣
J: Yes.

D: Oh.
D: Well, all I have to say about that is…AWESOME! I fully support this kind of research.

J:🥴
J: I thought you might like that. But that's actually kind of the problem. This isn't like…a purely intellectual exercise anymore. My mind and my body are kind of going two different ways on this thing, and so I'm questioning my own objectivity, and I think the paper is suffering for it.
J: I kind of don't know what to do, because this conference is a big career moment for me, and I don't want to flub it.
J: This paper could be the difference between getting a job after my dissertation and being unemployed!
J: And I only did it because Professor Lukacz assigned it.
J: And I don't know the guy I'm responding to at all, I've only read his work, and what if he hates me and says I don't understand his work at all, and I look stupid in front of the whole conference?

David paused at the wall of text that came through, conflicted on how to respond. She was clearly stressed about this project.

At the same time, the thought that she was professionally researching something that lit her own libidinal fires was incredibly exciting to him.

Still, the role of the supportive husband was clear. And it took priority. He had to support her first…

Then, perhaps when he got her to calm down, he could pull his pecker until it damn near popped off his body. He relished the prospect of a savory trip into the imagination, exploring the delicious idea of her extensive "research."

He took a deep breath and began to respond.

D: I can see how that might stress you out, Jo, but I wouldn't worry too much about it. Professor Lukacz wouldn't have picked you if he didn't think you could do it, and I highly doubt that your objectivity is that impaired. You're the smartest woman I know, I have total confidence you can figure this out.

Another pause.

J: 🥰
J: You're sweet, honey. Thank you for saying that.

D: I didn't make your insecurities go away, did I?

J: Not really, no. But I love that you support me! 🥰🥰🥰

D: Would it help if you talked me through it a little more? Maybe I can ask you what your thoughts on the paper are, and you can explain your position to me like I'm a seventh grader?

They often did this when she had to write other papers. She would sit David down at the table and talk him through her ideas, then he would try and explain it back to her so she could see if she was being clear.

He had wondered why she hadn't opted to do that with this paper, initially assuming that it was because she didn't want to take up their limited time together using him for homework help.

But now it seemed more likely that she didn't want to bring it up because she was embarrassed, conflicted, and scared by the content of her research.

David's phone buzzed again.

J: Okay, yeah, maybe that would help. Do you have some time? I don't want you to miss out on sleep.

D: I'm fine, honey. The jet lag is screwing with me, but I'm fully awake. I can go down in an hour and still get a full 8 hours before I start in the morning.

J: Okay. You sure you're okay with this? I'm kinda horrified by the subject matter. And kinda more horrified by how I'm reacting to it. And even more horrified that I'm telling you about my weird sexual deviances…

D: Jo, you have no idea how okay with it I am. This is a dream come true for me. Not only am I going to be okay with pretty much whatever you say, I'll probably be SUPER into it. So I'll try to hold back a little.

J: God, you're weird…
J: Okay, so here's the breakdown. Schenk's work analyzes what he characterizes as psychological benefits that come from consensual BDSM practices. You know what BDSM means, right?

D: Like tying people up for sex stuff, right? Like that video you were watching?

J: 🫣 Yeah. 🫣 Like that.
J: Anyway, moving on. So I won't go into the details of his arguments, but he's got some survey data that I think has some questionable methods behind it, and I'll address that, but the bigger problem is basically my thesis. I think that indulging in this kind of fantasy leads to a disintegrated identity that over-represents impulses toward the violent and self-annihilating.

D: Okay, I was following for a minute there, but the last sentence is confusing. Disintegrated identity? Like the identity dissolves or something? Like sugar into water?

J: No, but good question. Dis-integrated literally just means taking something that should be integrated–meaning the parts that make it up should occupy the same space in ways that are cooperative and harmonious–stops working that way.

D: Like an engine? Like if you lose the main driver belt, it isn't an engine anymore even if parts of it work because they have to work together to work at all?

J: Exactly. Hey, that's good. Maybe I'll use that. Anyway, think of it like this: The identity is made up of a bunch of different brain functions, all centered on how someone functions in the world. And the basic idea of identity, meaning who we perceive ourselves to be, is "integrated" out of those parts. So things like your social position, your profession, your core skills, your sense of right and wrong, stuff like that, they all need to be integrated. If they're not, the different parts of your identity separate and even clash, and you get an identity crisis.

D: Okay, I think I'm following. So you're saying when people do bondage sex stuff, it creates an identity crisis?

J: Potentially. What I'm saying is that…actually, now I'm not sure. Hang on.

D: Keep going, work it out.

J: I guess what I'm saying is that in order for people to feel stable in their identity, they need to see that identity as morally good. Nobody wants to view themselves as a bad person, that creates all sorts of other problems. So if they give into impulses that are bad, or that even role-play as bad, they're basically creating this component of their identity that is bad. So naturally this "bad" part of themselves that's associated with their sexuality kind of separates from the other "good" parts of themselves that do more normal, everyday stuff. So their identity is kind of split. Like they become two people in one body: One person that's like a normal person by day, and one that likes to whip and beat people (or that likes to be beaten and whipped) for sexual pleasure by night.

D: Okay, I could see that. That makes sense to me. But I'm not really sure how having certain impulses that you know are bad makes a part of you bad. I mean, you can't really help how you feel, right? You can't choose what turns you on. Right?

J: You can choose to move away from bad impulses and toward good ones. I definitely sympathize with the struggle against your bad impulses, but for someone to feel comfortable and confident in who they are, they shouldn't give up control in order to indulge impulses that feed into a bad identity construct. Healthy people need a sense of control over their bad and worse impulses.
J: I mean, Heroin addicts have impulses to take heroin. I don't blame them for the impulses, but acting on them is bad for them. It has bad outcomes. And the more they do it, the worse the outcomes are.

D: So BDSM sex is like heroin? That seems like an extreme position to take.

J: No, that's not what I'm saying. That's just an example of bad impulses that should be resisted for the sake of better health. You can swap out heroin with anything else that makes you feel good and is bad for you. A gallon of ice cream a day. Or spending twenty hours a day on video games or social media. Take your pick.

D: Okay, I can see that. It's coming together now.

J: Okay good. So what I'm saying is that giving in to impulses just because they're strong is a bad road to go down in terms of psychological health. In order to feel comfortable with who you are, you need to feel like you're capable of being a good person, and that includes refusing bad impulses. Of course giving in occasionally or in controlled environments like a BDSM dungeon party doesn't make those people bad, but it does threaten to split their identity. They're different people depending on what room they're in. And when they're outside the dungeon, they're ashamed of what they are inside the dungeon. Can you see how that could pull someone's identity apart?

D: Yeah, definitely. I could see that.

J: It's a perfectly coherent position to say that some impulses are deep and need to be expressed in controlled environments. That's definitely the position that Schenk takes, and it makes sense on the surface. But I really can't imagine a psychologically healthy person who looks in the mirror and sees someone different depending on the type of impulse they're indulging at the moment. You should be able to look in the mirror and see the same person every time. That's a healthy identity.

D: Is that what you do when you talk to yourself in the bathroom?

David froze immediately after sending the text. The conversation had been so easy thus far that he didn't think about the impact his question would have.

The jet lag messed up his filter.

There was a long silence, and Jordan didn't respond. So he sent another text:

D: Sorry baby, I didn't mean to accuse you of anything. I just noticed…sometimes I can hear you talking to someone. In the bathroom. And then you seem kind of bothered afterwards.

J: You can hear that?

David hesitated, sensing a land mine he didn't want to step on.

J: David?

D: Yes. I can hear that.

J: What else can you hear?

D: Not much, just muffled talking.

David lied.

D: It's usually after we make love, too. So I thought it might have something to do with that.

J: I didn't know you could hear me. I'm sorry if I made you worry.

D: As long as you're okay, I'm okay Jo.

J: I'm fine. Just…

D: Just what?

J: Just…you caught me. I'm kind of uncomfortable with myself. With some of my impulses. So yeah, I have some personal experience with this. It's one of the reasons I'm uncomfortable talking about it. But it's also a driver of why I'm taking this position against Dr. Schenk.

D: I mean, I'm not really sure I see the harm. I like it when stuff turns you on. It gets me excited, and makes me feel close to you. You seem to like the bondage videos…you had fun with them last week.

J: I did, yes. But then, like twenty minutes later after you go to sleep, I feel like a terrible person.

D: Why? Again, I don't mind. I actually like it, Jo. I love it when you do your own thing. Sexually. It's really attractive to me. I love it!

J: I know you do, David. And I'm trying to be a good wife and do what you like. But I guess I just like what I like too much. It's scary. And the fact that you like it too scares me even more.

D: Why? Help me understand here, Jo. I don't see anything wrong with you doing things that we both like. I know you were raised religious and everything, and I respect that, but that didn't stop you with Mark.

J: That's low, David. That hurts.

David froze. He really needed to avoid conversations like this while severely jetlagged. He scrambled for damage control.

D: I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean anything by that. Again, you know how much I liked it! Actually, I loved it! You were so incredibly hot when you would be with him, and then you would come home…I still think about it all the time. I just…I know we stopped because I went to the hospital, and the thing with Vinny and the letters, but…I guess I just want to understand better why you think all of this is so wrong.

J: Because it is, David. I think it's wrong because it is. It's just wrong. I'm not going to go through arguments from five different schools of moral philosophy to prove it to you, but I promise you, I've thought about it A LOT. And whenever I'm in my right mind, When I actually feel like myself, I just know it's wrong. I shouldn't be doing it, and I shouldn't be thinking about it. And neither should you. We should be enough for each other. Sexually. That's it. Case closed.

D: Okay, baby. Agreed. And for what it's worth, I think I touched a nerve, and I'm not really helping with your paper anymore. I threw everything off the rails. I'm sorry. I really am.

J: It's okay honey. I jumped down your throat. And we should really have this talk in person, but I have this thing where I don't want to ruin our time together since you travel so much. I'm sorry too.

D: No need to apologize.

J: I just want it to be…just us, you know? I want us to have a normal marriage. I want to buy a house and have your babies and go to parent teacher conferences and soccer games and church groups and to travel fun places with our children during summer vacations.
J: I want to be a normal, successful mom with a reasonably successful career at a decent university.
J: And I want to be a good wife to you and have a strong, stable marriage.
J: And I think we both need to admit that following our worse impulses threatens all of that. People finding out about the things we did..or what we would do if we gave into these impulses…it could be career ending for me.
J: And could make things really hard for us socially. There could be ruptures in our relationship if things go too far, which they probably will.
J: Maybe even something drastic like an unwanted pregnancy…it's not worth it, David.
J: Both of us…we need to be normal, good people, and we need to be able to look ourselves in the mirror every day and see the same, good, stable person looking back at us in order to do that.

D: That makes sense, honey. I want all of that too. Maybe not the parent teacher conferences. But the rest of it is what I want too. More than anything. And doing it with you is a dream come true.

J: So do you see why I push back against this stuff? Do you see why that…other girl in the mirror scares me so much?

D: I absolutely do see that. I concede entirely. And I love how circumspect you are, and how committed you are to our goals to make a good family. You're the best wife ever.

J: 🥰
J: Now you're just buttering me up.

D: No, I'm not. I mean every word. Thank you for explaining your feelings to me. I feel much more up to speed on where you're at.
D: But I also feel like I railroaded your project. Does any of this help clarify things for your paper? I feel bad.

J: It actually does help, yeah. Now that I've kind of cleared the air about our…um…shared deviances. Now that I feel like we're on the same page I think I can finally articulate my position for the paper.

D: Good!

David waited for a few moments, but Jordan didn't respond. He got the sense she might be typing up something for the paper. Not wanting to discourage that, he thought it best to end the conversation and let her work.

D: Well, I should get ready for bed. I'm exhausted.

J: Yes, you should. I need to take a shower and head off to school. I have to teach a class in an hour.

D: Okay. Good luck on your paper, baby. I'm rooting for you.

J: Of course you are. You're the perfect husband.

D: You're the perfect wife, Jo. I love you.

J: I love you too baby. Get some sleep.

* * *

"Captain Stott, Alpha company. Reporting, all present."

The officer snapped a salute, his movements mirroring Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe's, who stood about ten feet in front and thirty feet to the right of him.

"Captain Lindhurst. Bravo company. Reporting, all present."

Another salute.

"Very well." Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe snapped his own salute in return.

"Captain Rein, Charlie Company. Reporting, all present."

Mark snapped a stern salute, his eyes straight forward, waiting for Wolfe to return the salute. When it came, he snapped his arm back down to rigid attention and waited.

"Captain Dennett, Headquarters, Support, and Weapons Company. Reporting, all present."

The final salute was rendered, and returned by the battalion commander.

"Very well."

Wolfe held his position rigidly, standing alone in front of the long formation of marines under his command.

"Welcome to the gauntlet, gentlemen. As you all know, this friendly competition has become a battalion tradition. But it has also become a useful tool for inspiring ourselves and each other to be the best marines we can be."

Wolfe paused and looked over his battalion.

Just shy of a thousand personnel, all standing at attention, gathered to spend the day in competition. Pushing themselves toward excellence.

It was his third competition as battalion commander, and most of the officers and senior enlisted marines had been staffing the battalion nearly as long as he had. The two exceptions were the new Charlie company commander and his chosen gunnery sergeant. He had made the change rather drastically after relieving Captain Rein's predecessor for incompetence.

Prior to Rein's arrival, Charlie company had been the bearers of the not-so-affectionate appellation of battalion shitbags. Despite his attempts to mentor, prod, and even discipline them into shape from a distance, the momentum was simply against him. So, after firing the company leadership, he went against the grain and called in a favor: recruiting a mustang officer from out of a training command. A mustang officer who no one else would touch.

Captain Rein had left the Corps as an enlisted man under less-than-ideal circumstances. Most of those circumstances were not of his own making. Nevertheless, when he left, no one thought they would see him in uniform again. But a few years passed, and when Wolfe heard that Rein had reapplied to join up again as an officer, he was stunned. He was even more stunned that he was accepted into Officer's Candidate School.

After he had received his commission as a mustang Lieutenant, Wolfe had kept one eye on his career from a distance. Despite his glowing combat record, Lieutenant Rein seemed to only get training assignments in out-of-the-way commands. No one was taking him seriously.

Probably because they only knew him from his personnel file.

But Wolfe knew his potential. They had worked together before. And when the time had come to make a change at Charlie Company, Wolfe's request to reassign Captain Rein to a command role was met with snickering skepticism from his superiors at Division Headquarters.

Now Rein had been in his new position just over two months, and had been absolutely relentless in tightening the ship. Looking over toward Charlie company, Wolfe restrained a smile, noting the rocksteady bearing of the tightly formed unit standing at attention behind the captain.

Just three months ago, they were a very different looking group of marines.

Wolfe continued. "For those of you who are new to this, the competition is broken down into four events. First: the rifle range. A collective marksmanship score will be tallied at both short and medium range with your service rifles. Second: a physical training competition which will be run as a unit, not individually, and will include a timed obstacle course. Third: a drill competition judged by senior enlisted marines from Division who have been invited to observe. And the final event will be a head-to-head competition in unarmed combat. Each company will select a champion, and the four marines representing the four companies will fight in the pit. The winner will take the competition for their company."

He paused again, not able to restrain a grin. "And since Gunny Poisson is now assigned to Charlie Company, and I know you all know him by now, I wish the rest of you luck in the fourth competition."

A small laugh rippled through the battalion. Gunnery Sergeant Poisson remained stone-faced, staring straight ahead from his position behind Charlie Company.

Wolfe looked down at his watch, then back up at his marines. "The time on deck is 0740. We are expected at the range at 0800. Each company will report to the range corresponding to their own designations. Weapons company will report to Delta Range. No one will be late. Keep it tight. Good luck today, gentlemen. Fall out."

The long row of tight rectangles, comprised of nearly a thousand marines in military formation, dissolved in an instant into a loose crowd moving deliberately toward the rifle range.

* * *

Skewed Identity from Power Play: Dangerous Subsumption of Moral Identity in Bondage Fetish Practices

A response to Dr. Thomas Schenk, with respect, prepared by Jordan Stark-Simms, Doctoral Candidate in Cognitive and Philosophical Psychology, ABD

Colleagues and esteemed professors, I'm grateful for the opportunity to respond to Professor Schenk's paper, which is both well-researched and insightful in proposing both moral and therapeutic frameworks in which to situate the sexual practices he details. My intention in responding to his presentation does not aim to quibble with the nuances of his conclusions. Rather, I feel compelled to attack the moral and psychological foundations of the intellectual project itself. Undoubtedly the human impulse to pursue and sexualize the power exchanges inherent in the history of our species exists in many of us, and certainly that impulse cries out from the unconscious for expression or release in analogous symbolic sexual practices. Some human facts are too brute to deny, or perhaps brutal–in every sense of the word. Nonetheless, the impulse to sexualize brutality when one's identity is necessarily both situated in and partially composed of civilized society necessarily creates a layered identity existing in an unproductive tension. This fact I intend to demonstrate repeatedly and systematically in my remarks today. That tension may be livable, much as the life of a functioning alcoholic or a covert sociopath, but to assert health claims resulting from such stark dissonance in identity is problematic at best, and viciously destructive at worst.

Jordan leaned back from her laptop, which was set up on the kitchen table in her apartment, reviewing what she had written so far.

Not bad. Not great, but not bad. Laced with five dollar words and clearly coded for a professional audience, it didn't yet mask the audacity of throwing down a gauntlet at the entire life's work of an established senior professor.

She was taking a risk, and she knew it. She also knew that one of the reasons she had secured a spot in the prestigious and enviable position of one of Professor Lukacz' doctoral mentees was that she took big swings when she stepped to the plate. He had told her when they first met that her submitted writing sample, which addressed the sixteenth century French thinker Michel de Montaigne's observations on cannibals and moral perspective, had positively delighted him. He had always encouraged her intellectual explorations into odd or controversial territory that pushed back against the established assumptions of their shared profession.

Which was basically what she was doing now.

But this time her position came from unambiguously morally conservative commitments. In a word, her childhood was showing. This paper could well have been written by her father as a sermon, if all the philosophical psychobabble was extracted from it.

Nonetheless, it would make a splash, which she might be able to parlay into a job down the road.

And she really felt that what she wrote was important.

And true.

An obnoxious feminine moan erupted from her laptop speakers and interrupted her thought process. Jordan jumped slightly in her seat, then switched windows to a line of open internet tabs.

The source of the feminine groan was discovered. Several open tabs were residual "research" from the night before. On one such website, an advertisement for cam girls that seemed programmed to restart periodically to get the attention of the viewer was now blaring out openly in her face. She quickly closed it, which left the room in awkward silence, but also uncovered a paused video in the center of the screen.

Another young woman sitting in a chair, interviewed by someone off camera.

The paused video still showed the young woman smiling nervously.

She looked different from the young women Jordan had seen in the other videos thus far.

Jordan had browsed the site and opened half a dozen tabs last night after texting her husband. He was just starting his hectic first day in Nigeria, still trying to figure out where everything was and how the port worked, so he was harried and unavailable to talk for long.

It was morning for him, after all, and for her it was late at night. The needs of their bodies were necessarily out of sync, and she didn't want to bother him with the nagging problem of the warmth between her legs.

She had done what she felt a good wife should do. She had been supportive and lifted his spirits, then let him get back to work.

Regarding her own needs, she had opted instead to let her fingers wander over her keyboard, around her mousepad, and eventually between her legs as she watched the decorative bondage and sexually tantalizing torture play unfold on her laptop screen, which had been conveniently and delicately set on David's empty pillow.

After finishing the work of self care, Jordan had closed the video that brought about her wave of relief. But she had forgotten to close the other sampled tabs, which remained open after she closed her laptop and went to sleep.

So…she now realized…sleeping next to her all night were a half dozen or so young women in the same chair, hiding in different internet tabs. Each of them virtually waiting to be stripped, tied and sexually teased.

When she woke up, she had forgotten they were there.

Until now, of course. And this particular woman seemed to differ physically from the others. Her body was curvier. Almost Rubenesque. Her flushed face seemed to start well before the interview instead of several moments into it like the others. Jordan hypothesized a special intensity of insecurity on the part of the curvy young woman knowing that her body, which would soon be stripped bare for all viewers, may not conform to mainline standards of beauty.

For that reason, Jordan hypothesized further, the anticipated humiliation may have been extra potent. And started much longer before the interview and subsequent scene.

Jordan's thoughts returned to her paper once again, noting a workable case-in-point in the video in front of her.

This young woman, whose physical insecurities likely occupied a significant part of her conscious thoughts on a daily basis, was going to submit herself to public humiliation, presumably to evoke intense sexual gratification by means of that insecurity. Like jamming a finger into an open wound and turning it around. The feeling of such a violent intrusion would be intense, perhaps painful to a twisted psyche, but no one in their right mind would say that any kind of healing would result from it.

If sexual gratification comes from pulling hard on the throttle of such insecurities, how does that not result in anything less than a morally split identity? Healthy long-term outcomes resulting from this kind of "therapy," as Schenk seemed tempted to call it, are as ludicrous as healing an infected wound by squeezing it really hard.

Feelings that intense are not generative of stable health. They just can't be.

To prove her point, Jordan pushed play on the video and let the scene begin to play out.

The pink faced young woman, whose clothes may have been a size too small, was candidly answering questions through a constant blush. Where she was from, what her hobbies were, whether she had a boyfriend, that sort of thing.

Wait…she had a boyfriend. She affirmed it. The others…the other girls Jordan had watched…they never did…

The woman's face flushed deeper as the man off camera teased her for her infidelity. When asked if her boyfriend knew she was there, she smiled shyly and shook her head in the negative. When asked if the boyfriend would approve, her smile faded slightly, and she shook her head again as her blush deepened.

Jordan shifted her weight in her chair, and a hint of warmth rose between her legs from the motion.

She ignored it, laser focused on the video.

This was it. This was the exact data she needed to prove her point. This woman was literally living two lives. And each of those lives existed in moral spaces that were diametrically opposed. One was respectable, faithful, and involved a healthy, nurturing relationship. The other was transgressive, craved abuse (even if only in the fantasy realm), and unfaithful. This young woman was two women, and her relationship was now two relationships as a result. And the pull between those two moral identities, while clearly creating potent sexual tension, would undoubtedly wrack her with cognitive dissonance and guilt when she returned, quite literally torn, to her boyfriend.

Jordan paused the video and added a thesis line to the opening paragraph of her response paper:

Therefore, it is my position, contra Professor Schenk's able characterization of consensual BDSM practices, to assert that such practices effect a forced subsumption of moral identity that creates, in effect, a split moral identity. This is untenable, as a stable identity must be predicated on a cognitively coherent and credible moral priority.

She smiled to herself. That was it. Just like she had talked through with her husband. A person ought to be able to be a good spouse, a good parent, a good member of society. He or she ought to feel confident in their identity as a good, productive, moral person, and that included saying no to such problematic indulgence of darker impulses.

Jordan turned back to the video, skipping forward to the part where they tie the girl up.

Jordan liked that part. Purely for the aesthetics. There was something about watching the man expertly coil soft, colorful rope in different geometric patterns around a woman's body that was just…impressive.

Something like that–being tied up with decorative rope–taken totally by itself within a consenting monogamous relationship–it did not rise to the standard of harm she was asserting in her paper.

Or so she felt compelled to admit to herself.

She noted the serene, still blushing smile of the curvy, naked young woman as the rope wrapped artistically around and around her.

She noted the look of serenity on the young, unfaithful woman's face as she was consensually bound, and felt like she should address these–temporary–moments of bliss in these transgressive sexual practices in her paper.

But…given the purely aesthetic appreciation of this and only this artistic aspect of BDSM practice, she thought about healthy parameters where such things could be enjoyed by a couple. Maybe she could ask David to do that for her. Just for fun one night. Maybe on their anniversary or something, and he could practice on her. She would take off all her clothes for him, and he could gently immobilize her with colorful rope.

Maybe they had some rope like that at that…one store. You know the one.

Maybe after she was beautifully arrayed and immobilized, David could work his mouth magic on her.

The flat of Jordan's hand subtly found the waistband of her pajama pants and slid quietly under the cloth knot that held them up.

Hmmm…Maybe David could use his hands on her too. When she was tied up like that. Maybe…just…use her body in a way that felt good for her. He'd like that. He loved it when she felt good…

The pads of her fingers began to feel soft, wiry hair, and pushed down into it. She found herself rocking gently back and forth on the kitchen chair.

Turning her attention back to the video, she skipped ahead more to see the woman immobilized on her knees, her mouth hanging open helplessly, her face still beet red. The man, whose face was still obscured, had crouched beside her and applied a small, handheld vibrating device between her legs.

The young woman was speechless, and seemed to struggle to breathe occasionally.

Okay, Jordan admitted to herself. This is clearly intense. The point is conceded. This kind of transgressive act has a marked sexual potency. Good sex is healthy, is it not? Or is there a point of diminishing return?

She wasn't sure how to address this. She might have to look into it some more. And she would have to come up with a workaround to that if it came to a debate with Professor Schenk.

Her fingers found their way to her cleft, and discovered a dampness below a stiffening nub. Grazing the latter with her finger, she pressed forward to find her dampness. An electric feeling shot into her pelvis, radiating gently into her legs.

Okay. Once again, the point is conceded. This kind of thing can be…potent.

Looking at the screen again, she noted the woman now crying out in distress. The man applying the vibrating pressure into her body was verbally forbidding her climax. She seemed to struggle to obey his order, and he grabbed her hair and stared into her desperate face, which seemed to shift from deep red toward purple as she gritted her teeth in desperate resistance to the call of her body.

Schenk views this kind of sexual intensity as psychologically purgative. As a kind of detoxification. How to respond to that?

Jordan found her thoughts clouded as her fingers began exploring the generative tension between her legs.

This…intense exchange evoked by symbolic bondage…it could certainly be seen as purgative. A kind of psychological cleanse, given the intensity of feeling, the inevitable release of pleasure chemicals. The feeling of euphoria that results. The misperception was definitely understandable…

Yet Jordan remained confident in the thesis of her response…

The woman on the screen was given permission to climax. Squeezing her eyes shut for several seconds, she held her breath as veins began to appear in her neck and forehead.

She looked unwell.

Scary even.

Then, barking out in a desperate cry, she forcefully released copious liquid from between her legs, splattering all over the floor, her kneeling calves, and darkening some of the colored rope that coiled around her inner thighs.

Jordan's own excitement intensified.

Had this man forced this woman to urinate? Publicly? Or at least on camera?

That couldn't be good. That level of humiliation…it was beyond cruel…

Yet Jordan's own face betrayed a flush and her own pleasure heightened. Leaning back, right there in her kitchen chair, she ran her fingers through her hair in frustrated confusion with her free hand as she processed the scene, trying to ignore the fact that she was masturbating with the other hand.

She stopped.

This was it, she realized.

This. This is happening right now. One part of my brain is aware of the moral problems, while the other is responding bodily…literally one hand doing the bidding of each part of my split moral identity.

Obviously this anecdote can't make it into the paper.

Obviously.

But it does rather prove the point, doesn't it?

Yes. Yes, I believe it does, honey.

Jordan froze.

The voice from the mirror. All the way down the hall from the bathroom. The gentle, mocking tone she had come to despise in her more shame-filled moments.

Of course she'd show up now. The girl in the mirror. Of course.

So what now? What's to be done? Now that she had figured a way to prove her thesis–to herself at least–what now?

You finish up what you started and blame it on me, sweetie. Then write your paper.

Jordan hated to admit it, but the girl in the mirror was right.

Productive or not, the tension was there now, and it had to be resolved.

She would feel ashamed later. She was sure of that. But for now…this tension had to be relieved.

Give hubby a taste, honey. He loves it when we do this.

Yes. That seemed right to her. A way to justify this lapse…He was probably asleep right now. But he would like it if he woke up to it…She quickly withdrew her right hand from the front of her pants, found her phone and texted her husband.

J:

She replaced her phone on the table and slid her hand down her pants again.

"Thank you…" she whispered, looking at the video again to see the curvy woman heaving, looking desperately up at her sexual tormentor.

No problem, babe. Now lean back a little. I have a feeling it's going to get even better. I don't think they're going to let this cutie clean up after the mess she made everywhere…

Jordan closed her eyes as the heat of her pleasure intensified from her dancing fingers.

"It's not me. It's her. Not me at all, it's all her, The girl in the mirror…" Jordan whispered to herself as her finger moved to find the moisture inside her body.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Bravo company won the range competition. Captain Lindhurst and Gunnery Sergeant Scott were both accomplished sharpshooters, and weapons training had been the top priority in Bravo company for more than a year. The entire company had filed out of the exit to Bravo range nearly 30 minutes ahead of schedule, having efficiently filled the centers of their target sheets full of holes, and, cleaning up the remaining brass casings, they had confidently walked away with many high fives exchanged and high spirits expressed.

No one expected the runner up at the rifle range to be Charlie Company. They were dead last in the previous 4 competitions. They had been practicing, but it was widely accepted that the timeline needed to improve the average marksmanship of an entire company was going to be longer than two months.

Furthermore, a high-intensity, high-discipline leadership style–the exact kind of style that Rein and Poisson had brought to Charlie Company–was not conducive to accurate rifle shooting. Everyone knew that excess tension, or even a widespread sense of unease or fear was the last thing you needed if you wanted to shoot well. But the other companies watched in surprise as Charlie Company's demeanor changed on a dime, from rock-solid, stone-faced military bearing, largely enforced by the infamously savage Gunny Poisson, to an easy, joking, back-slapping morning at the gun range. Gunny P, as they now called him, paced jovially back and forth behind the firing lines, cracking jokes. Captain Rein was far more involved than his aloof reputation suggested would be possible He was even seen lying down in the prone position next to his most junior marines as they shot, easing their nervous jitters while gently correcting their posture and aiming technique.

Wasn't this the guy who started his first day throwing a chair through the window? Wasn't Gunny Poisson the guy who literally beat the ass of every marine in the company on his first week? Weren't these the guys who removed every chair from the building, saying that sitting was a privilege that had to be earned?

Yet Charlie Company seemed to be all smiles and sunshine on the rifle range. Almost as if there were no competition at all. And the fact that they came in second place, not first, didn't seem to phase anyone in Charlie Company. Even though it stunned the rest of the battalion.

Now, an hour later, the drill competition had arrived. Each platoon took their turn in the empty parade lot, marching in tight formation according to a preset program. Outside staff noncommissioned officers stood at various angles to the performance with clipboards, judging the tight, disciplined choreography of movement.

The savage discipline of Charlie Company now returned with the change of event. It was now apparent that Rein and Poisson's demeanor tended to shift depending on the task at hand. Gunny P was pacing briskly back and forth between platoons, loudly singling out the rare misstep with theatrical threats of grievous harm to each offending marine. The Captain stood quietly a few dozen yards away: expressionless, arms folded, watching the company execute verbal commands from their platoon leaders.

Charlie Company had a clear advantage in drill. They had prepared carefully. Their uniforms were crisp and clean, carefully groomed, creased, and ironed the night before. Their rifles reflected the dull glow that comes from carefully polished gun barrel steel. Their movements snapped, the sound of their boots on the asphalt produced consistent, tight, percussive, unified sounds in perfect rhythm. Their movements were brisk and geometric, the commands of their leaders clear and sharp.

They looked good.

Noting the obvious change from the last competition, Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe couldn't help but saunter over to Captain Rein's position to check in.

The younger officer noticed him approaching and snapped to attention, saluting. Wolfe returned the salute.

"At ease, Captain."

Mark nodded and returned to his observational posture in silence. The steady, bellowing rhythm of platoon leaders cadence weaved together in the air over the two command officers.

"How do you think it's going, Rein?"

Mark waited a moment before answering. "Not bad. They're getting there."

"You should have seen them before you got here."

Mark chuckled. "Well, I saw them when I got here. They marched like a JV soccer team then. They're a little better now."

Wolfe nodded. "Yeah, I think that's a safe assessment. You did well at the range."

"Yes sir, we did. Thanks for noticing."

"That's my job."

They stood in silence as Mark's second platoon finished their program of drill maneuvers, standing rock still with weapons on shoulders, waiting to be dismissed. The men with clipboards paced around the still, rectangular formation, noting posture, symmetry, clean uniforms and movements. When they backed away, the platoon leader barked out a dismiss order, and the group dissolved instantly.

"Not bad, Rein. Keep it up."

Mark nodded, still looking forward at his men as another platoon began hastily to form up in the place of the preceding unit.

"I will sir. Thank you."

Wolfe moved on toward the next group of officers, who all snapped to attention and saluted. Mark moved away toward where the remainder of his company was aggregating, watching Charlie Company's last platoon begin their graded drill maneuvers.

They were clearly tired. They were obviously hungry. It was lunchtime. But everyone knew better than to ask to be dismissed. It was competition day, after all. But as soon as the last platoon snapped still for their final inspection by the men with clipboards, Mark called the company in for a pep talk and dismissed them to the chow hall ahead of the other companies. Charlie Company's marines eagerly ran to get food ahead of their battalion colleagues before they even knew the results of the competition.

Weapons company won the drill event. But Charlie Company came in a close second place.

The other company commanders began to cast sideways glances at Rein. Who exactly did this guy think he was?

* * *

"Hey love!" David's voice was bright on the phone, just past the high of his morning coffee.

"Hey baby! How's Lagos? You find your footing yet?"

"Yeah, I think so. Just in the cab heading in to the port now. The traffic here is…wow, honey. It's crazy."

"Oh, don't tell me that. Just be safe, honey…"

David laughed as the cab driver swerved aggressively through the traffic, heading toward the port. "I'm okay. My driver assures me he's never been in a wreck, and he always gets people where they need to be on time."

"Okay…"

"So…moving on from my crazy ride now. How was your day, Jo?"

Jordan took a breath. "It was…good. I got most of my response paper, uh, done. Taught a couple classes. That kind of stuff."

"Classes go okay?"

"Yeah, no issues. Some of my students are really coming along, some are struggling. Pretty standard stuff."

"Are you enjoying it? The classes?"

"Yeah…yeah I am. I like that part of the job. Kicking ideas back and forth, that kind of stuff."

"Cool…"

"Yeah…"

They sat in silence for a moment.

Jordan on the couch in their apartment, David in the back of a taxicab screaming through the streets of Lagos.

Finally, David broke the silence.

"So…I got your message when I woke up. The dancing girl. Looks like you sent it…around 9 AM your time?"

"Yeah. A little early for me." Jordan chuckled nervously.

"I was happy to get it. Always am."

"Good. I'm glad."

"So…keep those coming, I guess. As often as you like."

"I'll keep it in mind, honey."

"Did you have a particularly good morning?"

Jordan blushed. "Yeah, kinda."

"Want to tell me what happened?"

"Ummm, not really…" She cringed, embarrassed.

"Okay. It's your space, baby. But I really enjoyed your message."

"Okay," she replied quietly.

"So your paper is almost done…it's Tuesday night where you are…when are you giving the presentation again?

"Thursday. They changed the schedule like five times, then finally decided Thursday morning. So I've got a full day to just freak out about it. Very healthy."

"Get a massage, honey. Get one tomorrow. You've got that subscription, you haven't used it once. What are you waiting for?"

Jordan balked.

"I don't know, David. It just seems…like a rich girl thing to do. And I don't know if I want some strange, creepy dude touching me all over."

"You can request a woman, honey. Go on the website, and they have profiles of all the people who give massages."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Yeah, of course. You just go on the website, pick out what kind of massage you want, and then pick the person you want to do it. It's no big deal. People do it all the time."

"And then…what? They just rub your back until you turn into jelly or something?"

David laughed. "Yeah, pretty much. They'll work on other parts of your body too. Arms, legs, shoulders, neck, glutes, whatever.

"Glutes? You mean I can pay some poor lady to rub my butt for an hour?"

Jordan giggled at the absurdity.

David laughed back. "Well, yeah. If that's all you want. Or you can get a package. Legs, glutes, back. Or just neck, or whatever. It's a service, honey. It's whatever you want it to be."

"I just never thought of it. I always thought rich women went to these places and just sat in mud baths with cucumbers on their eyes and stuff. Or saunas. A lot of saunas."

"Well, I think the spa has some of that stuff too. You could ask…"

"No!" Jordan insisted, giggling. "That's rich lady stuff. That's not me. I'm a plain Jane. Just a small town girl-next-door."

"Well, massages are perfectly middle class, honey. In fact, doctors even prescribe massages sometimes. Physical therapists do it as part of rehab. It's just a body wellness thing. Like your daily run. Just taking care of your body."

Jordan paused. "Yeah, I guess I knew that. Just never thought that stuff would apply to me." She paused for a moment, thinking.

"Okay, fine. I'll go get my butt cheeks rubbed for an hour."

David laughed again. "You don't have to get your butt rubbed."

Jordan giggled again, pulling up the spa website on her laptop. She found the service request, then the schedule. She selected a basic massage, 30 minutes. Two appointments appeared at 8:00. One with someone named Christina, and another with someone named Scott. After school, after her singing lesson and the girls' group at church. She could head there last thing, get the massage, make David happy, and then maybe help her sleep before her big day. If it worked.

"Okay, my very generous and solicitous husband. Looks like there's an availability tomorrow night. I've booked a 30 minute back massage with…Christina. Happy now?"

"Yes, honey! Yes I am. I want you to feel taken care of, and you should be relaxed before your big day. Thank you for taking the leap. I think you'll really like it."

"Okay Mr. Stark…" Jordan sighed playfully. "We'll see how it goes. For now, I'm gonna finish up the conclusion to the paper here and get myself to bed. I'm exhausted."

"Okay, sounds good baby. I just pulled up to the port, so I've got to go too. Sleep tight, and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Love you David. Seriously. Be careful out there."

"I will, Jo. Sleep tight, love you…"

* * *

A festive lunch break followed by a quick change of uniform. The battalion was now arrayed in a long line, set up to run a course extending through a loop that stretched just over six miles, with multiple stops along stationed obstacles that had to be negotiated by every marine in each company as quickly as possible. No unit could proceed to the next leg of the race until every marine had cleared every obstacle.

The physical fitness competition was notoriously difficult, and had changing requirements each quarter, so no one could completely replicate the course when preparing. Each company had staggered start times at twenty minute intervals to keep the companies from stepping on each other. An official timekeeper was at the start/finish line and others at each obstacle station.

Captain Rein was visibly nervous. Everyone knew that Charlie Company's physical fitness was in the toilet only three months ago. While they had been subjected to a punishing regimen of physical training, two months was still not enough to execute an about face on fitness. The Captain was huddled with his junior officers, giving careful instructions on how to keep the unit together at each obstacle station, and assigning each of them lanes of supervision to keep everyone moving efficiently.

In the meantime, Gunny Poisson was stalking up and down the formed up platoons, glowering at the platoon sergeants as they led their platoons in stretching.

"Listen up, marines…" he barked. "Your lungs and your balls are a pair today. I've made that executive decision. For all of you. You understand me? If your lungs give out, if you fall out of this run, I'm gonna kick down your door while you sleep and cut your balls off with my K-bar. If your lungs hold and you make the run with the rest of us, you can keep your balls. You get me?"

"Errah!"

The younger marines looked nervous, but the salty pep talk seemed to energize the more experienced marines. Some of them began hopping up and down excitedly, raring to go, while others shoved, jostled, and slapped each other playfully. The energy was palpable.

Charlie company was the second to start. After Weapons company. They had already been gone for ten minutes by this time, so Captain Rein ordered the company into position on the starting line. Taking his position at the head of the column, Mark turned around and barked out orders.

"Each platoon gives five to ten feet of room in front so they don't step on the platoon ahead of them. Help each other through the obstacles, and form up immediately after you work the course. Nobody falls out, but if somebody gets injured, his unit assembles a carry team to get their man to the finish line. You get me?"

"Errah!"

Mark turned, stone faced, to look down the open road. Weapons company was no longer visible in the distance. The timekeeper nodded to the commander, then raised his hand to signal the imminent start.

"Stand by!"

His hand dropped, and Mark shouted the move order. Charlie Company exploded over the starting line. Within thirty seconds, platoon sergeants were singing out jaunty cadences at double time, and the unit loped confidently forward.

The first obstacle course involved rope netting, a rope slide, and a vertical climb. Seeing it from a distance of several hundred yards, Mark broke ranks at a sprint and clambered through it, alone and at top speed. His company arrived, huffing and puffing, just as he ascended powerfully up the vertical hanging rope and rang the bell. The rest of the company began filing quickly through the obstacle, shouting encouragement to each other. No one was particularly tired yet, and negotiating the low ropes course was fun. A fair amount of genuine laughter could be heard as Mark observed his junior officers making sure no slack formed in the line. The group was moving efficiently, and, exactly as ordered, each marine returned to wait in formation immediately after finishing the vertical climb.

Meanwhile, Jared had perched himself at the top of the rope netting, barking out alternating threats and encouragement in a gravelly voice to the marines pulling themselves up on the wobbly structure. As everyone was now wearing short sleeved shirts and shorts, his full-sleeve tattoos were clearly visible on both arms and legs. After the last man made it to the top, Jared went behind as the last man through the course, pushing those in front of him to go faster.

The second leg found a second wind, and Mark found himself loping at a near sprint for most of the 2 miles of the leg, noting optimistically that no one had yet fallen out of formation. When they arrived at the second obstacle course, Mark did as he did before, dead-sprinting ahead of the company to race through the low-crawl mud and barbed wire, lifting up coils of wire and wiggling under them before hitting the climb wall at full speed and pulling himself up.

A noticeably more fatigued Charlie Company arrived just as he topped the wall and began directing the movements. Despite the decrease in jaunty banter and laughter, the men remained focused on the course. Taking a page from Jared's book, Mark stayed perched on top of the climbing wall as his men began to make their way up it. Picking out the weaker climbers, he would walk over to them and pull them up the last few feet of the climb to speed things along, even though his back began to twitch with fatigue after the twentieth or thirtieth marine he pulled up.

The tight formation resumed with Mark chopping the pace slightly, not wanting to push his luck. The jaunty cadence songs continued, even though the collective huff and puff of the company was almost sounding asthmatic. Still, no one fell out of formation. Another mile and a half later, they reached the final obstacle course, which consisted of several high, horizontal bars to be cleared, and several waist high and neck high fences to be vaulted. The final obstacle was a low stream running through a series of narrow culverts which had to be crawled and wiggled through. Mark broke formation to work through the course again, vaulting or climbing clean over each obstacle, but stopping in front of the culverts to help his men through.

Most crawled through the culverts just fine, but a couple were clearly claustrophobic and took more time to wiggle through, especially as the water began to rise around them as their body mass displaced the flow until it ran over their bodies. Each one that emerged through the other side did so soaked and muddy, but smiling.

"Damn, sir…how you gonna fit through that thing?"

One young marine directed the question directly at Mark, whose physique did present an obvious problem fitting through the culverts.

Mark didn't have an answer. "I'll make it. Just move along, don't worry about me."

"Aye sir…"

The culverts formed a bottleneck, clearly slowing the units down as each marine struggled through.

Jared brought up the rear again, and quietly asked the same question of his commander.

"How you gonna fit through that thing?"

"I don't know, man. Guess we'll see."

Jared gave a tight lipped smile of concern, then dropped to his belly and slipped easily into the culvert. Mark followed behind, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the entrance. Within three feet, he was stuck.

"Fuck…" he muttered to himself, trying to renegotiate the space. Murky water rushed over him, and he began to panic. He was holding everyone back. He wiggled back out the entrance and tried again, this time holding his arms straight over his head to decrease the breadth of his shoulders.

He still barely fit, but could wiggle through enough, leaving all dignity behind, until his hands were within reach of the marines on the far side, who grasped his hands and yanked him through. In the process, his shirt became caught on a bolt and ripped from under the right armpit all the way down to the hem at the waist.

"Fucking awesome…" he muttered sarcastically in the tight echo of the culvert before emerging.

"You alright sir?" Lieutenant Jenkins, Mark's newly minted executive officer, pointed at the rip in his shirt. "You're bleeding a little there."

"I'm fine. Everybody formed up?"

"Yes sir. Everyone's good to go."

"No need to talk anymore then. We've got three quarters of a mile to the finish line. Make it count." Mark took off at a run to get to the front of the company.

"Aye sir…" Jenkins took off after him.

The jaunty cadences continued, but the voices were getting noticeably hoarse. The company had run nearly six miles at a brisk pace with fairly intense obstacle courses at roughly 2 mile intervals. They were tired, and by the time they rounded the final curve in the road about 300 yards to the finish line, the formation was sagging noticeably.

"Gunny! Tighten 'em up!" Mark called out over his shoulder.

Jared exploded from the rear of the column, barking orders, shoulder checking, and shoving marines until they slipped back into formation. Darting back and forth up the side of the column, he diligently carried out his orders until, with his eyes fixed on the inner rows of the column, his right ankle rolled into a pothole and his body slammed audibly onto the asphalt.

"Sir, Gunny's down…" Lieutenant Jenkins shouted, looking over his shoulder.

"Shit…" Mark said, darting over to the side of the column to see his best friend struggling to get up onto his knees.

"Jenkins, they're on you. Get 'em over the finish line. I'll get Gunny."

"Aye sir."

Mark loped over to Jared, who was struggling to get onto his feet, hopping and halting on a badly rolled ankle.

"I'm fine…"

"Can you run it in? We've got like…200 yards."

"Yeah, I got this…" Jared began to slowly pick up the pace as the company passed by their commander and gunnery sergeant. Pinpricks of blood began to flow from an obvious abrasion from Jared's knee and calf. As the last Charlie Company platoon passed by them, Mark made a split second decision.

Grabbing Jared's right wrist, he bent down and curled his arm around behind his right knee and hoisted him in a fireman carry. He shifted his weight until Jared was balanced across his shoulders, then loped forward to catch up to his company at a dead sprint.

"Ah, no man…not…" Jared protested. "Why you always gotta carry me, man? This shit is humiliating!"

"You said anyone who falls out loses their balls, Gunny. I just can't do that to Meg…" Mark chuffed as the first marine crossed the finish line ahead of them.

Mark, loping powerfully forward carrying the weight of his best friend across his shoulders, crossed the finish line nearly halfway to the front of the muddy, exhausted column, and set his company gunnery sergeant gently down next to the timekeeper. Jared hobbled toward the assembled company, all of them pacing around or hunched over, heaving from exertion after the 6 mile ordeal.

"I'm fine, I'm fine…no, I'm okay…Son of a bitch…" Jared half-laughed, clearly embarrassed as, one by one, junior marines asked him if his foot was okay.

Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe smiled approvingly from a short distance, observing Jared as he limped confidently to retake control of the company while Mark discussed the time with the man at the finish line.

* * *

"Welcome to Happy Cloud Spa and Massage! Can I get your name?"

A bright, bubbly 20 year old that could have been one of Jordan's students greeted her from the reception desk of a clean, quiet lobby painted in soft autumn colors.

Jordan nervously approached the chest-high desk, looking down at the receptionist.

"Hi. Um, yeah…my name is Jordan Stark-Simms. I have, uh, an appointment with Christine for a basic back massage for 30 minutes…I might be a little early."

"Thank you…" the girl chirped back. "And don't worry, you don't have to tell us all the information, just your name is fine. We'll do the rest!"

"Okay, sorry…" Jordan answered nervously. "It's just my first time doing something like this, and I don't know the etiquette."

"You're fine…" the receptionist beamed, typing into her computer. "One little hiccup, Ms. Stark-Simms…"

"Mrs…"

"Right, Mrs. Stark-Simms. Christina had to take off early today, her daughter got sick."

"Oh no! I hope she's okay. And I'm sorry I called her Christine…"

"It's really okay, ma'am," the receptionist assured her, leaning forward and tilting her head conspiratorially.

"Actually…" she whispered up to Jordan. "A lot of the ladies that come in here don't bother to learn names. So you're already ahead of the curve for trying."

"Really?" Jordan replied, wide-eyed in the affirmation of her preconceived notions about places like this.

The receptionist nodded gravely. "Mmmhmmm. So don't sweat it. You're a paying customer, you're fine!"

"Well, my husband is paying actually…well, never mind. Sorry, I'm kinda nervous. So do we need to reschedule? I'm fine if we need to reschedule…"

"We can reschedule if you want. Or, if you'd like, Scott is available for a session."

Jordan sucked in air through her teeth without realizing it. "I don't know…if…I mean, Scott's a man, and I'm married, and…"

"That's totally fine, we absolutely understand if you're not comfortable."

"I mean…I don't want to gyp him out of work, either…" Jordan caught herself in a sudden moral quandary. "And I guess it's…do you think it's kind of sexist? What I just said? Maybe I should just go ahead…"

The receptionist was becoming more and more delighted at the new customer's flubbing about in anxious indecision. Unable to fully conceal a smile, she tried to calm Jordan down.

"It's perfectly alright either way. We can just reschedule if you want, it won't hurt Scott's feelings."

"Oh, I definitely don't want to hurt…oh no. Maybe if I just met him? Maybe shook hands and then I can decide? Or would that offend him more if I met him and then said no?"

"You can meet him if you want, it's no problem…" the receptionist was genuinely laughing now.

"I'm sorry, am I being difficult?" Jordan asked, mildly horrified at herself.

"No, not at all. It's adorable. Really. I just messaged Scott, he'll be here in…wait, here he is now."

Jordan turned nervously as a smiling man of medium height and build walked around a corner into the reception area. He extended a large hand, which Jordan nervously shook.

He was approximately her age. Late 20's it seemed. Light brown hair, and cool gray eyes. He had a long, aquiline nose and a bit of a goofy, asymmetrical face.

"You must be Mrs. Stark-Simms. My name is Scott. How are you?"

"I'm fine, and I'm perfectly comfortable with being massaged by a man." Jordan spat the words out quickly.

The receptionist was, by now, covering her mouth to stifle her laughter. Scott smiled and nodded. "That's great. Are you sure, though?"

"No, I'm not, Scott. And I don't mean to be rude, I really hope you don't take offense. I just…I haven't done a massage before, and I'm not sure how I feel about taking off all my clothes in front of a strange man…you know how it is."

"I do, yes." Scott nodded, smiling again. "But that's not what we do here. Any undressing you do, you decide, and I will be out of the room. And you can keep on as many clothes as you like, I'll work around them. And you'll be under a sheet, and I won't do or touch, or uncover anything you don't want. This is all about your comfort. And if you want to wait for Christina to come back, that's fine with me too."

Jordan hesitated, looking back and forth between Scott and the receptionist. Both seemed charmed by her objections, and she began to feel silly. She blushed visibly.

"I really am sorry. This is all really new to me."

"Totally understandable," Scott replied amiably. "Would you like us to reschedule you with Christina? She's great, she'll take great care of you."

"No, no…I have…I have a presentation tomorrow, and I'm very nervous about it. So my husband thought it would be a good idea for me to…get a massage. So let's do it, I guess. Scott…umm…lead on?"

Scott smiled again and gestured toward a hallway past the reception desk. Jordan headed nervously back past the grinning receptionist and disappeared into the halls.

* * *

Alpha Company won the physical fitness challenge. But only barely.

And Charlie Company came in second place.

Nobody expected them to do as well as they did. Some had expected the new captain and gunny to bring the company up from fourth to third place overall, but, as they had taken second place in all events, they were in a strong position to win the whole competition if they won the hand-to-hand combat event.

And they had a secret weapon: Gunny P. The ninja. The man who had actually defeated internationally ranked mixed martial arts fighters in charity events on TV. One of the top 5 unarmed combatants in the US Marine Corps.

Everyone knew that Charlie Company would win the combat event. They had to. Everyone knew that Gunny P was unbeatable. That he had, not many weeks prior, taken down and submitted every single man in his company in a single session. The other companies had some decent fighters, but no one could approach Gunny P's skill and reputation in the pit.

As was tradition, the battalion commander invited family members to come to the last event, as the combat competition was always a crowd-pleasing spectator sport. Wives and children began to file around the battalion grounds near the combat pit, and barbecue grills were set up to cook an early dinner, completing the festival atmosphere as coolers and tables full of potluck side dishes began to fill the space while everyone waited for the final event.

And everyone, not just the marines but their families, was excited to see the battalion's new celebrity: Gunnery Sergeant Jared "Pit Bull" Poisson, who many had seen on TV in recent years. He would surely put on a good show, and, barring an unforeseen complication, he would lock up the competition in an upset that moved Charlie Company from the windowless trailer with no chairs and broken windows into the fancy building next to Battalion Headquarters.

The competition seemed like it was locked up for Charlie Company. Until the whispered rumors of Gunny P's tumble at the finish line began to make their way around the battalion. The other chosen champions in Alpha, Bravo, and Weapons companies began to take heart at the prospect of not being publicly humiliated by the wiry, pugnacious gunnery sergeant from Company C.

Back at Charlie Company's barracks, the door to the common room was closed and locked. Inside, a huddle comprised of all company officers and platoon sergeants formed a circle around the battalion physician, Lieutenant Stone, as he carefully examined Gunny Poisson's swollen, purple ankle.

Everyone had changed back into their work uniforms, including Gunny P, minus his boots. There was some question as to whether he could actually get his boot over his swollen foot: a prerequisite to participating in the pit.

"What do you think, doc?" Mark asked the doctor as he turned Jared's foot over and back again, testing the range of motion carefully.

"I don't think it's broken. But the sprain is bad. And we need an X-Ray."

"Is he in fighting form?" Mark asked nervously.

"Fuck yeah I am…" Jared growled, then caught himself. "I mean…yes sir. I'm fit to fight."

The doctor shook his head gently. "I wouldn't recommend it. The unstable soft ground in the pit could make this much worse. I'm seeing definite weakness here. He needs rest."

"Yeah, but I can rest after the fights, right? I mean, I'll rest all day. Hell, I'll lay around all week if you want me to…" Jared insisted.

The unmistakable sound of keys in the door surprised the huddle, and everyone turned to see the door open. Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe stood in the doorway. Everyone jumped to their feet, including Jared, whose leg hung slightly bent with no weight on it.

"Report." Wolfe said gravely.

"Well sir, it looks like it isn't broken, but the sprain is bad. I don't recommend the fight go on," the doctor said gravely.

Wolfe pursed his lips and nodded, then turned to Mark.

"What are your thoughts, Captain?"

Mark looked apologetically at Jared, whose eyes were pleading.

"I'm benching him, sir. We'll put in another champion."

Wolfe nodded gravely. "Very well. For what it's worth, I think it's the right call. Gunny, you can kick all the ass you want in the next competition."

"Sir…" Jared insisted to Wolfe. "My wife…my sons are out there. They came to see me fight…"

"They'll see you next time," Wolfe retorted with a smile. "We do this every quarter. You'll be back."

Everyone snapped to attention as Wolfe turned and left abruptly, returning to the event.

The door clicked shut, and Jared's head fell.

No one spoke for a moment. Then one of the platoon sergeants spoke up.

"So who's going into the pit?"

Ten minutes later, the cluster of company and platoon leaders emerged from the barracks and headed toward the pit, around which a sizable crowd of uniformed marines and civilians had gathered. Jared had managed, with help, to get his boots on, and he was now trying as hard as he could to hide a limp as he walked toward the action. Next to him walked the taller, broader, and thicker commander of Charlie Company, dressed to fight, complete with fingered MMA gloves and mouthguard.

The crowd was stunned as they saw the change. Captain Rein had begun to establish his reputation as a calm, coolheaded, and strong leader, but no one had heard anything about unarmed combat ability. Now that his uniform top was off, everyone could see a brown belt–a high degree, but still several degrees of skill below that of his own senior enlisted man. And two of the marines waiting in the pit wore black belts.

As they reached the outer rim of the pit, the leaders dispersed, with Jared finding his way to his family. Mark stole a glance over to see Megan, dressed in a breezy, light brown sundress, looking concerned and solicitous as her husband found her. Marky and JJ seemed disappointed to see their father not in his proper place in the pit.

Mark shook his head and looked over toward his competition. Another brown belt and two black belts. Two were smaller than him, and the third–one of the black belts–was roughly his size. A staff sergeant from the motor pool in Weapons Company.

All three were enlisted men, and seemed vaguely nervous to be in the pit with an officer. One of the company commanders, no less. This was highly unusual.

Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe spoke up from the head of the pit.

"Welcome to the final event, everyone. As it stands right now, Weapons Company and Charlie Company are tied for first, with Alpha in third and Bravo fourth. It's still anyone's game. Are the champions ready?"

"Errr!"

The three other combatants barked enthusiastically, while Mark simply nodded respectfully at the battalion commander.

"Very well. I know you all hoped to see Gunny P in action, but there was an injury in the last event, and I just didn't feel right about him kicking all of your asses with one bad foot."

The battalion broke into laughter, and Mark looked over to his friend. Jared was blushing, clearly grateful to save some face. Megan swatted him playfully on the arm, then looped her arm through his, claiming him.

Mark smiled at both of them, then turned his attention back to the task.

"It's also unusual to have a command officer in a pit event, but Captain Rein is an unusual officer. So I'm allowing it. However, he will be fighting above his belt for the first bout, which will be Charlie Company against Bravo Company. Champions to the center."

Mark walked carefully toward the middle of the pit, more than a thousand pairs of eyes on him. He shook hands with the wiry, younger sergeant with the black belt, then raised his hands and crouched in a fighting stance.

The order to fight was not fully out of the battalion commander's mouth when Mark's adversary flew at him, diving for his legs in an attempted takedown. Mark deftly sprawled down and shoved his assailant facedown into the rubber shavings on the pit. The two marines struggled to gain control of each other's stance before eventually Mark rolled onto his back and managed to extricate himself from the spider-like movements of his smaller opponent.

"Make distance and give him some bruises!" Jared called out from the sideline. Mark shoved his opponent hard, sending the younger man flying back before he regained himself. Mark used the superior reach of his long arms to keep the man at bay with long, smooth punches that landed neatly on his opponent's cheek, chin, and eye. Disoriented, he staggered a bit and Mark seized the opportunity and shot in, attempting to take control of the man's arm and submit him.

It backfired. The smaller opponent regained composure sufficiently to reverse Mark's move and get Mark in a leglock. It appeared to be all over. All his opponent had to do was extend Mark's leg straight out until the pressure caused Mark to tap out.

He did not count on Mark's superior strength as he simply resisted the pressure, throwing all his effort into keeping his knee bent as his opponent threw his whole body weight into submitting Charlie Company's stand-in champion.

Eventually Mark sensed fatigue in his opponent and snapped up to jab and squeeze a pressure point in his opponent's thigh. The younger man grunted in surprise and loosened his grip long enough for Mark to pull his leg out of lock and land a heel kick squarely in the face of the young sergeant. Dazed, he struggled to uncross his eyes for a moment, just long enough for Mark to lean in, seize his wrist into a controlled lock and lean into it.

The sergeant yelped in pain as Mark twisted harder. He felt two grudging taps on his forearm as his opponent submitted. The crowd erupted into cheers as the battalion sergeant major raised Mark's long arm in victory.

Mark allowed himself a brief, triumphant grin as the wave of excitement rippled from the crowd into him. Stepping aside for the next match, he made his way to stand near Jared and Megan.

"How'd I do?"

"Wow Uncle Mark! You kicked that guy right in the face!" JJ exclaimed as Megan leaned down to hush him.

Mark laughed abruptly, then popped his eyebrows up and down playfully at the boy.

A small trickle of blood had formed by his right eye and was beginning to run down his face. Megan dug a handkerchief out of her purse and began to dab gently at his face as they watched the next fight.

Since Mark would have to challenge the winner of this bout for victory, he conferred quietly with Jared as the other two marines rolled around in the pit below them.

"So really…how'd I do?"

"Sloppy. Lucky. Don't count on winning like that again."

"Okay. What do I do differently?"

"Not sure. I'm seeing this Weapons Company guy. He's making short work of a good opponent here. I think you're fucked. I think he might beat the shit out of you."

"Thanks, man," Mark nodded sarcastically. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem."

They watched the fight, noting how quickly the young staff sergeant from Weapons Company submitted his opponent. The crowd cheered again, and Mark prepared to return to the center of the pit.

"Forget form. This one's all psychological. Don't fight him. Dominate him." Jared said, suddenly serious.

"What?" Mark asked over his shoulder.

"He's your size, and he's got more skill. He's a better fighter. But he doesn't know you. I can see it–he's still scared. It's a head game. So don't fight him. Dominate him."

Jared's older son Marky piped up. "Fight like Orlando the Badger, Uncle Mark. Not like Matthias the Mouse."

Mark's face softened, looking down at him. "You're reading the Redwall books!"

The lanky ten year old nodded, grinning. "They're cooler than I thought they were gonna be…"

"Alright, buddy. Orlando it is…"

Mark's moment of connection was broken by the battalion commander's barked order to return to the pit.

He now stood to face a man of comparable size, but who was belted higher. Mark had just seen this younger staff sergeant make quick work of his Alpha Company opponent and, although he was slightly winded, seemed eager to take down a command officer–a rare opportunity.

The young Weapons Company staff sergeant crouched into a fighting stance on the battalion commander's order.

Mark replied by simply crossing his arms and glaring.

Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe seemed briefly taken aback by Mark's posture.

"Are the fighters ready?"

"Ready…" The staff sergeant puffed.

Mark simply nodded silently, his eyes never leaving his opponent's.

"Alright. Fight!"

Mark's opponent moved briskly toward him, his fighting stance careful and choreographed. Mark didn't move, and soon took a solid left-hand jab to the face. He shook his head and didn't move.

Another pivot. Another jab. Another shake of the head, and another glare.

Once his opponent got enough courage to move within arm's reach, Mark simply placed his palms on his opponents chest and shoved him back with his full body weight.

The younger man staggered back several steps, stunned. His eyes hung wide in confusion.

Mark spread his arms open wide, a questioning look on his face.

"Come get it…" he growled.

His opponent charged in again, a little less control in his stance and posture as he began to dive to take out Mark's legs. Mark simply stepped to the side and landed a hard right hook to his ribs.

The staff sergeant groaned, winded, then turned to swing again. Mark leaned into the punch, blunting it, and grabbed his opponent's wrist. Then, curling his free hand around the back of his opponent's neck, he turned his body and catapulted the large man bodily up into the air over his back.

The Weapons Company champion flopped unceremoniously onto his back.

Mark landed right on top of him with his considerable body weight.

Mark felt the wind rush out of his opponent's body, but he pushed harder, pulling his head into a lock and squeezing. He felt the arms and legs under his back begin to thrash, attempting to escape, and he heard the staff sergeant begin to gasp impotently as he tried to get a hold of one of Mark's limbs.

"No."

Mark's single word, delivered as flat and matter-of-fact, seemed to drain the will to fight out of his opponent, who, purple faced, tapped on Mark's tricep to signal submission.

The crowd went wild.

Mark stood and dusted himself off, then helped his opponent up and bro-hugged him, slapping his back jauntily.

"Next time, staff sergeant."

"I'll get you next time, sir. Good fight."

They shook hands as Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe entered the pit with a trophy. The crowd hushed as he raised his arm to silence the cheering.

"Usually we have a whole ceremony after the fact, but since the winning company's commander is already here honoring the uniform…let's hear it for Charlie Company, the new battalion champions!"

* * *

Jordan closed the door to her empty apartment quietly behind her.

9:10 PM. She checked the time difference on her watch. It was 3:10 AM where David was. She couldn't call him.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to thank him or slap him over the phone.

She felt…sooooo good. Scott had magic hands. Not in a dirty way. Or maybe…kinda in a dirty way?

She didn't know. She felt different. Scott didn't cross any lines. He didn't even come close. Upon arriving at the closed room with the lilting new-age music and the candles…she had been instructed to disrobe as much as she felt comfortable, then lay face down on the table with a sheet over her back. He had then politely stepped outside the room and closed the door.

She had nervously looked around the room, noting the small arrangement of oils and towels on a countertop near a sink, and of course the long, flat, waist-high padded table with an O shaped pad on one end. Uncertain of how this worked, she had set her purse on a hook by the door, then removed her shoes and socks. Then, assuming that he had to have access to her back, she had pulled her shirt off and hung it on the same peg as her purse.

She wavered on whether to remove her bra, deciding that this was one of the things Scott could work around her if he had to. Then she looked awkwardly down at her jeans. Should she strip down to panties?

She didn't want the butt rub. That was a line she wouldn't cross. And what she requested was a back massage only. But David said they did legs…and as a runner she was definitely accustomed to carrying tension in her legs…

She shrugged to herself, unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and hucked them down to her ankles, hanging them on the peg. She then climbed awkwardly onto the table, laying on her stomach, feeling the breeze on her behind before realizing that she was supposed to be under the sheet. She slid awkwardly off the table, then lifted the sheet up, rolled under it, and wiggled her body down until the side of her face rested on the O shaped pillow extension, facing away from the door.

"Kay!" She called out awkwardly.

The door opened and Scott had walked back in. He had gently corrected her face to fit into the O-shaped pillow, ("so that's what that thing's for…") and then rolled the sheet down until it sat just below her shoulder blades, exposing just a bit of her horizontal bra strap.

Then the magic had started, Jordan reminisced as she pulled a bottle of water out of her kitchen fridge. He had applied a modest amount of oil to his hands, rubbed them together, and then…went to work.

First on her shoulders. Then her trapezius muscles, and then up the back and down the sides of her neck. They had chatted easily about her course of study, his hobbies, and where he was finding knots in her body. Which apparently was…everywhere.

She felt them too. But he had a way of smoothing them out, and after some initial discomfort, she actually felt the tension draining from her muscles. Like a goo that seeped out of her stress knots and dripped away.

By the end of the 30 minute appointment, Scott had pulled the sheet down to her waist and had worked on her lower back, even occasionally slipping his fingers under her bra strap to work the muscle tissue underneath.

She had even offered at one point to unclasp her bra to make it easier for him, but he had gently refused, insisting that he could work around it.

She was surprised how comfortable she got with him. He was nice. Professional. And she felt like smooth jelly when he left the room. Thereafter, she didn't feel weird at all about standing up in just a bra and panties, pulling her clothes off the wall, dressing, and leaving. Scott had smiled and shook her hand one more time at reception.

Now, sipping on water with a slight smile on her face, Jordan made her languid way to the bathroom shower, undressed, and stepped into the warm water. After rinsing off the massage oil and washing her hair, she stepped out of the shower, dried off, wrapped her darkened wet hair in the towel and put on her terry cloth bathrobe, tying it shut.

Making her way to the bedroom, she dug out her charcoal peel-off face mask treatment, applying it generously before sitting down on the couch to relax and watch TV while the peel mask dried. One episode of Jeopardy later–which she won–she stood up and returned to the bathroom, finding herself in front of the bathroom mirror.

Now for the fun part–she always enjoyed the weirdly satisfying peel-off reveal. Giggling softly to herself, she saw the first chunk pull away from her skin.

This IS fun, isn't it?

"Yeah…" Jordan acknowledged. "It's weird how satisfying it is."

Sometimes things surprise you, you know? How was the massage?

The first strip came off, exposing her forehead, still red from the treatment.

"It was fine…but it's not like you weren't there."

I know, but I also know you don't like it when we chat around other people. And I've been trying to respect your boundaries.

"That's an interesting development. Didn't know I could bargain with my demonic alter ego."

Another strip revealed the space between the hair on her right temple and her right cheekbone.

Don't think of it as bargaining, sweetie. I'm just…a little less stir crazy since you brought Ricardo home.

The next big chunk revealed the rest of the right side of her face, down to her jawline and below.

"Well, glad I could help, I guess."

I'm looking forward to the day when you realize I help you more than you help me.

The next chunk came slowly and satisfyingly off the chin up to her lower lip. She scratched away a few more lingering chunks of charcoal mask in the small of her delicate chin.

"I think you'll be waiting a long time for that. The massage was nice and all, but I've had some pretty good breakthroughs this week, and I think both you and I know that I'm gonna be in charge from now on."

Oh do we? Do we both know that?

"Yep. I wrote a whole paper on it. Gonna give it to a conference tomorrow. You don't come off well in it, but I'm sure you know that."

More charcoal peeled off her left cheekbone before she went for the bridge of her nose.

It's a good paper, honey. You should be proud of it.

"Thank you. I am."

The rest of the mask came off, and Jordan ran the water to splash off the residual charcoal. Her skin felt refreshed, and while still a bit red, would be all the clearer for her big day tomorrow.

Satisfied that she had told off the girl in the mirror, Jordan took the towel off her head to detangle and comb out her stringy, wet hair before going back to the bedroom.

10:30. She could go right to bed, get a good night's sleep and wake up early for a run tomorrow. That would get her energy right where it needed to be for the conference presentation.

It was as good a plan as any.

Scott.

Jordan turned to the full-length mirror in the bedroom, surprised to see the girl in the mirror tilting her head playfully out at her.

His name was Scott, wasn't it?

"Yes. And he was perfectly nice. And professional."

Ooh, no argument there. Smooth, strong hands. You enjoyed that, right?

"I'm not complaining. It's a good way to relax. And Scott was perfectly professional."

You said that. But massages? That seems more like a me thing than a you thing. But I'm all for it if you're into it too. It seems like some neutral ground you and I can meet on.

"Fair enough. The occasional massage is perfectly healthy. Now that I'm over my jitters."

And the part about being naked…

"I wasn't naked. I kept my underwear on, and Scott was more than okay with that."

That he was. Perfectly professional. He didn't see anything but your back and your bra strap.

"Exactly. Totally appropriate for a massage." Jordan stared matter-of-factly at the girl in the mirror.

So being laid out on a table while a man with strong hands works over your body…that doesn't stir anything in you at all, does it?

Jordan stood silent in her terry cloth robe, her stringy wet hair hanging behind her shoulders.

"No."

Honey, I'm the one person in the world you can't lie to. If we're going to make this work, if you really want me to go away, you need to be honest with me.

"I am being honest."

Jordan. Come on, now. Please.

Jordan looked away from the mirror, avoiding eye contact.

I can't help you if you keep lying to me, honey.

"I'm not lying. You're just being cruel. Making me think things that I don't want to think. Or making me think that I think things that I don't think."

Can you honestly tell me that my little accusations make less sense than what you just said?

Jordan turned to look again at the mirror and scowled at herself.

Jordan. Honey. Just be honest. I won't judge you. Not even a little bit.

Her scowl softened. Her elbows bent, her hands moved tentatively toward the belt of her bathrobe.

That's better, honey. You know the truth I want. Go ahead.

Jordan's fingers shamefully picked open the knot of her bathrobe.

Go ahead, Jordan. Tell the truth. After your massage, you wanted Scott to see something, didn't you?

"No…" Jordan insisted, just below a whisper. Her fingers pulled the knot looser.

You don't have to say it out loud. Just show me what you wanted Scott to see.

The belt fell open and hung apart, dangling parallel with her legs. Her trembling fingers gripped the inside hem of her robe and gingerly pulled the two flaps away from each other.

There it is. There's the truth. Doesn't that feel better?

Jordan looked at her naked body, consciously exposed by the parting of her robe in front of the mirror. Somehow she felt far more naked than the girl in the mirror, who now seemed to sneer at her. But her heart thumped in her chest, her trembling hands still trying desperately to shove away the truth that…

The girl in the mirror was right. As she got off the table, Jordan had–only briefly!--entertained the idea of whether she should have stripped entirely for her massage. Perhaps Scott would have caught a glimpse of her breasts, or her bum. Maybe his hands would have brushed some tuft of pubic hair below her belly button…or perhaps those hands would have found another way to help her relax…

"No." Jordan shut her robe and hastily tied it. "You're manipulating me, and I'm in charge now. We already had this conversation."

She turned haughtily away from the mirror.

Don't fight me, honey. I don't want to fight, but if we have to fight, you're definitely underestimating me.

Jordan ignored the girl in the mirror, turning off the bedroom light and climbing under the covers.

Not to hide. Just to sleep.

[Jacko]

Thanks Crushing, great chapter.

[Guhunkadorn]

David better be careful, that voice in the mirror means business.

[Fred_Garvin]

It's been a week since Crushing's last installment to this wonderful, addicting story. I've already started checking for updates every hour...

[elvis_is_my_daddy]

This is truly a novel worthy of reading. Well written, well thought out, stories that are engaging. A top post on here without question