Jordan

[soupcan_99]

Wait, no that wasn’t the end. I just looked again to be certain and Crushing didn’t THE END it.

[Guhunkadorn]

It could be the 'end' but then we're left with many questions; so me thinks it's just at/near the end of the beginning. At least, that's what I'm hoping.

[Crushing]

It could be the 'end' but then we're left with many questions; so me thinks it's just at/near the end of the beginning. At least, that's what I'm hoping.

Yep. Just checked my project notes, we’re about 1/3 of the way through this one.

[Oneillfranko]

Your writing is so good. Love it. When you write you are “1/3 of the way through this one”, do you have other stories out there? How do we access them?

[DukeHomie]

So happy you put pen to this project, really enjoy reading. Ty.

[Crushing]

Your writing is so good. Love it. When you write you are “1/3 of the way through this one”, do you have other stories out there? How do we access them?

Unfortunately, no. I'm pretty new on the scene, this is my first and only publication in this genre. I've just been drawn to themes of intense psychological/identity transformation in my writing and this forum has a treasure trove of it, so I thought I'd try my hand at a few interlacing/interlocking narratives, see if they hit home for you guys. Looks like it's working for a few of you, which is good!

I've got a few pages of draft for the next chapter down, but since some of you seem to be getting invested in the story, I thought I'd open up the thread for a little AMA, if you have any questions, I'll see if I can give you some insight into the story without giving away any spoilers. So let me know if you want to know anything in the next day or two while I do the first spit draft, and I'll answer whatever I can without giving away the store.

[Oneillfranko]

OK. There are 3 interlacing narratives - Megan/Jared, Molly/Chris and then Jordan/David. Of course all with Mark in role. Molly’s narrative comes immediately after Megan’s and before the deployment. How much later is the narrative with Jordan? Many years? Is there a follow on to the two earlier narratives? Do they weave in together at some point? Once again - love your writing. You have real talent.

[subtoall]

Looks like it's working for a few of you, which is good!

I'm confident that it is many more than a few of us.

[Crushing]

OK. There are 3 interlacing narratives - Megan/Jared, Molly/Chris and then Jordan/David. Of course all with Mark in role. Molly’s narrative comes immediately after Megan’s and before the deployment. How much later is the narrative with Jordan? Many years? Is there a follow on to the two earlier narratives? Do they weave in together at some point? Once again - love your writing. You have real talent.

I worried a bit that the chronology was confusing, and you nailed it. The longest storyline is Mark's, and there are a couple of reasons why. The main reason is that he's got a pretty significant character arc between his boot camp experience where he becomes friends with Jared (the earliest point in the narrative) and what will be a culminating relationship with Jordan/David as the novel peaks.

Part of that character development includes relationships with other women who attract, challenge, and change him in different ways on his way to Jordan. His relationship with Jordan, which will be the deepest and most intense, really won't have the emotional impact I want to achieve without taking the time to establish a pretty long view of his life and character development. As far as the actual timeline--the distance between Megan/Molly and Jordan is round about 8 years.

Megan is going to be a regular character, since she's married to Mark's best friend, and that dynamic will have some significant effect on Mark's development. Molly's involvement is going to be a little more intensive and shorter term, but she's going to be in the picture for a little while yet. Another young woman will also make her way into Mark's orbit in between Molly and Jordan as well.

My intention in drafting out the broader narrative this way is to leave the door open for shorter, more intense spin-off novels that dive more deeply into the individual relationships with Mark. Part of that depends on how readers react to the characters.

[Oneillfranko]

Love it.
For me, Mark’s character came through strongest with Molly. He seemed to really connect with her and her kids. You could see that developing into a long term bf relationship, and Chris seemed to be good with that.
Obviously early days with Megan/Jared: just one hook up, with all three of them questioning a bit what they had done and how it would impact on their 1:1 relationships, as well as any emerging thruple.
And then there is Jordan/David. I may have missed it (but don’t think so), but didn’t really get how Mark/Jordan went from the professional interaction about Mark’s cadet plagiarizing Jordan’s prof, with Jordan being conservative/church going/newly wed, to the relationship they now have. I suppose that is why I will keep coming back looking for the latest installment, and loving it!

[Crushing]

Love it.
For me, Mark’s character came through strongest with Molly. He seemed to really connect with her and her kids. You could see that developing into a long term bf relationship, and Chris seemed to be good with that.
Obviously early days with Megan/Jared: just one hook up, with all three of them questioning a bit what they had done and how it would impact on their 1:1 relationships, as well as any emerging thruple.
And then there is Jordan/David. I may have missed it (but don’t think so), but didn’t really get how Mark/Jordan went from the professional interaction about Mark’s cadet plagiarizing Jordan’s prof, with Jordan being conservative/church going/newly wed, to the relationship they now have. I suppose that is why I will keep coming back looking for the latest installment, and loving it!

Good catch. I deliberately jumped over Mark and Jordan’s threshold moment.
The start of any of these relationships has a thick cloud of uncertainty over it, and a weird, jerky momentum that is equal parts disorienting and powerful. Kind of like popping the clutch in a car. But also like popping the clutch in a car, once the momentum levels out and the speed matches the engine, whoever is in the car forgets that scary feeling when the engine seems too powerful, where it feels like you’re going to break the engine or crash the car.
Jordan’s intense attention to everyone’s mind and relationships, including her own, is going to revisit that transition moment and try to make sense out of it. This includes coming to terms with everyone’s desires (including her own) as well as her religious convictions/upbringing and her worries about David’s damaged sense of self.
This little pause in the story lines up at the same moment or developmental point for all three “throuples.” Everyone is both stunned by the momentum and intoxicated by the speed. But Jordan is the only one with the insight to try to make sense out of it.

[Crushing]

A thick tension sat in the doorway. Thick enough to chew.

David froze, left hand clenching the doorknob as the stranger's frame filled the doorway.

He was tall. Well over six feet. His shoulders were broad and his arms long. His casual dress in khaki hiking pants and a blue, loose fitting polo shirt suggested, although did not outright reveal, a muscular physique, tapering in width from the shoulders down to the waist.. His hand extended across the threshold of the doorway, offering the basic gesture of cordial acquaintance to David.

David let go of the doorknob and grasped Mark's hand.

Thick fingers.

Powerful grip. Almost painful.

But not a put-on. David had, in the course of finding his way into the entry level business world, endured many handshakes that smacked of affectation, with men oversqueezing the greeting in a clear but hackneyed attempt to establish dominance. With Mark, that didn't seem to be the case. He just gripped things–including hands he shook–with a firmness that matched his physicality. He was clearly a big man. Noticeably bigger than David. He got the sense that when Mark picked up a hammer, the hammer would be a little intimidated.

"I apologize, David. I don't mean to impose or assume. But Jordan invited me over. May I come in?"

David snapped out of his funk enough to nod and grunt his assent in a flushed tenor. The pitch of his awkward, inarticulate voice was a clean octave higher than Mark's.

He walked confidently into the apartment as David stepped aside, then closed the door behind him.

Mark confidently approached Jordan. As he did, David caught a glimpse of his wife with a new look on her face.

Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. What could only be described as a breathless smile fought its way through her attempts to remain calm and suppress her excitement. Her eyes darted up and down his body, then shot over toward her husband. Seeing him more or less agape, she cleared her throat and regained her composure. She nervously turned and greeted Mark with a quick, awkward side hug before inviting him to take a seat in the living room chair.

David stood motionless with his hand still on the closed doorknob. Jordan nervously took his hand and walked him over to the couch, cornered at an angle from Mark's chair. They sat down together.

David didn't know where to look. He was completely unprepared for this encounter, In the room with his wife's lover, a man that had occupied a prominent place in his fantasies. But no…he stopped himself. He wasn't in his fantasies. In fact, the man in his fantasies was not the object of those fantasies. Jordan was. Jordan, the girl of his dreams, enraptured by a man of impressive physique and superior skill. But not any particular man. Just a generic…man. A faceless set of abs and a large, stiff, greedy cock bringing his dream girl pleasure overwhelming.

It's not like he didn't know Mark was real. Jordan had returned home dripping with the evidence of the fantasy man's reality–and virility–multiple times by now. He had seen…tasted the evidence. A fact that–now set in the room with the actual source of that evidence–filled him with nervous apprehension.

Fear?

Maybe.

David's eyes darted around the room, trying desperately to fall on any object of interest other than the obvious. This desperation expanded to the rest of his body. Now clenched in rocklike tension, David was obliged to be polite, all the while consumed by a feeling so strong that the differing dimensions of jealousy, fear, and arousal remained a throbbing, indistinguishable psychic mass. Squeezing the couch's armrest with one hand and Jordan's leg with the other, he embodied an awkward, somewhat scary tension, like a guitar tuned two and a half octaves higher than normal.

How long since they had sat down? Had they just been sitting in awkward silence? What is the proper protocol for meetings like this? Should he offer the man a drink, or..?

He glanced over at Jordan, who was waiting for his gaze. She was smiling, but differently. A genuine expression of affection, but similarly strained by the tension. Her eyes were solicitous. But solicitous of what? Approval? Affection? Remorse? What did she want from him? Did she want him to "take charge?"

A tense, tight nod of her head seemed to confirm the latter, so David glanced over to their guest, who was seated comfortably in the offered chair.

He, too, seemed to be waiting for David to speak.

"So…" David cracked out a phoneme. "Mark, is it?"

Mark nodded, then spoke. "What happened?"

"Sorry?" David squinted.

Mark pointed toward David's face. "You're all bruised up. What happened?"

"Oh, right…" David involuntarily raised his hand to touch his bruises. "I got in a fight."

"You got in a fight?" Mark raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"Okay…I know we don't know each other, but do you mind if I ask what happened?"

David looked down at his hands fidgeting in his lap.

"It was just a guy at work, he pushed my buttons," he muttered.

"I see. Are you okay?"

"It was my fault." Jordan blurted out.

Mark looked over at her, surprised. "Your fault?"

"He was fighting because of something I did."

Mark squinted, then briefly fought back a smile. "So, this evening is going in a different direction than I anticipated."

Jordan smiled painfully.

"Okay…" Mark fought back another smile. "Well, uh, interesting. I'm glad everyone is okay. That's what matters. Do you want to talk about it?" He nodded gently toward Jordan, who seemed hesitant. "I'm getting the sense you want to talk about it." He nodded until she matched her nod with his.

"No." David said.

"Yeah…" Jordan said.

"Okay…so what happened?"

"Well," Jordan started, "I wasn't there, but there was this guy named Vinny at David's job who picked on him all the time."

"And Vinny attacked you?" Mark directed the question at David.

David shook his head, still looking down.

"So, this is where it gets weird…" Jordan interrupted again. "It started because, um…I was writing David these little letters about us, you know, as a kind of fun thing to play with the fantasy…"

"Letters about you?"

"No, us. You and me." Jordan gestured back and forth between herself and Mark.

"Oh. So by us, you mean…" Mark clarified

"Us, yeah."

"Okay. So Vinny…"

"Vinny found the letters, and he was teasing David, and David was up for this promotion, and then Vinny slammed his face into this metal rack and his teeth broke and…"

"Okay!" David broke in.

Jordan stopped talking, surprised. David threw up his hands. "I got my ass kicked because Vinny found letters. That doesn't make it your fault. It makes Vinny a dick."

Mark nodded toward Jordan. "I'm inclined to agree with David on that. At least from what I know."

Jordan looked over at David and grabbed his hand. "But I said some really terrible things, baby…I'm really sorry…" her eyes welled up.

"It's not your fault, Jojo. It's not your fault. And I'm fine, I told you…"

Mark sat silently, observing the exchange. David ran his hands through his wife's hair and kissed her. The affection seemed to calm her down a little, but her eyes remained misty. For a moment, it seemed as if they had forgotten he was in the room.

After calming down, Jordan looked back over to him. "I'm sorry Mark, I just wanted to see…I just wanted…"

Mark tilted his head empathetically, holding her gaze.

"I don't know what I wanted to accomplish. I think we need to stop, I feel like it got out of hand. But I felt like I should invite you over for…I don't know…closure? I don't know how these things go."

She laughed awkwardly, trying to hide embarrassment. "Now I'm ugly crying and my husband's all beat up, and…ugh, this is not going well…"

Mark laughed out loud. Jordan smiled back. David looked even more confused.

The three sat in awkward silence.

Mark leaned forward attentively before speaking again. "Okay, so some bad stuff went down. And believe me, I know how hard it is to reconstruct events when something crazy like this happens."

Jordan nodded. David looked down at his hands again.

"I also know," he continued, "that the instinct to blame yourself can be hard to shake off when someone you love gets hurt. So let's forget all of that for a second, figure out what really happened, and then see if we can talk about it. Okay?"

"Okay." Jordan took a deep breath, calming noticeably as Mark took control of the conversation. David, too, nodded, still clearly uncomfortable.

"Okay, let's take it from the top. David…you got to work. What happened then?"

* * *

"Sergeant Rein."

"Yes sir."

"Report."

The young sergeant had a fresh, high fade haircut and a newly pressed uniform as he stepped briskly into the company commander's office and snapped to attention.

"All weapons are accounted for by serial number and function checked. The armory is exactly as we left it, sir."

"Good to know. Thanks for taking that on last minute."

"Absolutely, sir."

Captain Wolfe dismissed the young platoon sergeant. He walked out of the inner office and headed out, pushing open the company office door briskly and walking toward a single, neat row of free-standing steel pull-up bars. There he found a young marine with a newly shaved head crouched at the base of the pull-up bars and furiously scrubbing the rough painted steel with a toothbrush. Intermittently, he would pause scrubbing to rub it with a small polish cloth.

"Jett."

The young marine snapped up and stood at parade rest: feet shoulder-width apart with his hands tucked behind him in the small of his back.

"What's up, Jett? What are you doing?"

"Disinfecting the pull-up bars, sergeant," he answered, staring straight ahead.

"With a toothbrush and a washcloth?"

"Aye, sergeant."

"Is that the best tool for the job?"

"Sanitizer has alcohol in it, sergeant, and I can't be trusted with it. Corporal Arnold ordered me to use these."

"Very well. Carry on, then."

Jett dropped back down to a crouch and resumed scrubbing and wiping furiously.

The last day of pre-deployment preparations was fading, and the sun had dropped below the tree line. Walking over to where his platoon's end-of-day muster point, Mark briefly pulled out his phone and opened his text messages.

Nothing.

He put his phone back into his pocket and resumed his walk toward his platoon's muster point.

"Squad leaders on me, now!" He barked as he arrived at the gaggle of uniformed men.

Four corporals hustled up to meet him, reporting the status of their squads, their gear, and their other responsibilities. After hearing their report, he gathered the rest of the platoon around to give them final instructions. Tomorrow morning they would stage their gear and check their weapons out of the armory. They would then wait on transportation. The bus was set to arrive on the following evening to take them to the air base, where they would board a large, chartered jet liner to Germany, then Kyrgyzstan, then Afghanistan. With final instructions in place, Mark dismissed everyone back to the barracks for one final night of decent sleep.

As the marines dispersed, Mark called out one more time.

"Arnie."

Corporal Arnold stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Have Jett pick up that cinder block over by the smoke pit, and run the neighborhood perimeter. When he's done, he's done. He's paid enough."

Arnold nodded and turned across the parking lot toward where Jett was still scrubbing.

"Arnie."

The squad leader turned again.

"When he's done, pick up the cinder block yourself and run the block twice."

Arnold's teeth clenched involuntarily, resenting the punishment. "Aye sergeant."

The squad leader walked over to Jett, who received instruction, nodded briskly, and jogged over to pick up the heavy, rough cinder block, before taking off down the sidewalk.

"Arnie's a good leader, Don't give him too much shit."

"Shut up, Frenchie…" Mark shot a half-cocked grin to Corporal Poisson, who hung back to chat with his best friend after the platoon dispersed. "You and Meg have a good vacation?"

"Yeah, as good as visiting family can be. Never enough time, always a little drama. But the food's good. And my mom loves Meg. Nuts about her. Can't put a price on that."

"That's good. How's she holding up?"

"She's doing okay. Nervous, but not letting on. She wants to know if you want to come over tonight. For dinner or whatever."

Mark smirked. "Nah, I appreciate the offer. Tell her I was sorely tempted."

"All right. You sure? She'll be disappointed. We both will."

"You and I are gonna get real sick of each other in the next year, Frenchie. Take the night off and show that woman a good time."

"I was gonna. But…you know…"

"Yeah, I know. I…I kinda met someone, Frenchie. Came out of nowhere."

"No shit? That's great, man. Local?"

Nah, she lives a couple hours away. But I thought I might try and call her before we ship out.

"All right, man. Good luck. See you at staging tomorrow."

"Yeah. Seriously, thank Meg for the offer."

"I will. Looks like Jett's coming around the other end of the neighborhood."

"Yep, looks like. See ya, Frenchie."

"Around the neighborhood," was a known colloquialism for a running route that skirted the collected cluster of company and battalion offices, along with several clusters of barracks that comprised two infantry battalions, two support battalions, a chow hall, a couple gyms, a large training pool, and even a small convenience store. The distance around "the neighborhood" was 1.3 miles. Running it in sneakers and shorts wasn't too bad. Pleasant, even. Running it in boots with a cinder block clutched to the chest was…unpleasant. It was unpleasant enough at the beginning of the day, even for physically fit marines. Running it at the end of the day was brutal. Running it at the end of the day immediately coming back from leave, with the remnants of too much beer and ribs sticking to your insides was just plain cruel. But Jett had taken off without complaining, eager to expiate his misdeeds in the eyes of his leaders.

After he disappeared around the corner, Mark pulled out his phone again.

Nothing.

He had resisted texting Molly. He had thought about her the entire drive home, snapping out of it intermittently to castigate himself for his lack of focus. After checking in at base, he admitted to himself–albeit briefly–that he had looked forward to the long road trip back with Molly and her kids. He had enjoyed the idea, and took a strange joy in playing "dad" to two cute kids and a cute young wife. He was a little resentful that Chris had shown back up. He even texted her late that night to make sure she got back all right. She didn't respond, but he knew she was working a shift as soon as she got home. Maybe she didn't have time. But he hadn't heard from her since.

A stone's throw away, Jett huffed and puffed back toward his squad leader, who ordered his wheezing subordinate to drop the cinder block and stand for one final ass chewing before he was dismissed for the night. Then, casting a quick but unmistakably resentful glare toward Mark across the parking lot, Corporal Arnold tucked the block under his arm and began running down the block. When he, too, disappeared around the corner, Mark compulsively pulled out his phone again.

Nothing.

Mark clenched his teeth and shook his head. This was stupid. He wasn't about to get all fuzzy in the head over some woman…he had shit to do. Important shit.

He waited for a few moments, then checked his phone again.

Still nothing.

Arnold rounded the corner as Mark checked his watch. Not bad time. The young squad leader was putting effort into it. Maybe all that resentment gave him a boost. He actively avoided eye contact as he passed his platoon sergeant, slowing a little as he rounded the far corner a second time.

Mark swore to himself that he wasn't going to check his phone again, a few seconds before pulling out his phone and opening his text messages. His last one to Molly:

"Hey, it's Mark. Just checking in, I had a really good time this week, hope you got home ok."

He had written that…how long ago?

A couple days now.

Shit.

Impulsively, he thumbed out another message below the unanswered first:

"Hey, you okay?"

Send.

Mark put his phone back in his pocket. Arnold was huffing toward the starting point, completing the "neighborhood" circuit for the second time. Mark waved him over toward the smoke pit to drop off the cinder block with the stack of others. Arnold nodded, poorly concealing his annoyance as he did. Mark walked over to meet him as he approached, drenched in sweat.

"Not bad time, Arnie."

"Yeah, thanks," he replied, resting his palms on his knees, heaving. I'm just gonna…I just wanna be done for the day."

"I hear ya. Take off, I'll see you in the morning."

"Aye sergeant."

Arnold dropped the cinder block and turned back toward the barracks. Before he walked away, he saw Mark out of the corner of his eye quietly picking the block back up, along with another laying nearby. Mark then hoisted both rough blocks over his shoulders, one at a time, and took off down the block for the first of his three laps around the neighborhood.

It was brutal. Mark regretted the almost immediately. But he had set the price, and he wasn't going to expect his people to pay it while he just watched.

By the end of the first lap, his lungs were near bursting.

By the end of the second, his legs were on fire, his shoulders raw from the rough concrete rubbing through his shirt.

As he rounded the final corner of his third lap, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

God, let it be her…

* * *

Captain Mark Rein leaned forward in his chair, listening attentively. His hands clasped together with the pads of his index fingers touching each other, resting on his chin. The two newlyweds, adorably unaware of themselves, fell all over each other as they tried to control the narrative for their visitor–the tale of David's bruises.

Mark took it all in. From what he could tell, David had embraced his cuckolding wholeheartedly, as, in his experience, most cucks did. Jordan, enthralled by the fun of getting an unexpected rise out of her husband, had been using letters detailing her trysts to poke his buttons. All the while, David had been offered a substantial and unexpected promotion at his job at the docks that would allow him to leapfrog over a jealous supervisor. That supervisor had lifted one of the letters and publicly outed David, and David had snapped and rushed someone twice his size, ending up in the hospital.

It was an interesting story. A bit overwrought for his taste, like the plot twist in an amateur serial on a website somewhere. But interesting.

He was accustomed to hearing pairs of stories like this thrown in his lap, but it occurred to him that neither of the young people on the couch were aware of how regular an occurrence this was for him. Listening to competing stories with two storytellers blurting awkwardly over each other was pretty routine for a captain of Marines. Every bar fight, every DUI, every attempt to dive into a pool from a second story balcony, every bullet through the foot after playing catch with loaded pistols–in short, every kind of incident routine to the experience of young enlisted marines found its way into his office, and each one played out with between two and five young people stepping on each others' stories as the truth shook out of between the cracks of their competing stories.

In his experience, much could be learned about the character and relationships of the storytellers by observing such narrative competitions. Those contests usually fell into one of two categories: On the one hand, a pair of storytellers would compete to place the blame on each other, with the incrimination of the other and the absolution of the one clearly the desired outcome of both speakers.

"Sir, the incident was entirely his fault…"

"Bullshit, sir, due respect, no, I was there, I'll admit it. But the incident was completely his fault…"

On the other hand, another pair of narrators would fall all over themselves to protect each other, grabbing details from each other as the story came out. Jumping on the barbed wire of responsibility so their friend could run over them. It was a pretty good indicator of character, of the strength of friendship, of reliability:

"It was my fault, sir. He was barely involved."

"No, not at all, sir, he's trying to cover for me, but this one's on me…"

The newlyweds, whose young marriage he had seduced, sexually dominated, and ejaculated all over in the past few months, couldn't stop themselves clamoring for blame. Even though Mark was not an employer, judge, parent, or police officer.

Just a guy in their living room. Invited over to fuck this guy's wife.

Watching them dive in front of bullets for each other.

He expertly restrained a smile, knowing that such a gesture would throw off their story, a story which they clearly had a psychological need to straighten out. Perhaps for themselves, perhaps for each other.

He didn't really know. He wasn't a psychologist.

Ironically, Tammy Tell-All over here was. At least she almost was. Another academic year and a dissertation from now, his most recent sexual conquest would finish a doctorate with one of the most prestigious researchers in the world of psychology.

It was beyond ironic. A woman who could cite diagnostic criteria for every mental condition imaginable. There she was, regressing to a guilty schoolgirl right in front of his eyes.

It was cute. In a way.

"So anyway, that's about it…but now, David doesn't work there anymore, and neither does Vinny." Jordan had the last word.

The three sat in silence, unsure of where the clumsy confessional was supposed to lead.

"Well," Mark broke the silence. "That's quite a story."

"Yeah…" David chuckled nervously.

"So…I guess the real question here is, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. The dental stuff worked out, and I'm not even really sore anymore." David answered quickly, eager to save face.

"No, I meant you. In the plural. You guys. Are you two okay?"

Jordan and David looked at each other, then back at Mark.

"Yeah, we're fine," Jordan answered confidently before looking back at her husband. "Aren't we?"

"Of course." David nodded, a little surprised at the question.

"Well, I feel a little strange about this," Mark responded gravely. "Admittedly there's a lot about me being here that might seem strange, but in this case I find myself in the strange position of telling a psychology professional that…you know…survivor's guilt…it's…it's a thing. And it can complicate relationships."

Jordan's eyes widened quickly in surprise. Then she looked at her husband, then back at Mark.

"I know, Mark. I really do."

"Oh. Good. Because this…this right here," Mark gestured with his finger pointing back and forth between himself and Jordan, "is going to complicate that." He changed his gesture to indicate Jordan and David.

Silence. Then Jordan.

"I know." Her tone shifted from the apprehensive, the cloying, to the solemn.

Mark's eyebrow shot up, surprised. "What?"

"That's why you're here, Mark. I invited you over here for…I guess we can call it closure. But I wanted everyone in the room together when I say to both of you that this has to stop. Now. Someone got hurt, and it's nobody's fault, but this is irresponsible, and it ends here."

Mark locked his gaze on Jordan, impressed. She had shifted from playing the innocent maladept to the confident, even stern school teacher without missing a beat.

She had planned it.

She was playing them both, and he didn't pick up on it. At all.

Clever girl.

David was more shocked than impressed. He blinked at his wife in disbelief for a moment, adjusting to the strange, moral/sexual/narrative whiplash.

"Jo?"

"Yes, honey?"

"What's..?"

"I'm ending my…extra relationship with Mark, honey. You hadn't met him before, and I wanted to end it with you in the room so you'd know I was serious. I'm committed to you. You're my man." She took his hand with both of hers and set it in her lap, then looked over at Mark. "I didn't want you to feel like you'd done something wrong, either. But we're all adults, and we tried something, and now it's time to end it. We can do that and still be friendly, right?"

Mark's mouth pulled back in a genuine, surprised smile. "Of course. I'd love to be friends with you guys. I've been excited to meet David for a while now."

The feeling in the room was apprehensive. Even dubious. What now?

David snapped out of his fixed stare and looked over at Mark. "This is…friends…" He shook his head in frustrated confusion. "Wait, are you guys serious?"

Jordan dropped David's hand and hugged his elbow tightly to her chest, nuzzling her face into his shoulder. "Of course, sweetie. I think you guys would actually get along really well."

David, seated between his wife and her–former?--lover, looked back and forth between them, puzzled. "How…how can we be friends after…"

He shot a look toward Mark: "What kind of friends do you have?"

Jordan and Mark laughed out loud.

"I'm serious!" David protested as the laughter died down.

"Well, that depends…" Mark responded jovially.

"On what?"

Mark gestured toward the open laptop on the coffee table, still paused in the middle of an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

"Is this the one where Commander Riker becomes the captain of a Klingon ship?"

David's eyes widened involuntarily. "Yeah, that's the one. Season 2, episode 8. A Matter of Honor."

"That's what I thought. It's one of my favorites. Can we restart the episode?"

David's eyes sparkled. Jordan grinned as she reached over to restart the episode.

"One more question…" Mark asked as the familiar theme music drifted out of the speakers.

"What's that?" David asked.

"You got any beer?"

* * *

---Hey, it's Mark. Just checking in, I had a really good time this week, hope you got home ok.

Hey.

---Hey! Thanks for getting back to me. Wasn't sure if you would.

Sorry, I wasn't sure how to respond, or if I should…You know how it is.

---Yeah.

We got home alright. Thanks for checking in. And for being willing to cart a car full of strangers hours out of your way. Glad you didn't have to.

---I don't know, Molly, are we strangers?. I was kind of looking forward to the drive.

That's nice of you to say…

---No, I mean it.

Awww…Anyway, I thought you were off to the other side of the world by now?

---Tomorrow night. We're staging gear now. It takes time to move a full battalion.

I bet. How many people is in a battalion?

---Around a thousand guys.

You're in charge of a thousand guys?

---Haha, no. I'm a platoon sergeant. There are four platoons in my company, four companies in the battalion. Plus some added support elements, a few extra guys for specific missions. It adds up. But I'm a pretty small fish.

I see. How many people are you in charge of?

---Around 40.

That's still impressive. I'm a section lead on my floor at the hospital, and it stresses me out of my mind sometimes. And I only have 8 of them to deal with.

A knock on the door jarred Mark out of his happy place. "Rein." A stern voice through his barracks room door. He hopped out of bed and opened the door. He knew the voice, and knew not to take his time answering. It was a peer, not a subordinate–Staff Sergeant Jimenez, the platoon sergeant from third platoon.

A 5' 10", wire-thin combat veteran with two Iraq deployments under his belt, he was physically smaller than Mark, but held much more sway with both superiors and junior marines due to his level of experience. His marines occupied the floor below Mark's in the barracks.

"What's up, staff sergeant?"

"One of my guys cold cocked one of your guys. Out at the smoke pit. Arnold, I think."

"Someone hit Arnie? What the hell? What happened?"

I don't know. Some bullshit, I got a doc out here putting some ice on it. My guy had a few, who knows. It's the night before we ship out, everyone's got nerves. Don't read into it."

"Which one of your guys took the swing? I'm gonna…"

"No you're not, Rein. That's why I'm here. I'm handling it. Arnie's fine, there's no real harm. Probably gonna have a little bruise, but he's fine. I talked to him, he wasn't gonna say shit, but word gets around, and I don't want you poppin' off and complicating shit tonight. I think they both had a few, got a little loose. Everyone's got nerves, especially the first timers."

First timers.

Mark gritted his teeth.

"You know I don't mean anything by that, Rein. I'm just saying that's how it goes when people get nerves. I'm helping you out here. Keep a clear head. I'll handle my guy. Trust me, he's gonna regret hitting Arnie. I don't want two-ton Rein out here literally killing one of my guys to save face. It's not the time for that."

Mark took a deep breath and nodded. "I agree. Thanks for the heads up. Arnie go to medical? I'll go check up on him."

"Nah, it ain't that bad. My doc is with him in his room. Didn't get cut, didn't get knocked out, just a bruise." Jiminez punctuated his reassurances with a cutting gesture, emphasizing the small stakes as he saw them.

"All right," Mark exhaled. "I'm gonna go check on him."

"You want my advice? Give him an hour. Let the doc finish up and clear out, Arnie'll cool down, put on a movie, relax a little. Then go in there and you can find out what really happened. But Rein…"

"Yeah?"

"You go after my guy, I go after you. Got it?"

Mark nodded. "Okay. Thanks."

"No problem." The senior marine tapped his forehead with his fingertip.

"Clear head, Rein. Don't get foggy. This shit...this is life and death shit now."

"Copy that, staff sergeant."

Mark shut the door as his colleague turned to walk away. He took a couple deep breaths himself, vowing to find out who the aggressor was without alienating Jiminez.

Later.

He sat back down on his bunk and pulled out his phone again.

I mean, I'm sure it's nothing like what you do.

…

Mark?

…

You there?

…

I hope I haven't offended you…🥺

---No, no, sorry. Just distracted for a minute.Had something come up. You didn't offend me, don't worry.

Oh good. Hey, you used the kissy face emoji!

---Yeah…I was just responding to yours. I'm bad at emojis. I feel stupid using them.

Don't. I liked it.

---OK Good.
…

Mark?

---Yeah?

Why did you text me?

---Honestly, I don't know. I wanted to make sure you got home alright. And I like talking to you.

I thought we might be done. I mean, I agreed to be your girlfriend for the week. But that was last week.

---You want to be my girl this week too? I'm down if you are...fair warning though: being a marine's girlfriend gets a lot harder when we deploy.

Lol I'm flattered. But I don't know. Honestly, I'm pretty confused. Chris has been trying pretty hard the last few days.

---Oh. And I guess he wants to make a clean break. Is he going to be pissed that we're talking?

No, actually. He's the one who told me to text you back.

---Really?

Mark shook his head at the phone as he typed, recalling Jared's subtle invitation to spend the evening at his house. With his wife. Now the little gaming rage weirdo was asking his wife to text the guy she spent the past week fucking? What the fuck was up with married guys? Is this a thing that happens after you get married?

His phone buzzed. New message received.

Honestly Mark, I have no idea what's going on. I'm sorry to vent all over you, but I'm really confused. It's like when you and I hooked up it lit up some spark in him, like a good-boy spark or something, and now it's just burning along like one of those little homey jar-candles you get at craft stores. Honestly, I can't explain it. I was positive that I'd be interviewing divorce lawyers when I got back.

Mark caught himself with a lump in his throat. He swallowed it before he responded.

---So things are good between you guys?

I don't know. I really don't know. All I know is he's trying lately, and Lucy and Max are loving it. And it's great for me, too. I haven't seen him like this in a long time. I've missed it.

The lump in Mark's throat rose again. He swallowed it again.

---Well, that's good, right?

Well, it's not that easy. There's one other thing that makes it messy.

---What?

…

I'm trying to come to terms with something.

---What's that?

The lump returned to his throat.

I'm having some feelings. About you. About us, I guess.

Mark's heart fluttered. He didn't know what to say.

…

I'm sorry, Mark. That's too much. I hope I didn't freak you out.

He replied quickly.

---No. I'm glad you said it. I feel the same way, Molly.



---I don't know how to respond to emojis. I keep coming up with the s-mouth face and the birthday face.

lol
No, I just got excited, that's all. I just didn't think, you know…
I mean, I'm married with two kids.
I felt so stupid. Like some teenager in high school crushing on the quarterback or something.

---Well, to be fair, I played outside linebacker.

Ha Ha. Smart guy.

---But I'm with you. It's kinda confusing. I don't know what to do here. You're married, and I'm out of cell service for the next year. What do we do here?

I don't know, either. I'm a little scared. For a lot of reasons.

---Well, since we both don't know, maybe we just have these feelings and see where they go? Try to keep in touch, I guess. We can't control anything else about our situations now. Let's just see where it goes.

I like that idea. 🥰

---Me too.

Did you just use the sick face?

Shit. Sorry. It was next to the…screw it. Never mind.

🫢
Mark, I'm excited. I'm glad we talked.
Or texted. Whatever.

---Me too. I've got to go check on one of my guys for a few minutes, then I need something from you.

Okay…what?

---Tonight's my last night with a phone for a while. I want to use it for some Molly time.

What does that mean?

---Well, are Lucy and Max in bed yet?

Just about. Chris is tucking them in now. I'll go and say good night to them.

---How long?

Maybe 15 minutes?

---That'll work. Then wait for me in a room where you can be alone for a while.

Okay.

* * *

Two hours and three episodes of the vintage sci-fi show later, Mark, Jordan, and David were all smiles. The tension had largely dissipated from the room. Mark was leaning forward in his chair, closely watching the small, shared laptop screen, the only source of entertainment the young couple could afford. David was firing off trivia, and batting opinions back and forth as Mark asked him questions about the series, the characters, the themes, the writing.

He was in heaven.

Jordan dozed gently.

In and out of a quiet slumber, her head on her husband's shoulder. She had had a long, stressful day, which had ended with closure on multiple fronts. She had gotten her husband into a law office, and he had pulled a rabbit out of his hat worth more money than she had ever seen at one time. She had amended her dissertation proposal without any blowback from her advisors. She had even brought her former lover and her husband together without offending him or jeopardizing her marriage.

She was exhausted. And still a little insecure about the situation playing out, but most of all she was happy to hear the unrestrained enthusiasm of fandom work its way back into her husband's voice, and Mark's seemingly genuine, lighthearted interest in the show.

Mark wasn't humoring him, either. It was clear he had a genuine, if not quite as fanatical interest in the show, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy picking David's brain. Given her training in psychology, she could see Mark using the novel social situation he was in to operate on multiple levels simultaneously. His posture was relaxed, but other body language seemed focused, and his eyes kept finding new things to fall on. But not her. No, he seemed to be genuinely friendly, and genuinely having a good time, but was at the same time conducting some kind of evaluation of David. Testing his memory, his intelligence, his intellectual or social abilities. Something.

Whatever the outcome, she was grateful that no more conflict was forthcoming as a result of her relationship with Mark. At least she hoped. No telling what tomorrow would bring. As exciting as the sexual fling had been, she knew better than to push it. Sanity had to have its day, and that day came when she saw David's missing and snaggle teeth jutting awkwardly about inside his swollen mouth in an emergency room.

Still, she caught herself stealing glances in the direction of her former lover while he and her husband bandied Star Trek trivia back and forth. The beer was gone–Jordan herself almost never drank, but she had had one beer to be social, to toast the new friendship. It was silly, but she felt like it had taken the edge off the day a bit, and she was just a little bit happier, just a tiny bit more prone to giggle than she might have otherwise been.

David had had two, and Mark the other three. Everyone was having a good time, but no one was close to out of control. Just a little new, smooth ice for the conversation to skate on.

The closing credits and their familiar theme music rose again, and Jordan sat up from her latest doze. David sensed the evening drawing to a close and shut the laptop screen.

"Still, I think it goes without saying that Picard is the better captain, but I'll admit that Kirk is more fun to watch sometimes," he observed to Mark.

"Hard to say, really," Mark replied. "The quality of an officer is part ability, part character, part context. There are great wartime officers whose careers flag in peacetime. There are brilliant administrative generals who totally botch it duing wartime. I think you've got two different captains who do very well in different contexts. I don't think we can quantify a better all around captain."

"I hadn't thought of that," David said, furrowing his brow in concession before switching the conversation. "So you're a captain. What kind of captain are you? Picard? Kirk? Janeway?"

"Easy now…" Mark chuckled. "I'm not that kind of captain. Captain is my rank, not my job. And a captain outside of Starfleet–or the Navy that its rank structure is modeled after–is a much lower rank than a captain inside it. I'd be a colonel if I was that high up. That's three ranks above me."

"So who would you be on the Enterprise?"

Mark stroked his chin. "Probably Worf. Security, weapons. But comparatively low ranked on the bridge."

"Huh. Okay. So does everyone have to salute you when they see you?"

Mark smiled and shook his head. "Sometimes. If they're lower ranking officers. Or if they're enlisted."

"Haha…big man…"

Mark laughed. "Only literally. But I'm nothing now, stuck in ROTC hell. Just a bunch of cadets. My job right now is a glorified camp counselor. But when I get back to the fleet, I'm hoping to get an assignment with a little more clout. Maybe a company command."

"So do people call you 'sir' when they see you?"

"Sometimes. It's basically the same as the salute. If they're lieutenants, or enlisted marines. Or warrant officers sometimes."

"And me sometimes…" Jordan sleepily interjected.

David turned his head toward Jordan's, still nuzzled on his shoulder. "What did you say?"

"Hmmm?" Jordan asked, still sleepy.

"You said 'me sometimes…'"

Jordan giggled, clutching his arm to her. David looked over at Mark and cocked an eyebrow.

"What's she talking about?"

Mark shrugged. "She calls me 'sir' sometimes."

David's face began to warm as the tension that accompanied Mark's arrival to their home a few hours before returned.

Jordan, realizing what she'd done, shot up to check herself. "It's just a joke, honey, don't worry about it. Do we want to watch one more, or?"

David's heart sped slightly upward as he caught his wife trying to backpedal.

"No, no, I think we've enjoyed enough Rodenberry wine tonight," Mark replied evenly. "I think I'd better call it a night. You guys have been great. Let's do this again, huh?" He stood up, and Jordan popped up with him. David stood up warily with the other two, still a little dazed and unsure what was meant. Mark reached over the coffee table and grasped David's hand, shaking it warmly. "It really was nice to meet you, man. You've got a real brain on ya."

"Thanks…"

Jordan looked nervously in her husband's eyes, noting the return of a vacant stare.

Darnit. Cheese and Crackers. All the good she'd tried to do bringing Mark over to show David it was over, all kicked over by her loose lips…

Loose lips sink ships…

"Mark…" she called out as he reached for the doorknob. "I don't…I think we should both just agree to reassure David that everything is done and over, and we had a good time, but…"

"Why did she call you sir?" David stammered out.

The three stood in silence, unsure of how to proceed. Finally, Jordan took David's hand in hers and lightly stroked his forearm. "It's just…" she said quietly, "when Mark and I…you know…um…together…I called him sir sometimes, and it was just…like a game we'd play. It's no big thing."

She began to panic as the vacant stare in David's eyes deepened.

It was quiet for a moment.

"You made it real, Jordan." Mark interjected into the silence. "It's just part of this dynamic. I know you're trying to stop, and I respect that, but you nudged him over the line again."

"I don't understand…" Jordan said, understanding perfectly.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, he won't resent you for it. He'll probably love you more for it, actually. But the line is crossed. Before, you'd leave, you'd be gone, you'd come home, we were together, but he didn't see it. It was conceptual. Then you invite me over and show David we're friends. That's fine. But now look at him. He knows what I'm here fore. He knows about us. It's real."

"Baby…I'm so sorry. I'm so stupid. Just forget I said anything, okay?" Jordan pleaded, turning toward David's thousand-yard stare.

Mark laughed quietly. "He's never going to forget that, Jo. Never in a million years. He'll eventually wipe that dumb look off his face. But he'll never forget that little giggle you let out when you admitted you like to call me sir. He knows you like to play power games with me. Now look at him. He's imagining what you look like when you call me sir. He can't help himself."

It was true. David may have seemed catatonic, but he was really just frozen in a lightning fast change of perception. The phrase "power games" hit him like a wall of fog, muddling his thoughts by suggesting things he had not before considered. But the words that couched that phrase were all to clear:

"You (Jordan) like to play with me (Mark)."

David's conscious mind began to process the concrete reality standing 6'4" in the room with him.

You=Jordan. Loving, talented, sweet-tempered and nurturing. Wife. Avowed companion through thick and thin, sickness and health.

Me=Not me.

Me≠ David.

Me=this new man with the bronze skin and the tall, wide build.

Play=(...)

"Give him a minute, Jordan," Mark said calmly. "I know you're worried it's hurting him, but it's actually good. Trust me." He stepped forward and put a hand on David's shoulder, looked down into his face and spoke gently, reassuring him. "Hey man, you know I've been having sex with your wife, right?"

David gulped audibly and nodded. Mark slowly nodded back.

"Are you upset by that?"

David's eyes held their blank stare. His shoulders lifted uncertainly in a half shrug, his chin tilting slightly. An ambiguous answer. Mark looked over at Jordan, whose gun barrel blue eyes flitted restlessly between the two men.

"Jordan, take off your shirt."

Her eyes widened. Her lips pursed, and her head shook slightly.

Mark dropped his hand from David's shoulder. "David, you can stop this at any time. Do you understand?"

David nodded dumbly, turning to lock eyes with Jordan as Mark spoke again.

"Jordan, what do you say?"

Under the blanket of shock, Jordan found hunger in her husband's eyes. Her lips, pursed in tense uncertainty, broke slowly into a thin smile, her eyes narrowing to match.

Ordered by her lover, another man, Jordan took the leap of faith to meet her husband.

"Yes, sir."

She grasped the hem of her pajama shirt and pulled it up over her head, exposing her pale, toned torso in a plain white brassiere. The inverted shirt caught her wavy auburn hair in the neck before it all cascaded down, some falling forward to obscure the view of her chest with the remainder tumbling between her shoulders. Her recent running–a stress reaction to David's injury–had paid off in a noticeably tight figure with taut, soft skin curving subtly in, then out between her bust and her hips.

She looked back and forth toward the two men in her life who had seen her in this state. The trio made a triangle of silence, both men facing each other but with their heads turned inward to take in the sight of Jordan. She briefly noted that she should feel silly, having not anticipated any kind of seduction that night. She wore plain underwear and dark blue plaid flannel pajama pants.

She didn't feel silly though. She didn't know how she felt. But it was new.

She should have covered herself instinctively, prodded by the modesty of her upbringing or the self-consciousness of her all-too common insecurities.

She didn't.

"Jordan."

"Yes, sir?"

"Rearrange your hair. Behind your shoulders."

Jordan lifted both hands up, gathering her hair as she would a ponytail, then letting it fall loose behind her back. She held the thin smile for a moment, before her bottom lip curled slightly, held under her top teeth. Her chest began to rise and fall more rapidly.

Mark smiled and waited a moment for Jordan to compose herself. Then,

"Jordan."

"Yes, sir?"

"Remove your bra."

Her face reddened involuntarily as her left hand reached deftly between her shoulder blades. The clasp clicked open and the tension in the garment released, shuddering slightly while still hanging off her shoulders and tenuously concealing her breasts. Then she reached one arm up, then the other, removing the shoulder straps to let her modesty crumple willingly onto the floor by her feet.

Standing at the apex of the triangle was a vision familiar to both of the other corners. Jordan was topless, clad only in cheap pajama bottoms and fluffy socks.

Yet for both, the thrall of her willing exposure in front of the other caused blood to move rapidly downward.

Mark looked over to David, noting the deep red in his face and his audibly pressed breathing.

"Is it real yet?"

David nodded, looking downward.

Jordan was herself flushing, beginning to identify a new feeling–a new kind of power of her own. Something that could be actualized only as she stood between them.

"No, not yet…" Mark's voice surprised them both, with both Jordan and David unsure to whom he was speaking. Mark clarified, looking over to Jordan.

"It's almost there, but it's not totally real, yet."

He took two steps over to Jordan, breaking the equilateral triangle and closing the gap to force the delicate balance of the figure out of equilibrium. Jordan smiled coyly toward David as Mark placed his large hand over her pale, perky breast, leaving her pink nipple exposed between two fingers. He then bent down and took that nipple between his lips and began to suck loudly.

Jordan's coy smile dropped into an open mouth and her eyes closed involuntarily. David held his breath watching his wife's small hand reach up and gently clutch the back of Mark's head as he suckled her. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears, and he instinctively jammed his hands downward to hide his small erection.

Mark stopped and stood back up to his full height, then stood aside so Jordan could see her husband, unobstructed.

"There it is. Now it's real," he said, pointing casually to David's hands trembling over his crotch.

Jordan cocked half her mouth into a smile and dropped her eyes, unsure of what to say next as Mark stepped around her to reach for the doorknob.

"Thanks guys, it really was a fun night. Take it easy, get some sleep. You've got some stuff to figure out together. I won't come in between that. But hit me up for another Star Trek night. We can do it at my place if you want…"

He briskly opened the door, exposing a bewildered and topless Jordan across from her humiliated and erect husband to the–mercifully–empty hallway outside the apartment, then shut the door behind him.

Mark briskly pushed the outer door of the dumpy apartment complex wide open, moving with a purpose. Heading toward his car in the parking lot, Mark dialed a stored number in his contacts and raised the phone to his ear.

"Hey, it's me. I need a favor."

[elvis_is_my_daddy]

I am completely in on this story. The writing, the characters, the time lines. You've got me hooked.

[user322]

Hello, your story is still extraordinary! Thanks for sharing this with us!

[Crushing]

2:00 AM.

Last call.

A sullen but surprisingly lucid Vinny Ricci lingered over his last of many beers. Last for tonight, anyway.

He suppressed the urge to complain as the lights came up. As belligerent as he could be, he knew not to alienate a bartender he knew he would need tomorrow.

It was time to go home.

He knew it. He had requested an Uber to take him back to the dingy apartment where his girlfriend Toni was inevitably waiting to give him shit for being out too late, for being drunk, for getting fired, for…

For…

For whatever…

Who gives a shit. She was an ungrateful bitch anyway: never appreciated the roof over her head and the nice things he'd buy her. And for someone who let herself go physically, she really wasn't hot enough to get away with the attitude. And she gave shit head.

Who needs her? He'd get another job, then another girl, and then kick this one to the curb.

He didn't have to take shit like that…

And she wouldn't dare to give him shit tonight. Not after the beating she got last night.

She'd learned her lesson.

Probably.

And if not, he could teach it again.

"Lights out, Vinny. Time to go, we gotta lock up the joint."

Vinny grunted in affirmation and slid off his bar stool. He vaguely gestured to put that last drink to his already sizeable tab, picked his coat off the rack, and headed toward the front entrance, leaning the door open onto the street.

He was the last one out of the bar. As soon as the door swung shut behind him, he heard the lock click shut from the inside.

He took a deep breath of cool night air and walked over to the street, checking the status of his Uber on his phone.

Shit.

Still 10 minutes away.

Not as many cars out at 2AM on a Tuesday night, and a of demand. Too many drunks to cart back to shitty homes, with shitty women waiting to bitch them out.

He'd just have to get in line.

Cursing to himself, he realized that he forgot to stop at the bathroom before they closed up the bar, and he had to bleed the lizard.

Fuck it. The alley.

Just make it quick.

Behind some dumpsters or something.

He had made it half a block down the empty street and turned down the alley, making a beeline to the nearest dumpster, when he inadvertently kicked something in the dark. Something about the size of his foot.

Metallic.

What was it? Too dark to tell.

He bent down and picked it up.

Looks like…

Huh.

A camera. With a wall mount. A surveillance camera?

The bolts on the mounting plate must have rusted off.

Wait. No. Ripped off?

He looked up at the wall to see a pale square standing out in stark contrast from the dirty bricks.

Looked like the same mounting plate.

While he puzzled over the broken camera, a dark figure emerged from the shadows behind him, wrapped a dark gloved hand around his mouth and swept his feet, throwing him hard onto the asphalt.

Vinny grunted in surprise, the wind rushing audibly from his lungs as he landed on his back before pulling his hands over his face in defense.

The attacker grabbed the collar of Vinny's jacket and dragged him out of sight of the street.

Vinny flailed around, struggling to gain control, but the silent figure confidently twisted then restrained Vinny's arms into impotence, smashed to one side against the pavement. Then, holding the arms steady, the attacker dropped to his knees, straddling Vinny's torso and deftly jammed his four long fingers, forming a knife up Vinny's neck and under his jawline.

The pain of a pressure point is always surprising to those who haven't felt it before. The stabbing, incapacitating pain of four strong fingers jammed into Vinny's hypoglossal nerve caused him to squeal and squeak for several seconds, writhing involuntarily.

Then the pressure was released, but the hand stayed in place, threatening a return of the pain. It was dark, and Vinny couldn't make out the face of his attacker. But he did make out a jet black balaclava pulled over the attacker's head.

Finally, the attacker spoke.

"David Stark."

The voice was robotic, monotone, and full of clicks. Like that Star Wars movie he saw a while back with that guy…that Kylo Ren character. When he had his helmet on.

"What the fuck?" Vinny asked breathlessly.

"David Stark. Back off. This is a warning."

"What? Stark? Really? Fuck you! That bitch ass little cuck motherfucker got me fired! I'm gonna…"

The attacker jammed his left hand into Vinny's armpit, found another pressure point and squeezed, causing Vinny to squeal before twisting, causing the squeal to rise in pitch.

Then, letting go of Vinny's arms, the attacker closed his fist and, twisting his body to maximize momentum, landed four sharp, hard hooks to Vinny's rib cage. The fourth hit let out a dull crack that echoed down the alleyway.

Vinny snapped out of his intoxicated fog. Adrenaline cleared his mind enough to know he had to act. He had been in enough street fights to know when shit was serious.

This was serious.

He had to get out of there.

He bucked his hips straight up, throwing his attacker off balance.

The attacker instinctively but accidentally placed his right hand on Vinny's face to stabilize himself as he fell forward, and Vinny bit down hard on the attacker's fingers.

The sound of a scream through a voice modulator is an uncanny sound. More crackles than tones. It was enough to shift the balance of the fight for a moment. The attacker rolled off of Vinny, clenching his right hand with his left while Vinny quickly scrambled to his feet, picking up the broken metal camera and brandishing it as a weapon.

Despite his surprise, the attacker recovered quickly–on his feet well before Vinny and shaking the pain out of his fingers.

Already recomposed, he stared angrily toward Vinny holding the blunt object.

"So you want me to shove that thing up your ass?" Crackled the voice modulator.

"Bring it, bitch. Imma beat the shit outta you, then Imma find that little cuck ass bitch and kill him. Fuckin' watch me."

He took a hard, loopy swing at the masked attacker, who deftly stepped aside, knocking Vinny's arm helplessly away before grabbing his wrist, twisting it into tight control, and forcing Vinny to bend over, howling in pain.

"You fucked up, buddy…" crackled the attacker.

Vinny, totally frozen with his arm and wrist twisted tightly out behind him, let go of the camera, gasping in pain again. The attacker kicked the appliance up to his free hand, grasping the fat edge of the mounting plate. He tossed it up and down, adjusting his grip on it with his free hand until he found the optimum balance with the thick metal slap now the edge of the blunt, improvised weapon. He raised it high, then brought the metal edge down hard onto the back of Vinny's head.

Then again.

Then again.

The attacker felt the resistance begin to drain from Vinny's body. His arm grew slack as the pain in his head overruled the pain in his wrist. Blood began pooling through his hair and dripping down to the ground.

He reversed his wrist control on Vinny and threw him against the brick wall with a thwack. Vinny tumbled to the ground, raising his hand for mercy. The attacker grabbed a fistful of his dark hair and dragged him up the wall until he sat upright.

"I'm sorry, man, fuck…I won't…I won't do shit. Just stop…" He scrunched up his knees and buried his face in his arms.

"This coulda gone way easier, Vinny," crackled the attacker. "You made it hard. I'll make it harder if you move a fucking muscle without me telling you. Get it?"

Vinny nodded, looking up. His eyes were wide and white under the dim, distant street light.

The attacker was panting, winded by his own adrenaline rush. "I'm here to make sure David Stark, you remember that name?"

Vinny nodded. The attacker panted for another moment, catching his breath before he resumed.

"I'm here to see to it that David Stark never sees or hears from you again. If I have to kill you to make that happen, I'll do that. But I don't want to. Get it?"

Vinny's eyes widened as he struggled to see his attacker. The blows to the back of his head had blurred his vision.

"I asked you a question, motherfucker. You get it?"

He nodded in understanding.

"You wanna die tonight, you piece of shit? I will make that happen. And I'll sleep like a fuckin' newborn baby. I'll do the world a service. One less asshole in the world."

Vinny shook his head vigorously.

"Good. Now. Just to make sure we understand each other. If I find out that you came within a mile of David Stark…"

The attacker paused, catching his breath again. "David Stark, or anyone he loves, or fuck it…anyone he knows, that's the day…Vinny…look at me…"

He leaned in and put his face right in Vinny's way. Vinny got a brief glimpse of intense blue eyes that had absolutely no fear or hesitation in them.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought…no, he knew that whoever this guy was, he'd killed before.

This was no joke.

"That day, Vinny…that's the day you meet Jesus. You get it? Nod your head, bitch. Do it now."

Vinny nodded vigorously. "Yeah. I got it."

The attacker let go of his hair and stood up, turning to walk away. Then, after a few steps, hesitated and turned back around.

Fearful tears welled in Vinny's eyes as his blurry vision caught the attacker moving toward him again. He winced and put his hands up in defense, but the attacker simply reached past his hands into Vinny's coat pocket and pulled out his phone. The masked man looked at the screen for a monet, then handed it to Vinny.

"Call 911. You need an ambulance."

"No, no, I'm good, man, I'll just go home. I got a Uber coming…"

"Fucking do it now. Tell them you got jumped. Tell them to send paramedics." He now stood over the cowering Vinny.

He unlocked his phone and complied.

When the dispatcher acknowledged the location and assured them that the help was on the way, the attacker took the phone, threw it on the ground, and stomped it with his heel. Then, turning back toward Vinny, he swung the camera hard into Vinny's face, drawing out a metallic tink as it came in contact with his front teeth.

Vinny slumped over. The attacker leaned down and opened Vinny's lips with his gloved fingers.

One. two-three. four.

Four broken teeth. Two on top, two on bottom. Close enough.

He stood back up and inspected his glove, noting no tears in the cloth or blood resulting from Vinny's bite, then threw the camera down between Vinny's limp feet and walked down the alley toward the opposite street. Moments after he disappeared around the corner, a middle aged man in jeans and a polo shirt peeked into the alley.

In the distance, sirens were audible.

"Hey! Buddy… Sir! Are you okay? I'm looking for…uh, I'm looking for Vinny. Are you Vinny? Ordered an Uber…"

"Buddy?"

"Hey, buddy…can you hear me?"

* * *

The university exercise track seemed to thin out after about 8:30. It was crowded in the early morning, and between the last class and dinnertime, but it wasn't too bad if you could find time to run around 9.

Jordan, not an early riser herself, didn't like to wake up too early to run, but also liked to start her day with one. She loved the boost of energy it gave her at the beginning of the day. If she didn't have a class first thing in the morning, she usually took a gym bag with her clothes for the day and dress in her workout gear, walk to the track, do a few miles around the track, shower in the gym locker room, and go to her desk in the "office" allocated to graduate students in her department.

It was a good workout. A few miles. Between 3 and 6 usually. Nowhere near the routine she did when she was on the track team as an undergraduate, but it kept her feeling fit. Fitness had to be something she made time for now. A result of a senior graduate student's priorities: long days that were pretty uniformly sedentary with study and research.

This particular Wednesday morning, she had a lot on her mind after a particularly eventful couple of days. Monday was too much…it took her most of Tuesday to decompress enough to think it through.

What had started with a tense conflict to goad her husband into a confrontation with the corporate face of his attacker, which led to a shockingly productive meeting with a very unskilled lawyer. Then jumping straight to the awkward meeting about amending her dissertation proposal, sending a wild-hair text to her former lover, which led to an awkward dinner and an even more awkward meeting with her husband and former lover. This meeting, ostensibly set up to conclusively shut the door on the "hotwife" experiment, in fact ended with her topless and putty in her lover's hands before said lover abruptly walked out the door.

Every time she recounted the events of the day, it sounded ridiculous.

But, she had to admit, it fit the recent pattern. Unthinkably strange developments seemed par for the course in the last few months. Snapshots of recent memory seemed equal parts ludicrous and morally horrifying in Jordan's eyes–if those eyes were Jordan's as a fiancee or a brand newlywed before this whole thing started. Directing her husband to wear women's panties? Traipsing off weekly to a strange man's house with the full knowledge of her husband. Craving, begging for, and eagerly receiving a large volume of that man's semen. Bringing that semen back to her home and brazenly–eagerly feeding it to her husband?

It was surreal. The whole thing was surreal.

Thus, it wasn't the strange compressed life changes of a single day that bothered her, she realized as she rounded the first corner of her first lap. It was something else.

Something frustrating. Deep. And frightening.

This rapid change in morality–rather, the rapid change in wholehearted acceptance of new moral realities–It was crazy.

How did she let herself–there was no other way to put it–go insane?

Her breath evened out as she began to hit her stride. Now she could think.

And she really needed to think. Perhaps she was overthinking. But it was a necessary corrective of the massive underthinking that had her leaping headfirst into this mess, and dragging her husband with her.

It was no less existential a question than the definition of sanity itself. While her own research interests were in developmental psychology, and the formations of identity in youth and early adulthood, Jordan had done the requisite coursework, along with some honest to goodness clinical observations in the field of abnormal psychology. She had read about, and even met a respectable sampling of people with personality disorders.

Sociopaths.

Psychopaths.

Even some garden variety sex criminals. Most of whom didn't require lock-and-key institutionalization. Just regular people. Normal seeming people–at least initially–who lived something approaching regular lives, but who were…for lack of a better word…dangerous.

Although thoroughly versed on the literature and research surrounding these unfortunate individuals, and their even more unfortunate train of victims, Jordan balanced wariness with pity around them. But she always kept her distance, quietly grateful that she was not one of them. Many of them, perhaps most, could be identified by the toxic traits of their close relationships. Quite often, their victims were their loved ones. Family. Close friends.

We hurt the ones we love. Or if we can't love, we hurt the ones that love us.

The initial ragged breath of the first mile began to even out as her body grew accustomed to the familiar, loping stride that served her well as a competitive distance runner. She rounded the fourth turn for the fourth time, completing her first mile.

We hurt the ones we love. Or if we can't love, we hurt the ones that love us. Isn't that some kind of definition of insanity? Isn't it fundamentally irrational to harm the ones we depend on, and who depend on us? Or does it mean that those who hurt, don't love, and those who love, don't hurt.

If so, doesn't it mean that those who think they love, but hurt their loved one, are fundamentally wrong in thinking they love?

The observation had a theological ring to it. Was it a platitude, a useless turn of phrase that made people think they understood deep things? Or was there substance to it?

Those who think they love, but hurt their loved one, are fundamentally wrong in thinking they love.

We hurt the ones we love. Or if we can't love, we hurt the ones that love us.

One might find a turn of phrase like that splayed out in pretty cursive lettering against a piercing, rising sun in the inspirational art section of a Christian bookstore. Even though she it's really a horrifying sentiments. Nevertheless, her churched upbringing gave observations like these the ring of truth to her mind.

Hmmm. Let's try to kick this around logically. More Aristotle, less televangelist. Try the reverse. If we don't like the idea, reverse it, see if we like the reverse idea.

We don't hurt the ones we love. If we can love…no…if we do love, we will not hurt the ones who love us.

Fair enough. That sounds better. Now try the inverse. If we hurt someone, we must not love them. Therefore it follows that if one hurts someone, then their love for that person is suspect. Conclusion: We will never truly hurt one we love, and we never truly love one that we have willingly harmed. That is to say, in harming someone, you betray your lack of true love.

It rattled around in seemingly tight logic, but it was hard to wrestle with. She would have to revisit this with a whiteboard and some more pacing about. But other things equal, the nuts and bolts seemed right. Of course misunderstandings and small slights aside, this seems to hold logically.

And she had seen–clinically, anecdotally, not personally–she had seen what sociopathic family members had done.to their loved ones. They hurt, while claiming to love.


It was insane. Literally insane to think and act that way. Just not quite insane enough to lock away.

She was never totally able to keep an objective eye when reading about or observing the cadre of unfortunates that were held prisoner in this way by their own minds. Largely because of the moral horror she felt when seeing them turned loose on their families. The unsuspecting victims who only wanted to love them and to be loved in return.

So often unable to help them, Jordan, whose faith had matured significantly from the simple acts of childhood devotion, still found herself quietly praying for them instead.

And more fervently for the ones they hurt.

But they were among us. Unavoidable. Psychopaths often found their way into success in the business world and academia, where a remorseless drive and cutthroat nature were rewarded with money and advancement. Lauded as leaders and visionaries, they frequently view themselves, and present themselves as servants of a greater cause. Saviors of industry and culture. Imagining themselves as lovers of all–they would smile as they destroyed the livelihoods of entire corporate divisions, impoverishing hundreds or more just to nudge their stock up a quarter of a percent. Claiming to love, they took joy in the fruits of harm.

Sociopaths were lurking everywhere…wherever people got together socially. Jordan had already identified two of them in her Wednesday night Bible study. Perfectly coiffed, well-mannered women quietly turning other women inside out with insecurities brought about by gentle, passive aggressive observations masked with fake concern. Some weeks, the whole ladies' group descended into a kind of Machiavellian snakepit. But with herbal tea and pecan sandies.

Sex criminals were often amazingly adept at the long game of cultivation and manipulation, grooming victims by offering what seemed at first to be an endless source of help and affirmation desperately needed at a vulnerable time. One observed case history rung in Jordan's mind: a seemingly well-meaning tutor to a confused and vulnerable foster child had, over time, cultivated the otherwise appropriate power dynamic of student and teacher into something far more sinister. She had read about it. She had even met the man.

She could go on. This was a real thing people did. Claiming to love, they hurt.

Are these people insane?

In the purely functional sense, no. Largely because their seemingly uncontrollable impulses can be controlled by the right circumstances. If properly checked by their social circles, many of those impulses can be called out, stopped, rendered ineffective, shamed into dormancy, or at least rendered ineffective by good policing. But where is the social circle that is savvy and vigilant enough to catch every manipulator and shove them back into habits of decent behavior? So, since they can theoretically be assimilated into normalcy under the right circumstances they aren't considered insane.

But with the problematic notion of functional sanity set aside, Jordan felt strongly that an argument could be made that such people were in fact insane. That fundamental misreadings of the nature of human relationships rendered them deeply irrational in how they interacted with human beings. That their own bend to satisfy their own immediate desires, their willingness to feed themselves at the expense of their victims was, in fact, a kind of insanity.

Sanity defined as the ability to think and behave rationally, in conformity with the reality of the world in which you live. A manipulator simply does not do that. Serial manipulators–of each and every stripe–showed by their lack of empathy in pursuing their own desires, that they perceive those people they claim to love–the same ones they use to their own selfish ends–are in fact…not people in their eyes. Not real ones, anyway.

That is objectively untrue, and irrational. But the fact that manipulation is possible…the fact that it works sometimes, that a psychopath can in fact manipulate people into conformity with his desires convinces him that he is rational. That he sees the world correctly.

But he doesn't. The people he doesn't regard as people–his victims–are people. He's simply wrong in his worldview, and he persists in it. Insane. But his victims, those who have been abused and manipulated, may actually come to see the world as he does, if he forces them. If he gaslights and twists their reality until they agree. The insanity becomes memetic. Infectious, even. The behavior is morally reprehensible. Psychologically damaging to both victim and manipulator.

In other words, irrational.

Insane.

Jordan's shins began to ache slightly as she rounded the fourth corner for the eighth time, completing her second mile.

All of these observations are perfectly academic and theoretical…she observed as she started her third mile.

Yes, perfectly academic…until she began to see some of these irrational and manipulative tendencies in herself.

In her own behavior.

Around ten hours ago, she had, under the guise of ending a sexual relationship and mending bridges with her husband, orchestrated a situation where she bared her breasts in a lewd act signaling her sexual availability to the very man she claimed to be done with.

At least, that might have been what she did.

She wasn't sure. She had started out with one intention, and had ended with the opposite intention.

Irrational.

Insane.

She hadn't set out to do that. It wasn't her conscious intention when she texted him to come over that she would crave to be taken by him in front of her husband. And most of the evening seemed largely to go according to her initial plan.

Until the very end.

She just wasn't sure what she did. That was the problem. Her desire in the moment created a fog around her normal, rational process of deciding.

Or that momentary fog outright eclipsed her rational mind.

Another way one might phrase it…she went insane.

Yes, she was aroused. She was embarrassed, but she could admit that. But that answer wasn't enough for her. The physiological excuse for poor decision making–it was an excuse. A copout that had never sufficiently explained human behavior. She had too high a view of her mind–of mind itself–to simply say that her body made her do it.

She knew very well the power of sexual arousal as a psychological motivator. The literal flood of blood and hormones around the body, the wide open shots of nerve signals through both sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous pathways, the opening of blood vessels to enhance the nervous receptivity and reactions of the genitals. The lubrication of the vagina, buffering its natural acidity and increasing the oxygen tension. All of this happening as a backdrop along the known sexual arc: excitation, plateau, orgasm, resolution.

The pupil dilation, rising heart rate during excitation and plateau. The involuntary contractions caused by orgasm–thought to aid in assisting rapid sperm transport to facilitate fertilization. All grounded observations of human behavior in the normal course of reproduction. The slow relaxations of resolution that allowed the sperm to find its way to…

Jordan shook off the thought. None of these objective, physical realities touched the deep essence of mind as she understood it. It just didn't explain enough, Jordan observed as she rounded the fourth turn for the twelfth time, heading into the fourth mile. The "runner's high" had begun. Endorphins began to flood her system, and a slow smile broke across her face.

A familiar feeling of elation, but clearly different from the arc of sexual excitation, plateau, orgasm, and resolution. One that brought clarity of mind, not a fog.

Like the fog she felt last night. After the third episode of Star Trek. The one where she flipped an innocent remark into a dwindling conversation. Like a penny into a wishing fountain. The fog that made her completely forget the violent assault of her beloved husband. Who she would never hurt, because she loved him.

She would forget that entirely, and blurt it out…

"Sometimes I call him 'sir.'"

Stupid. Not even funny, really. Why did she say that? What purpose did that serve?

She mentally kicked herself for the thoughtless quip. What was she hoping to accomplish? And was that hope rational?

Or, more likely, was it manipulative?

She knew that by the time her bra fell at her feet, her rational decision making apparatus was… just gone.

Only desire was left.

And when Mark grasped her breast and began to suck her nipple, that fog thickened, and that desire struggled to find words.

Or rather, the desire could find words just fine.

But the words that her desire found–scared her. Outraged the rational morality she preferred during the light of day. Such morality feared and loathed such words.

Words like…

"Take me."

"Oh, Mark. Oh my God. Please…"

"Deeper….please..."

"Please, sir. Please cum in me…"

Jordan's eyes burned as she acknowledged the real desire that spurred those unspoken words. Words she had hoped to find as Mark suckled at her bared breast. Words that–mercifully–had not been fulfilled as–after Mark had abruptly left–she coaxed her husband's face between her legs, thinking only of her wish to shove him aside–making way for her lover's stiff cock were it to make its way back through the door.

Jordan shook off the memory as she turned the fourth corner for the sixteenth time.

David had liked it. That much was obvious from the small drops dripping from his penis as she pulled his pants down immediately after Mark left, the click of the closing door still hanging in the room.

The small drops were not anticipatory. They were the aftermath. He had spurted as soon as she touched the waistband of his pants, the small mess apparent as her fingers wrapped around the waistband and felt the wetness. She smiled coyly, knowing his sensitivity about these things, and guided him to bed, opened her legs, and pulled his head down to aid her in her unexpectedly powerful release.

What were those stages again. The arc of sexual progression?

Excitation. Check. Thank you Mark.

Plateau. Check. Thank you David. His diligent tongue

Orgasm. Hmmm…

As much as her rational mind resisted, Mark had made his way into her inner eye as the convulsions of her orgasm rose to meet her. She stopped resisting long enough to remember the strong suckling feeling on her left nipple only moments ago. Her body had convulsed deeply, David's eager tongue received her climax.

Orgasm. Check. Thank you…both? Mark for mind, David for body. Tongue, at least. Team effort?

Resolution.

Jordan remembered the fog slowly clearing and laying her weary head on David's chest as he clutched her shoulders. She had a vague memory of mumbling her love before passing out.

Resolution. Check. Thank you David.

But that mumbled love–the result of using him to arouse her.

She denied him to satisfy herself.

She claimed to love him, but she hurt him.

Insane.

And David had been manipulated into her own wild, irrational worldview. One where her pleasure mattered, and his didn't. Where their vows only benefitted her, and faithfulness only extended so far as the intensity of her pleasure.

She had used David. Used his own irrational desires to fuel the achievement of her own.

It seemed wrong. At least it did in the clear light of day, on an endorphin high in the fifth mile of a run.

And not just good-and-evil church wrong. There was that to consider, too. But that would have to wait.

No, this was different than just a question of religious right and wrong. It was a fundamental misperception of the sexual relationship within a marriage. A true, reciprocal bond is supposed to cultivate a deep impulse to surrender equally to each other, and to each other only. To maximize the feelings of love and strengthen the bond through that mutual submission and giving.

Jordan had to admit it. Her desire for Mark and her manipulation of David's own sexualized insecurities was…

Irrational.

Insane.

The resulting lack of control made absolute sense now.

The fog was not compulsive sociopathy. It was something else–a stimulant-driven impulse to manipulate.

An addiction.

She was in danger of becoming an addict, and torpedoing her relationship with the man she so deeply loved.

No.

She couldn't allow that to happen.

She wouldn't.

She rounded the fourth corner for the twentieth time. Five miles. She slowed to a walk and put her arms over her head, letting the blood flow return to match her slowing heart rate.

So.

Now that she knew she was insane, what's to be done?

* * *

Fumbling with his keys in the dark, Gunnery Sergeant Jared Poisson finally managed to find the house key and slip it into the knob. His hand shook slightly as he turned it right, and the door opened easily with a familiar click. He walked into a darkened kitchen, shutting the door quietly behind him.

It was definitely later than he thought. Almost 3:30 in the morning. He quietly took his boots off and placed them on the shoe rack by the door, then tiptoed in his socks across the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs.

No way she was still awake. Tread quietly.

He looked left at the top of the stairs. The door to both kids' bedrooms were closed. Bedtime was…shit, seven hours ago. They were definitely out by now. He tiptoed to the right, finding his own bedroom door closed, and gripped the knob, applying the gentlest pressure possible to make no noise. The door squeaked slightly as he slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind him.

The lamp on the nightstand clicked on.

"Hey man. Everything all right?"

The dim, yellow light half illuminated Mark Rein, his oldest friend. His solid yet lean muscle was clearly visible as he sat up, his shirtless torso leaning back against his headboard. Shrouded further in shadows was Megan's sleeping figure.

"Yeah, I'm good. Looks like you had a good time…"

Mark grinned, his teeth showing in the dim light. "Yeah, we always do." He reached over and nudged Megan's shoulder.

She groaned in protest.

"Hey. Slave girl…your husband's home." Mark whispered playfully.

She rolled on her back, covering her eyes from the light. "What time is it?"

Mark checked his watch. "3:30."

"Jeez, honey, what took you so long? We waited until…umm…"

"Yeah, we didn't wait." Mark finished her sentence for her. She smirked conspiratorially.

"Yeah, doesn't look like you did," Jared grinned.

Megan sat up and turned, draping her legs off the side of the bed. She stretched, reaching up to the ceiling, the bedding falling away and exposing her naked torso.

They had been married ten years.

A decade.

Ten years and two kids later, she still had an incredible body. Childbearing had gently plumped her already seductive curves, and her breasts were slightly fuller, although she still wore a C cup. Jared stared at her body as she dropped her arms out of the stretch and stood to walk over to him. She had freshly shaved herself for Mark. Must have done it after he left but before Mark arrived. Her tanned legs were silky smooth, continuing the baby soft texture up under the tan line where her legs came together–the result of an active swimsuit season. The thin landing strip of dark pubic hair centered on the top of her cleft rose a couple inches toward her belly button, but stopped well short of it.

She always groomed herself that way when she was trying to captivate a man's attention. It was almost a trademark of her sexual charms, and was neatly trimmed, giving a sharp, darker accent to the lighter skin of her pubis on the inside of her bikini line.

She walked over and threw her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him deeply. "We missed you. What took you so long?"

"Just a couple things I didn't count on. People dragging their feet. Everything's fine though."

He kissed her one more time, and he pulled her close. Her hair smelled like Mark. His heart began to race.

"Hey…" Megan said, turning around. "Where do you think you're going?"

She had caught Mark quietly dressing on the opposite side of the bed.

"I've got to take off. I've got an early morning."

"Come on, stay…" she whined. "You can sleep in the den. The kids will be thrilled Uncle Mark's here for breakfast."

"I can't. Thanks though, Meg. I'll be back."

Meg pouted, looking over at her husband. He shrugged helplessly.

Having finished dressing, Mark buckled his belt and quietly made his way to the door. Jared followed. Megan quickly donned a bathrobe hanging on the inside door of her wardrobe and followed them.

The silent convoy made their way downstairs to the kitchen, where Megan flipped on the light, revealing a clean, modest family kitchen. She walked to the refrigerator, which was covered with crayon drawings of knights, princesses, GI Joes, and Jedi knights, and opened the door. She pulled out a carton of orange juice and poured a glass, handing it to Mark.

"I know you don't eat breakfast," she said with half-playful sternness.

"Well, I am parched. I'll give you that." Mark took the glass and drank half of it in one long swig.

The trio stood in silence for a moment, until Megan looked at her husband in the light for the first time.

"Oh my god, Jared, what happened to your hand?"

Jared pursed his lips and sighed. Busted.

"I just got a little dog bite is all. I was checking in on one of my newlywed boots. He's been married for five minutes, he got a dog he doesn't know how to train. The dog nipped me, I checked, it's had all its shots. I'm fine."

Mark and Jared made fleeting eye contact. Mark's eyes were narrow, demanding a better answer.

Meg picked up Jared's hand, turning it over and over again in the light.

"Doesn't look like any deep wounds, just kind of red and raw. Did it break the skin at all?"

"Nope. Don't worry about it, honey. Just a dumbass dog with a dumbass owner."

"Well I'm going to get some peroxide and band aids anyway…don't move." She moved quickly down the hall to the half bathroom at the front of their small house.

"What really happened?" Mark demanded in a low, urgent voice just above a whisper.

"I got bit. Your boy bit me." Jared responded quietly. Annoyed.

"You serious?"

"Does it look like I'm lying, Cap?" He raised a raw middle finger.

"Well fuck, Frenchie, I didn't know he was a biter. You were supposed to just scare him.,,"

"Yeah, about that. He didn't scare as easy as you thought. I had to go a little harder."

"How hard?"

"Couple ribs, probably. Couple cuts on the face. And his front teeth."

Mark nodded gravely. "Anyone see you?"

Jared shook his head. "Nope. Took out all the cameras around, street was empty. Closing time on a Tuesday. No one was there."

The pair heard Meg moving back toward the kitchen, so they lowered their voices further.

"Just tell me one thing…"

"Yeah…" Jared whispered.

"Did he deserve it?"

"Oh yeah. Looked up his record. Long list of domestics. Guy's a full-on wife beater."

Mark nodded again as Megan came back in the room with a first aid kit. Jared dutifully extended his hand to let her daub peroxide over his fingers. Mark casually finished the orange juice and rinsed it out in the sink.

Mark cleared his throat.

"I do actually have something I wanted to talk to both of you about."

"Oh?" Megan looked up curiously as she toweled off her husband's hands and began to pull finger bandages out of their individual wrappings.

"I was wondering, Frenchie, you've been here for a few years. You're up for PCS orders, right? Any idea where you might move?"

Jared shook his head. "Don't know yet. It's a few months out. Haven't actually talked to anyone yet."

Mark nodded. Well I got a call from Major Wolfe last night. He's picking up. Going to be a lieutenant colonel, and they're giving him a battalion."

"No shit? Good for him." Jared smiled.

"Oh, you mean Captain Wolfe?" Megan asked, wrapping the bandages around Jared's middle fingers. "Sorry, I didn't know who you were talking about for a minute. So they're making him, what, a battalion commander? That's cool."

"Yeah, so…um…." Mark hesitated.

Megan finished bandaging her husband and put the wrappers in the trash, then closed the first aid kit.

"So…spit it out, Achilles…" Megan goaded playfully.

Mark smiled modestly. "Yeah, so Wolfe called me, he wants to bring me in with him. He wants to make me Charlie company commander."

"Really? Your own company? That's great! That's what you wanted!" Megan gushed. "Congratulations!"

"Yeah," Mark looked down, unable to contain an excited smile. "Here's the thing, though. I told Wolfe I wanted to bring my own company gunny."

Megan's mouth dropped as she looked excitedly at her husband. "Honey…that's great! That's a fast track to first sergeant. And you two get to work together again!"

"No shit?" Jared said. "You serious?"

"Yeah, no shit Frenchie. Just make sure you don't get any pastries or poetry, or any other kind of French shit on my desk or whatever. All right?"

Jared smirked at the joke.

The joke had a history extending back to their early days in boot camp. When Mark had found out Poisson–Jared's last name–was the french word for "Fish," he began calling him "Fishy," and "Fish boy," Jared hated it. When the disagreement came to a actual blows, Mark gave him the choice of two nicknames. "Fishy" or "Frenchie." Jared had chosen the latter. The subtle references to Jared's family roots in Normandy always overplayed Jared's actual affinity or familiarity with anything French. But the name stuck. Jokes like that were a way for the two men to express genuine joy and other feelings together without…you know…actually admitting that they had feelings.

Megan punched Mark in the arm. "I'm gonna drop a croissant right on your desk on day one, Captain. You watch me."

Mark grinned.

"There is one thing, though. Frenchie. Meg. For both of you."

"What's up?" Jared asked.

Megan's smile faded, listening intently.

"This." Mark gestured between the three of them. "What we've got here is fine. What we've got up there," here his hand pointed up to the bedroom, "that's fraternization. That's a career ender for both of us."

"Yeah, it was fraternization when you were my platoon sergeant too, genius. You think we don't know? Think we can't keep a secret?"

"I just wanted to make it clear from the outset. There's gonna be more people watching this time. We gotta be careful."

Megan smiled and drew a closing zipper across her lips.

"Yeah Cap. We get it. Not a peep."

"Good." Mark picked up his jacket off the kitchen rack and put it on. "We'll talk soon. I'll figure out the details and get orders cut so we can report together." He opened the door, preparing to leave. "And sorry Meg, you know how it is. Time to get ready for the move. Should be okay to finish out the school year. But we're going back to Camp LeJeune in the summer."

He shut the door behind him. A few seconds of silence, and the couple in the kitchen heard Mark's ancient 4Runner fire up, crank into gear, and back down their driveway.

"So…Company Gunny, huh? Pretty cool." Megan said casually.

"Cut it with that…" Jared said, grinning impatiently. "You know what I want, baby."

"What's that?" she replied innocently.

He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "You two have a good time?"

"Mmmhmmm…"

"You two leave me anything good?"

"I honestly don't remember, Gunny Poisson. I was pretty busy. Kind of a blur."

"So that's a no, then?"

"No."

"No, that's not a no, or No, that's yes, the answer is no?"

She giggled, saying nothing.

Jared began kissing his wife's cheek, then moved slowly down the side of her neck.

"So what is it? Come on…you know what I want, Meg. You can tell me…"

"Hmmmm." Megan purred. "I'm really not sure if I remember…I have a dim recollection…yes…your soon-to-be commander was pumping..pumping really hard…pumping something into me. I remember a lot of energy. But the details. I just don't know, honey. It seems familiar, but like I said…I might have just dreamed it…"

Jared groaned, sliding his hand between the folds of her robe, exploring the bare skin underneath.

"Of course…if there is evidence of such an outrageous thing…don't you think you should try and find it? Isn't it…like…your duty as my husband and protector?"

Jared's breathing, now ragged to match the rough thumping of his heart, let out an exasperated gasp. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he picked Megan up and set her on the kitchen counter, spreading her legs open and bowing his head down between them.

She giggled quietly, then reached over to the light switch at the end of the counter.

Click.

* * *

"Can I help you, sir?"

The elderly receptionist looked suspiciously at the young man with traces of fading bruises on his cheek.

"Yes, thank you. My name is David Stark, I have a 2:00 meeting with the district comptroller. I'm a few minutes early, so I'm happy to wait if necessary."

"Oh, you have an appointment…I see. I'll let her know you're here."

"Thank you so much, ma'am." David smiled warmly and sat down in the row of cheap metal chairs, watching his posture and nodding politely to people as they walked back and forth past him.

The local school district office wasn't terribly busy, but there was more movement than David had anticipated. It was a fairly large school district, to be fair. 5 high schools, 12 middle schools, and 21 elementary schools spread out over a suburban area with significant rural spread. Most importantly, between the schools and the sprawl of the district, there were 121 school buses, 24 vans, and a dozen or so other vehicles that ran hard every weekday for 9 months out of the year.

And the school board met tonight.

To discuss the budget.

Including the maintenance of their bus fleet.

"Mr. Stark. She's ready to see you."

David smiled and nodded, walking to the door identified by the receptionist and politely knocking.

"Come in."

Michelle Spencer, the district comptroller, was probably in her late thirties, brunette, bespectacled, heavyset, and harried. Clearly annoyed at the interruption, she nevertheless didn't turn down the appointment. Probably because, as a school district comptroller, she wasn't used to turning people away if they wanted to talk to her. Not a lot of appointments with a comptroller.

"Ms. Spencer, David Stark. I'm very happy to meet you." He extended his hand over her desk, and she shook it before they both sat down.

"Mr. Stark. I'm sorry about the mess, I'm preparing for a major meeting tonight, you may be aware."

"I wasn't aware, but what perfect timing!" He responded enthusiastically.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. She looked like she had about 90 seconds before she lost interest. David leaned in slightly.

"Well, I won't waste time then. Ms. Spencer, I'm representing a new business venture, and I'd like to get my foot in the door to bid on providing some services for the district."

"Mr. Stark, you should really lobby the school board directly…"

"I know that ma'am, but I'm aware that with the recent elections, several of the board members are looking to trim the budget, and I preferred to talk to you. I suspect you know far more about what that budget actually is than any elected official ever has."

She smirked. "I suppose you're right."

David smiled warmly. "I think we both know I'm right. Just to be up front, I'm firmly on your team. I have a degree in accounting, and in about two weeks after my last finals, I'll be adding an MBA to that. I expect to have CPA licensure in the next year or so as well. So I'm very, very eager to talk numbers, and to offer assistance to your predicament in any way I can."

"I see. Congratulations on the MBA. And what is my predicament?"

"Your buses."

"Our buses?"

"That's right. The company I'm starting, ma'am, involves a new business model for vehicle maintenance. A subscription service, catering to fleets. We offer yearly subscriptions based on the number of vehicles and engine types, and we take care of all routine maintenance…fuel and air filters, oil and lube, tire rotations, maintenance checks, all for the baseline subscription fee. After that, we offer significantly discounted rates for bigger repairs. And all of our mechanics have the capability to do roadside calls, even for buses."

"Interesting. A subscription service?"

"That's right. The subscription service allows us to have a fixed revenue, the stability helps us to limit the risk of variables in the business model. Kind of like a smaller, scrappier, and way more comprehensive triple A service. We get steady work, you get to save on maintenance. Everyone wins."

"Hmmm. You say you're new? How new?"

"Brand new. If that makes you nervous, I'll just point out that your current fleet is maintained by 2 full time mechanics, both of whom are planning to retire this year. You need someone, and we're ready to jump in."

"Wow." She blinked in surprise. "You've done your homework.

"I have. And only the company entity is new. I have several years experience in logistics, and we're bringing on 3 full time mechanics, 1 more part time, and a handful of retired old grease monkeys to keep on call in case we get busy. We have plenty of manpower and flexibility, more than you actually need right now.

"Now," he continued, removing a small, laminated booklet from his briefcase and sliding it across the desk, "I've taken the liberty of typing up a comparison price sheet. Since you'd be taking a chance on us, I'm guaranteeing a ceiling on total costs, so if you have major repairs up to the amount in the right column, we'll eat the rest, only charging you for parts. But given what my guys know about diesel engines and big rigs, we're confident you won't even approach that limit."

"Wow again…" The comptroller's eyes carefully perused the spreadsheet. "This estimate of our current maintenance operating costs…this is impressively close. How did you get these numbers?"

"I listened to my mechanics. They know their stuff, and I crunched the numbers. That's all. I'm not a mind reader, I'm just thorough. But I'm curious…how close am I?"

"Incredibly."

David smiled to himself.

"Your projections show…almost a 30% cost reduction from our current budget in the year over year. Are you confident you can meet that?"

"Yes. But we'll shoot for 35%. I highballed our costs to make sure we can deliver. A cushion for any real-world hiccups."

She looked over the spreadsheet once more, then set it down and adjusted her glasses. "You said your mechanics, you have three of them? Are they as new as this company?"

"No, ma'am. I've poached them from a local shipping and distribution hub. Full time diesel mechanics, accustomed to quick turnaround, and used to working on big engines. The youngest one has 7 years experience, and about 30 years between the three of them. All certified."

"You poached them from a big distribution hub? That's impressive. How'd you get them to come work for you?"

"Ownership stakes. One of them is a good friend of mine, he's my partner, and we agreed to give a minority profit share deal to the other two. When I showed them the profit potential at scale, they jumped. They're all excellent mechanics. We won't let you down."

Ms. Spencer tapped a pen on the desk thoughtfully. "Mr. Stark, as you know I can't award this contract on my own, the board will have to approve it. But if you present it tonight , I'll vouch for your numbers. Will you agree to a three month trial period before we sign for the year?"

"Absolutely. We were hoping you'd give us the summer to do deep maintenance on the whole fleet. Get everything shiny and purring for the new school year. Is that possible?"

"We'll see how it goes."

"Excellent. I greatly appreciate your time, Ms. Spencer, and I'll be there at the meeting. I think you're about to gain a great deal of favor with the new board members."

She pursed her lips tightly, concealing a smile as she stood up and extended her hand across the desk. "Thank you for bringing this to me, Mr. Stark. I'll admit I'm wary. But you're right, we're painted into a corner for the moment. I'm very interested to see if you can deliver at the rate you quoted. Again, I have my doubts, but as you know, our mechanics are retiring. It's a good time to try you out."

"I'm very grateful for the opportunity," he replied warmly, shaking her hand. "We won't let you down."

"By the way, what happened to your face?"

* * *

J: Hey there. "Sir."

M: Hey, how are you today? How's Professor Cockroach? You two figure out the mysteries of mind yet?

J: Professor Lukacz is fine. The human mind remains a mystery. But I'm working on figuring it out. Just a normal Wednesday.

M: How'd it go after I left? You guys okay?

J: I think so. D was…pretty excited.

M: Yeah, that's usually how that goes.

J: Usually? You're an expert?

M: Yeah, kind of.

J: Okay, mister expert. How long have you been doing this?

M: You mean texting? I guess since flip phones.

J: No… You know what I mean.

M: A while. About ten years.

J: So I guess you know what you're talking about, then.

M: I know some things. Every couple is different, so there's always some surprises. I've learned some things along the way.

J: Like what?

M: Like when to push, when to back off. When to be hard, when to be gentle. That kind of stuff.

J: There's more to it than that, I bet.

M: Yeah, there is. But there are some basics. Why do you ask?

J: I'm just thinking about stuff. I'm a little unsettled about everything. I feel good about the decision to stop. But now I'm trying to understand it. Feelings, motivations, mental health. David's, yours, mine. All just stuff in my academic wheelhouse. But I'm interested in what you think. Your perspective. Tell me more. What are the basics?

M: Well, there's two things I know for sure, because I learned them the hard way. The rest is just…guesses and some accumulated data.

J: Interesting. What do you know for sure? What's the first thing?

M: The first seems obvious when you say it out loud, but is actually hard to see and put into practice sometimes.

J: What's that?

M: I'm talking more emotionally than literally here, but it helps to picture it. In any 3 way configuration I'm involved in, the woman has to stand in the middle. If I get between husband and wife, she catches feelings, he's not ready for it, I'm a homewrecker, and everyone gets hurt. If the husband gets between me and the wife, she gets confused, she might feel used as a pawn for his kink, she closes down and he gets demanding. Then I get frustrated and it falls apart. So the lady stands in the middle, and ultimately, she's got to call the shots.

J: That's really interesting. I'll have to think about that some more. What's the second thing?

M: It's really like a footnote to the first thing. Here it is: I can't catch feelings. I can't fall in love with the wife.

J: …
J: That's also interesting.
J: …
J: Has that been an issue before?

M: Yes.

J:…
J: I hope I'm not flattering myself, but now I have to know. At least to clear the air. Is that an issue here? With us?

M: No.
M: No, No worries there. You're a lovely person, you're beautiful, you're smart as hell, you're great to hang around with, and you're a fantastic piece of ass. But you haven't broken down my emotional walls, haha.

J: Haha OK. Good.

M: So…you and David okay?

J: Yeah, I really think so. He said he was fine with everything. He agreed we jumped into this too fast. I think we're okay to go back to normal now.

M: Don't be so sure.

J: What do you mean?

M: You really want to hear this?

J: I think I need to.
J: Come on, Mark. I'm a big girl. Let's hear it.

M: Your husband is a cuckold. It's who he is. I know he got hurt, that's a bummer. And I know you feel bad, and you feel responsible. But I absolutely guarantee that that Vinny guy didn't beat the cuck out of him. He's hooked.

J: Interesting. I feel I have to point out the obvious: This is an awfully self-serving observation for you to make. To me, at least. Is this a ruse to get back into my pants?

M: No. No, Jordan, I promise you it's not.

J: For real promise?

M: Stack of Bibles. I swear.

J: OK, that's concerning. So…what do I do with this information?

M: Honestly, I don't know. That's up to you two. You'll have to work it out. All I can do is not get in the middle. But seriously, Jordan. I've met a decent number of cucks. I've seen them resist their urges, some of them can go kind of dormant. But none of them get over it. It's a lifetime addiction.

J: Jeez, Mark, if you want me back in your bed, just say so.

M: I promise it's not that, Jordan. I'm just telling you what I've seen.

J: I know, I believe you. I'm just joking. It's a lot to process. Sorry, I have to ask, gauging the credibility of your theory here. How many couples have you "seen?"

M: Long term? Five. And sporadically quite a few more. Maybe a dozen total.

J: Are you serious? Have you really?

M: Yeah, it's a little over a dozen, now that I count it out.

J: You're really going to tell me you've seduced a dozen men's wives in the last ten years?

M: You don't believe me?

J: Honestly, on the one hand, I totally believe you. On the other hand, it just seems so…outlandish. I don't know. You swear you're not just trying to brag your way back into my bed?

M: You're the one who keeps bringing that up.

J:
J: I guess I am.
J: Touche. Sir.

M: I promise that's not the case. You said we're done. We're done. The wife is in charge.

J: Okay, I believe you.

M: Okay, good. You just need to understand, when you told me it was over, I took that seriously. We fooled around a little after, but I knew that was the last time.

J: Yeah. Yeah it is.
J: *It was.

M: Also, I was going to tell you this in person, but…

J: What?

M: You kind of had good timing. This wasn't gonna last anyway. I got word a while ago. I'm being transferred back to the fleet this summer. I've been offered company command. Kind of a career milestone for a mustang officer. Big step on the ladder for me.

J: Oh.
J: That's great!
J: Congratulations!

M: So, yeah. I'll be moving back to North Carolina. I'll probably leave next month.

J: Well..,okay.
J: I'm happy for you, Mark. I really am.
J: Just, some unexpected emotions here. Maybe it's better we didn't do this face to face.

M: Hey, I get it. But I do really like hanging out with you and David. In fact, I saw this flier on campus…if you want to do another Star Trek night, they're showing Star Trek 4 at that discount theater next weekend. You and David want to go? I'll bring a date. We can double, get some ice cream after or something?

J:...
J: Yeah, that sounds fun! I'll let David know!

M: You okay?

J:, Yeah, I'm fine. I've got to go, a student is here to see me. Office hours.

M: Okay. Take care, talk to you soon.

J:

[MustBeDenied2]

This continues to be the best story I’ve read in a long time, maybe ever. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

MBD

[Johng1953]

This continues to be the best story I’ve read in a long time, maybe ever. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

MBD

I can only agree!

[subtoall]

This story is so good I can't help but think it's being written by a famous novelist moonlighting in cuckold erotica.

[user322]

Still as good, and what's more, you update quickly, thank you!!

[Oneillfranko]

Really great writing. Thank you!

[Johng1953]

This story is so good I can't help but think it's being written by a famous novelist moonlighting in cuckold erotica.

I was thinking just the same. Excellent story telling.

[Crushing]

Hey everyone,

So I have a draft for the next installment pretty far along, hoping to post the final draft this weekend, but I’m hung up on something, and thought I’d try and see what you guys think.

There’s a scene in the draft where Jordan tries on lingerie in front of her mirror, and I’m not having a ton of success describing the scene. The lingerie in particular. I’ve taken a few runs at it, and it just keeps coming back sounding generic, and the scene doesn’t punch the way I want to as a result.

Basically the lingerie should be sexy, but still a little tentative. I’m thinking of it as a “first try,” something that an observant religious young woman would think is daring and sexy, but still plausibly tame. If you’ve come across a design that you think would fit those specs, send me the link and I’ll take a look. Either reply here or via private message. Also keep in mind it should work well with Jordan’s body type: runner’s build, full B cups, shoulder length auburn hair, dark blue eyes. Interested to see what you all come up with, and thanks for the help!

[Crushing]

Sorry about the delay, all. I know I said I'd get it up this weekend, but here it is now.

Also, thanks for your help with my stuck point earlier. I ended up splitting the difference between a couple suggestions I liked. Props to Jacko and Joe Pilot, you guys got me over the block. Hope you enjoy this installment.

[Crushing]

Holding hands high in the air, the choir conductor beamed in pleasure as the final choral hymn reached its crescendo. The harmony was an exquisite blend of male and female voices warmly filling the wide open space of the chapel. The open air was arrayed in striking harmonies before finally, dramatically resolving in unison with an "amen."

Jordan loved to sing in the choir. She had done it ever since she was a little girl in her father's church. At first, she had no choice, the congregation was small, her mother played the piano, and it was no secret that an adorable little voice lent an innocent charm to the church choir. As she grew, she went through a phase of resenting it, but when her voice found its natural strength and range around the age of 16, she began to enjoy it. Now, in her mid twenties, she went out of her way to sing in the choir, volunteering whenever they asked. She was skilled enough that the choir director put weaker singers next to her so she could help them find their pitch. The quality of the whole choir was elevated noticeably after she arrived.

After a lengthy benediction by the pastor, the service ended and the organ began playing recessional music. Chatting politely but absently with the women near her, Jordan looked out into the congregation to see David sitting near the back.

Still afraid to move forward.

At least he still came to church with her. She worried the attack may have heightened his social anxiety.

If it did, he worked hard not to show it. It had been two weeks now. Well, two weeks tomorrow. So much had happened since then…

"Mrs. Stark…Mrs…Hello…Jordan!"

Mrs. Dolly. The portly, middle aged choir director, was flailing her arm, waving at Jordan to come down to talk. Jordan made polite excuses to her choir friends and went to see what she wanted.

"How did we sound?" Jordan asked excitedly.

"Marvelous, sweetie. You are positively carrying the sopranos. Just carrying them. You can never leave. Never ever ever!" The effusive tone was not an uncommon affectation for the woman whose job was to get people excited and confident enough to sing loudly. Nevertheless, Jordan detected sincerity in the compliment.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Dolly?"

"I'm so glad you asked, dear. I think we're finally at the point where everyone is comfortable in their voices, and I'd like you to step forward. Have you sung solo before?"

Jordan was stunned. She was reasonably comfortable as one of a group. And she liked to sing. But standing…by herself? Singing by herself, or even over and above the rest of the choir? Would she be using microphones?

A look of consternation clearly showed on her face, and the peppy choirmistress leaped to reassure her. "Oh sweetie, there's nothing to it. Nothing at all. We'll practice together for a few weeks, work on your vocal projection, make sure everything is just in your key…Maybe try to sing for services in a month? What do you say?"

Jordan turned red, conflicted. She loved a challenge, and she loved to sing. But being this visible…

On the other hand, one of her deepest, most constant personality traits–her drive to improve herself, to always grow into the next thing–that impulse bubbled intensely, just under the surface of her insecurity.

She liked to sing. She was a section leader in the choir. Developing into a soloist?

It was the next thing. The next challenge.

She nodded, a tight smile of grim determination on her face. "I hope I don't fall on my face. But I'll give it a shot."

"Wonderful! Oh, Jordan, you've made my day. What say we meet Wednesday night…just before ladies' Bible study? About 6, if you can make it. I'll coach you, and we can pick out a number you'd like to start out with."

"Deal." Jordan said, smiling. The two parted, and Jordan hurried off down the chapel to find David.

Making her way down the center aisle, Jordan passed by several friendly faces nodding greetings. She nodded back, giving small, sincere compliments to the parishioners she passed. The women's dresses were changing colors, shifting from the bright pastels of spring into the more subtle yet vibrant floral patterns, light grays and even off whites of summer. Jordan's own dress was a favorite–in fact, the one that she wore for her high school graduation. It was gray, almost a faded pewter, but with a deep blue daisy print. Sleeveless and made of a smooth, breathable linen, it extended just below her knees and hugged her hips with just enough subtlety to straddle that impossible line between the modesty and attractive femininity demanded of women in church.

Several rows back still, David saw her moving toward him and stood to meet her. Jordan, fixed on telling her husband the exciting news of her solo part in the choir, was surprised when Mrs. Deleuze stepped confidently in front of her, blocking her way.

Mrs. Deleuze, the youth Sunday School teacher. How she got that job, Jordan could not even guess. In all the time they had been coming to this church, she never saw her smile. Not once. Well, not a real smile. She did have a…kind of a smile…

"Oh, Mrs. Stark! I'm glad I caught you."

Jordan stumbled to a halt, surprised. "Oh hello, Mrs. Deleuze, it's nice to see you. I hope you're well?" Jordan practiced her own warm smile, the old reliable pastor's daughter smile, hiding her annoyance with affected sweetness.

Her perturbation was not without reason. The Deleuze woman…just…argh. She definitely gave off a vibe that Jordan didn't like. Not openly hostile, but she was well practiced in the subtle art of…well…it was hard to describe. But church women know that behavior when they see it.

"I love your hair, what have you done with it?"

"Just combed it, really, nothing special…" Jordan nodded politely.

"And your dress is such a pretty pattern…you always look so…striking." Mrs. Deleuze fixed on Jordan's uncovered shoulders, her eyes betraying a subtle edge of quiet disapproval at the presence of bare skin in church.

"Thank you, you're very kind. It's an old dress, but it fits the season, I think. If you don't mind…"

Jordan motioned toward her husband, now standing awkwardly about twenty feet away, waiting.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mrs. Stark, I know you're on your way out. I just wanted to make a teensy weensy request."

"Of course, Mrs. Deleuze. What can I do for you?" Jordan instantly regretted the impulse to accommodate. The impulse so thoroughly instilled in her by her upbringing.

"Well, it's a little awkward, really, but I've got a bit of a challenge on my hands. As you know, I teach the girls youth Bible study on Wednesday nights at 7."

"I did know that, yes…" Jordan nodded. She had seen her in passing on her way to the ladies' group on Wednesdays. Back in the children's Sunday School room, haranguing the poor teenage girls toward some kind of emotional collapse or other. She always felt bad for them.

"Well, we're coming up this week on a lesson that I could use some help with. It's about…" here the older woman drew close to Jordan conspiratorially. "It's about virtues…proper virtues for a young lady. And the lesson calls for a very frank discussion about…well, you know…"

"I think I do, Mrs. Deleuze. That's always tough with teenagers. You have my sympathy." Jordan smiled jovially.

The older woman smiled back, flustered. "Well, I thought you might be a real asset for that discussion. You're much closer to that age, and you're so pretty…"

"I appreciate the compliment, Mrs. Deleuze. I really do. But I can tell you from some professional experience I've had, that at that developmental stage teenagers are less concerned with being taught by people they perceive to be peers than they are about feeling respected as young adults. I'm sure with the proper tone, you'll be fine."

"Well, it's just that…experience…or expertise, I'd say, that I could really use. You see, I do know that you're in advanced training as a psychologist, and I've heard that you are specializing in development…I just think I could benefit from having you participate. Maybe give me some pointers?"

Jordan silently cursed the luck. She had to admit it. She had some expertise in this field. And she felt bad about the homicidally awkward sex talk that these girls would have to endure from this woman.

"I see. Well, I'd be happy to join you this week, and I'll certainly do what I can."

"Oh, wonderful!" She gushed. "Thank you! I'm just so grateful for the help. It's just so hard to teach these girls to wait for marriage these days, what with their phones and social media, and my goodness, the music they listen to! I think it would be so helpful to see a beautiful young woman like you who made the right choice and waited for marriage…I assume…"

Jordan smiled thinly, not taking the bait. "Like I said, I'll do what I can. Wednesday at seven then?"

"Precisely. And we'll have cookies!"

"Wonderful. I'll see you then." Jordan nodded warmly and walked past the cloying woman to meet David, who waited with a knowing grin.

"That didn't look good…" he said under his breath.

"You have no idea…" Jordan whispered back, rolling her eyes high in her head.

* * *

It would be grossly inaccurate to describe the cargo hold of the Super Stallion helicopter as quiet. It was loud, even by helicopter standards. The heavy lift chopper was surprisingly large, with a wide open cargo hold and the capacity to carry 24 troops with equipment. The horsepower needed to lift that amount of weight…the things that could go wrong…

One cracked rotor, and it would fall out of the sky like a stone.

It was best not to think about it.

Sergeant Rein looked up and down the row of seated, fully equipped marines, backs to the wall on both sides of him. 12 marines in total, including himself. He looked across the pile of sea bags stacked in the middle of the cargo hold to see the other row. 12 more.

Everyone was silent. They had to be…the heavy drone of the engine drowned out any chance to hear a normal speaking, or even shouting voice. Everyone wore ear plugs, and communicated with head and hand signals.

But there was nothing to say. The tail of the bird hung wide open to the bright morning sky, the broad desert hazily visible below the clear blue horizon. A lone marine sat passive behind a mounted machine gun, legs hanging off the edge of the cargo door into the open air.

Mark shuddered at the sight and turned away. He wasn't sure how high up they were. Pretty high. Thousands of feet at least. He'd flown before, but never in a helicopter. He was surprised at how nervous it made him.

But he was on his way to their assigned area of operations. He couldn't betray anything but confidence. Thankfully, his sunglasses hid his eyes, and his clenched jaw was an ambiguous sign. Nobody knew.

He looked across the cargo hold to the other line again to see Coporal Jared Poisson staring straight at him. The two locked eyes behind sunglasses. Jared knew his best friend's fear. It was obvious to him, and Mark knew it. Was it apparent to anyone else?

Jared's right hand dropped off the pistol grip of his M4 assault rifle and slowly brought up a hand, clenched in a fist, fingers touching the front of his face. He held it still for a moment while Mark waited for the hand signal, until his middle finger popped up between his eyes.

Mark burst into a wide smile at the rude gesture, betraying a genuine laugh drowned out by the noise of the engine. Not realizing that the 22 other marines were watching the exchange, he was surprised to see everyone else break into wide smiles, a collected laughter that could be seen, but not heard.

Mark shook his head, grinning. He glanced around to see the nervous silence had ended, his juniors elbowing each other jovially and trying to yell to each other. The tension was visibly broken. Well played, Frenchie.

Mark nodded in appreciation to his senior squad leader.

This chopper held two squads, the other two were in another helicopter some few hundred yards below and behind, occasionally visible past the tail gunner through the open back door of the cargo hold.

Within an hour, both helicopters descended and gently thumped to a landing at the forward operating base. Company headquarters, Mark knew from the briefing. He shot to his feet and gestured orders as marines swarmed the cargo and ran out into the bright light of the midday desert carrying full packs and stuffed sea bags. Mark helped hoist bags onto the slower marines, encouraging them to pick up the pace before he grabbed his own bags and hustled off the now empty Super Stallion. As he emerged into the blinding light, he saw Captain Wolfe, arms folded and carefully observing the collective dismount. Mark walked briskly up to him to greet him and get orders.

"Stage your platoon against the south wall of the base! Near the southeast guard tower!" The captain shouted at the top of his lungs, barely audible over the heavy whipping sound made by the still running rotors of both helicopters. Mark nodded and made eye contact with each of his squad leaders, indicating where to move and pumping his arm in the "double time" gesture. The platoon exploded into action, flowing as a single cluster on his orders.

Captain Wolfe smiled in recognition of the hustle as Mark walked briskly away behind them. The pitch of the two helicopters' engines picked up noticeably and within seconds the entire zone was washed out in blinding wind and dust kicked up by the high speed rotors. A full minute later the dust had settled, with the rapid whipping noise of the helicopters fading into the distance.

* * *

On the other side of the bedroom door, down the hall and seated, surrounded by notebooks and an open laptop, sat David. Studying away. Jordan knew it.

Finals week.

For Jordan, having finished virtually all of her coursework and entering the dissertation phase of her doctoral program, this week was comparatively light. Until being buried in final papers and exams to grade, of course. But that was next week.

For David, this week was the big one. One more stretch of exams, one more final paper, and he would walk with an MBA. In addition, he had just lined up a respectable number of clients to keep his new company busy…busier than he anticipated, in fact.

Jordan had been impressed, if not entirely surprised to see her husband explode into action over this new business idea. He had initially planned on lining up investors through the contacts of his promising internship, but when the nervous lawyer handed them a check for fifty grand, David floated the idea to Jordan of using "her" money to seed the new venture.

"Her" money.

Jordan shook her head in the floor length bedroom mirror as she unzipped her faded pewter dress with the rich blue floral print, and stepped out of it.

He called the settlement check "her" money. The money that came from his pain, his suffering, his humiliation. The money that would never have hit their bank account if he hadn't brilliantly orchestrated a negotiation in their favor.

"Her" money.

David was always doing that. Insisting on succeeding for her. Building things for her. Accomplishing things for her.

On the one hand, it was sweet. David clearly wanted her to view him as her gallant knight, fighting battles and overcoming obstacles to win her hand. The only reward he fought for was her love.

Sweet. Truly.

On the other hand, it could get a little uncomfortable. She felt a great deal of pressure to live up to everything he dedicated to her. As if she was the only motivator for his accomplishments, the only source of his talents, the only reason for his success. How could she live up to it? How could she be worthy of this level of devotion? More importantly, how could she cultivate balance and equality in the relationship with her husband's clear inclination to throw himself into the meat grinder to impress her, provide for her, or save her?

Staring into the mirror, Jordan unclasped her brassiere and pulled it off, tossing it casually into the hamper. The underwire left a small, sore line of red under the curve of her breasts, and she gently rubbed the skin to alleviate the tension. She frowned into the mirror as the irritation peaked, then subsided with the massaging motions.

She obviously had no objections to putting their new financial windfall into his business idea. They could live on her graduate student stipend for a little while. David was very careful with their finances. They had a little money saved up. And she would be willing to take on a night job, or do some tutoring to bring in money if it helped.

She didn't tell David that, of course. Her offer to contribute would just throw his misguided gallantry into higher gear. Best just to let him try and make this venture work, and watch the budget closely. They would make it. And if anyone could make the business work, David would.

In that respect, and in that respect alone, David was her gallant knight, she realized. Utterly dependable. Utterly committed, and ready to work his fingers to the bone. Jordan had absolute, unshaking confidence in him.

And even if the business didn't work out, his accounting degree and soon-to-be MBA would set them up for a stable future, with transferable skills into any number of lucrative jobs. And no need to stay in any one area with that business skill set.

She was a little more limited, launching an academic career. She would have to move wherever she could get an academic position. David had a little more flexibility.

Jordan's frown turned up as she contemplated the blessings in her life. The emotional stability. The dependable husband. She felt lucky. She felt safe.

The red line now faded from her torso, she bent down and pulled her panties down, crumpling them and tossing them in the hamper after her brassiere. She walked to the closet and hung up her dress before returning to the mirror.

David would be stressed right now. Very stressed. Not without reason. While David's work ethic was unmatched in any man she had ever met before, he struggled to assimilate new information quickly. He learned slowly, but he never forgot. So if he worked hard, he succeeded. She learned this after they were married. To her surprise, she didn't pick up on it while they were dating. They had similar grades, and seemed to be on the same level academically. Dates usually happened at lunch time, or dinner after a day of studying at the library. But when the date was over, when David would nervously kiss her good night and drop her off at her apartment, she would walk through the door, change into pajamas, watch some TV or read a novel, then go to bed. David would return to the library, and was often the last to leave, shooed out the door by security.

This didn't become obvious until they were married and living together. Jordan's work day ended at 5. Most of the time. Not David. That's why he was slamming the books the night before his first final exam. Making sure he had mastered the material.

But he needed to relax.

Jordan smiled again, examining her nude body in the mirror. The lighting in the room was not good, but she found herself less drawn to the flaws in her skin, or the perceived incongruities, small moles, or other marks in her body than she used to be. Her eye drifted down, catching the wild tuft of light brown hair forming a rough, wide V with a semicircle at the top of her legs. She smoothed it down, smiling at its wild tangles.

Mark had referred to it as her briar patch.

On one occasion, as they lay naked together, heaving on top of his bedspread, Mark had patted her thatch, making a crack about whether a small group of adorable woodland creatures lived in there.

She had laughed and covered herself, blushing. She had asked him if his other girlfriends had thick patches of pubic hair too.

He had answered that most of them shaved themselves. Some partially, others totally.

Jordan had blushed more deeply, feeling suddenly insecure.

Taking her hand away from her shame, Mark had hastened to reassure her. That he had no preference, that a woman's desire to groom and present herself to fit her own personality and preferences was far sexier than any single, preferable grooming choice. He had then followed this reassurance by repositioning himself on the bed and playfully licking and nipping at her pubic hair, finally nestling his strong chin firmly between her legs.

Jordan had giggled, she had sighed, and she had moaned. Mark had lapped eagerly.

Jordan shook her head, clearing the thought as she came to herself in her bedroom again.

That was over, she thought to herself. A little experiment that she regretted. And would not happen again, she reiterated uncomfortably, ignoring the stiffness of her nipples following her drift into daydream.

But David. David would be stressed. She knew it. She walked over to her dresser and pulled out two small tangles of blue lace, lifting them up to examine them as they fell open.

The lingerie she had bought on impulse at the mall was a real leap from her normal style. An impulse, really. She had been on her way to the bookstore to meet a friend for coffee, but was early and found herself drawn to that section in one of the department stores.

She had remembered that Mark seemed fixated on her breasts, holding his large hands up to her chest to fully cup them, then uncovering them before gently sucking one nipple, then the other. She had felt a powerful arousal when his gaze seemed fixed on her body, and thought that a playful strategy to draw his eye and hold it might please him.

Them.

Please them both. She smiled at the memory, predicting a likely similar effect on David.

The lingerie was two-piece. A tank top and panties. Both top and bottom were dark blue, almost navy blue with thin straps. The underlay of lace showed plenty of skin, yet the preponderance of embroidered leaves lent a plausible modesty to the ensemble. Jordan slipped the panties on before sliding the tank top over her head. She pulled the top down, attempting to cover the bare midriff the set left gently exposed. Her belly button–a cute innie that Mark had at one time playfully poked while she giggled–stood open to the air between the two pieces.

Plenty of skin was visible, but not lewdly so. Jordan twisted one way, then the other, watching the skin under the lace shift. At certain angles, in certain positions, the dents in the tank's fabric that hinted at her erect nipples subtly showed a shift in skin tone when she twisted her body one way or the other.

The impulse to check the function of new clothing to hide her breasts–especially her nipples–was of course deeply ingrained. Yet here she caught herself pleased that in certain positions…from certain angles…she was exposed to the gaze.

Mark would love it.

I mean David. David will love it.

She smiled at the catch. Then she bit her lip, imagining Mark's hungry look at her. She mimicked the imagined look, following her eyes up her torso to her face, recognizing an echo of Mark's hungry eyes in her own. Her eyes drifted downward again. She pursed her lips in dismay as she saw her thatch of hair slightly distorting the otherwise smooth contours of the panties. Small, uneven tufts of hair were just visible through the translucent lace. It drew the eye toward an asymmetry below her cute, available belly button. in contrast to the smooth, pale presentation of her torso under the fabric, Jordan frowned. She didn't like this kind of visibility. Smaller tufts of hair jutted out the side of the panties, resting on the insides of her legs.

No. It wouldn't do.

She shook her head again, pulling the tank top off and pushing the panties down around her feet before stepping out of them.

She wanted to excite her husband, reduce his stress, and help him relax before his last big week. She folded up the mass of lace again, but this time shoved it to the bottom of her drawer. Then, she reached for the familiar white silk robe with dark brown trim she had found in a shope on their honeymoon. It never failed to drive David crazy. She pulled it over her shoulders and tied the white silk sash around her waist. She pulled the sides slightly open, loosening the covering and hinting at her open torso. The robe was short–ending halfway between her knees and hips. David loved to lay her down and flip up the bottom before nestling his face between her legs. She looked up and down at herself in the mirror one more time. She smiled, smoothed her hair behind her ear, then turned around to open the bedroom door to the hallway, leaning seductively against the doorframe.

"Hello there, Mister Stark…I hope I'm not interrupting your studies…"

* * *

Captain Wolfe had his first minute alone after a long day…no, a long week of coordinating movements for his company and providing countless updates for Lieutenant Colonel Chen, the battalion commander. The battalion's occupation of this area had not yet begun; the previous battalion was still in charge, they were there as replacements. A one week handoff was to begin tomorrow, before the old battalion shipped out and they began their mission in earnest. He had released the platoon commanders and their sergeants earlier in the day to dispose of their unit's time as they saw fit until the platoons made their final moves via armored vehicles to the smaller, less secure permanent patrol bases and observation posts tomorrow. After arriving, the first paired patrols were set to begin.

He didn't let on to his executive officer, to his company gunnery sergeant or his burly, obtuse first sergeant that he was inspecting the walls of the base. While firmly within his prerogative as incoming commander, it always seemed to him a bit silly. Something more fitting medieval warfare than modern. The operating base was punctuated with guard towers and machine guns, each manned 24 hours a day. Stacked, razor sharp concertina wire extended a wider perimeter around the walls of dirt-filled, artificial barriers that marked the practical boundaries of the base. Any Taliban fighter that tried to get in here would surely be dead before they got to the concertina wire, much less over or through the walls.

But it was only the walls that stopped bullets. And, as he had heard from the weary captain he was replacing, rockets were increasingly common, most exploding harmlessly on the outside of the walls, a choice few cresting the top of the walls and exploding inside the base.

He shined his flashlight up and down the interior of the east wall, passing within hearing of the sleeping first platoon. Well, not all sleeping. Many were sitting up, backs to the wall with laptop screens casting pale glows against their faces. Rest up, fellas.

He continued to move down the wall, turning a corner to find a similarly tucked-in second platoon. This group was mainly asleep, but he noted that many had salvaged wire fronts and some light armor plating, along with other metal salvage laying around the motor pool, making rudimentary bedding out of the trash. Clever.

"It's just some noob-ass shit. I didn't do that my first time."

Captain Wolfe overheard talking. Familiar voices from the north side of second platoon's sleeping area.

"Hey, we all pumped out to the Gulf before we hit sergeant. Rein knows what he's doing, he just doesn't know the value of conserving energy yet. He'll figure it out, trust me."

Wolfe recognized the voice of Staff Sergeant Jiminez, platoon sergeant of second platoon. The other must have been Sergeant Chalmers, the platoon sergeant for first.

"Yeah, well, it's annoying. I can hear him shouting, and my guys are trying to sleep. Imma go say somethin'."

"Go for it, but he ain't listenin. I pretty much had to tie him up back at the barracks when one of my guys popped off at one of his. But he's a good guy. He'll figure it out."

"He can figure it out with my foot up his ass. I'mma say somethin…oh, good evening sir, I didn't see you there."

The two platoon sergeants whirled around to see Captain Wolfe, listening in curiously.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing at all, sir," Jiminez replied quickly. Sergeant Rein is doing house clearing drills with his platoon, we just noted they're a little loud. Sergeant Chalmers was going to have a word."

"I see," Wolfe responded sharply. "Well, my orders were that each platoon could spend the evening as their leaders saw fit. If Sergeant Rein wants to drill his men, that's his prerogative. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," they answered in unison. Jiminez shot Chalmers a dirty look, who looked down, embarrassed.

Captain Wolfe softened. "Rein's new, but don't underestimate him. You watch. Take that energy, add some experience in this deployment, he'll be unstoppable. I've seen it before."

Captain Wolfe caught Chalmers' eyes beginning to roll before stopping himself. He nodded to the two platoon leaders, then turned to walk away. "I'll tell Sergeant Rein to keep it down."

"Aye, sir…" their voices caught up to him as he walked away toward third platoon's area.

They were around a corner on the north wall. Sea bags, backpacks, and sleeping bags were tightly ordered along the wall. All sleeping bags were empty. Well, all but one, which flopped about frantically like a fish out of water when Wolfe stepped into view.

Lieutenant Macintosh. Platoon commander, third platoon. He liked to be called Mack. The kind of foreshortened name that made it sound like he was well liked.

The problem was…nobody liked him.

"Captain. Good evening, sir." The barefoot lieutenant scrambled to meet him. Wolfe didn't slow down, moving past him toward the noise. Macintosh scrambled awkwardly to keep up, tender feet hopping on the loose gravel.

"We're just practicing some urban movement, sir. I was in the middle of directing the training, and realized I needed to change my socks…if you'll wait a minute we can check in on the platoon together."

"No, go ahead and…change your socks, lieutenant. Catch up when you're ready." The captain walked briskly past him, but approached the activity carefully, wanting to see but not be seen.

Each of third platoon's squad leaders were running each fire time through small, improvised obstacle courses, made up by stacking scrap metal and other trash. It seemed like the circuit training drills they had been doing for months. One squad would run the course, the leader would critique them, then they would move to the next course.

Everyone was sweating, tired. Captain Wolfe looked around the group for Rein, starting at the usual places where leaders stood to the side, observing. He wasn't there. He turned to look through the whole platoon, working through dozens of bodies in identical uniforms and combat gear. Rein wasn't usually this hard to find. A 6'4" bronze skinned marine with long arms, broad shoulders, and a square jaw, he was not easy to miss in a crowd.

Then he saw him. Squatting down, arms under the armpits of one of his marines who was pretending to be dead. Wolfe moved closer, beginning to make out the young sergeant's voice.

"You have to keep your back straight. You have to! You're lifting someone who weighs…shit, you never know…could be 120 pounds, could be a buck and a half…hell, it could be me! You think you can drag my gangly, 210 pound ass out of a pile of rubble by lifting with your back? Look at the difference…"

Wolfe watched Rein demonstrate the difference between lifting an injured marine with the back–weak, ineffectual, prone to injury, and the legs–standing powerfully up, clutching the smaller man under the armpits with hands clasped together in front of his chest. Mark stood to full height holding the "dead" marine. The height difference was stark. Even comical. The "dead man," was PFC Jett, who had gotten into some trouble over the leave period. Now he dangled like an oversized toddler in the arms of his equally oversized platoon sergeant. Jett struggled to maintain his dignity with arms stuck awkwardly out and legs dangling off the ground.

Wolfe couldn't help himself. He laughed.

The whole platoon knew the laugh and turned to see the company commander. Everyone stopped moving and stood up quietly.

Rein placed Jett back down on his feet just as Lieutenant Mack shuffled hastily up next to the Captain.

"Okay, marines, that's looking great. Let's do one more circuit, show the CO what we can do, huh?"

Everyone looked incredulously at the lieutenant.

"You heard him…" Rein growled, and everyone snapped to reset.

"Sergeant. A word."

"Aye, sir." Mark walked briskly up to the two officers. "What's up?"

"How's the training going?"

"So-so, sir. I just set up a course, just to run once, but it was like they forgot everything. So we set up a circuit, we're just working the kinks out."

"They're going to forget things, Rein. They'll forget it the first time. Maybe the first couple of times. Then they'll remember. That's how it goes. When you do it for real."

"Totally normal, sergeant," Lieutenant Macintosh interrupted. "That's what I was trying to tell him, sir, but"

"What does it look like they're forgetting?" Wolfe interrupted the obsequious lieutenant.

"Little things, sir. Checking corners, lifting casualties with their legs and not their backs, that kind of thing." Mark answered, masking frustration.

"Yeah, sir, just little things. Little things we've noticed…" the lieutenant persisted.

"Lieutenant Macintosh, it looks like the squad at the first drill station over there needs another set of eyes. I think Corporal Arnold is busy adjusting someone's helmet. Could you?"

Macintosh's lip betrayed a momentary pout before snapping back in place. "Of course, sir." He stepped away, heading in the indicated direction. "First squad! Eyes on me!"

"Did he just call your second squad, first squad?" Captain Wolfe asked, smiling slightly.

Mark sighed. "Yep."

Captain Wolfe chuckled. "Good luck with that. Anyway, just calm down a little bit. Look Rein. You are a great training sergeant. But it's showtime. Let your guys rest. Let 'em screw up a little. After a little time, they'll remember. They'll surprise you."

"Understood, sir."

"Good. I'm gonna finish what I was doing, and then go to bed myself."

"Of course. Good night, sir."

"Night, Rein."

* * *

David's breathing was deep and smooth, betraying comfortable sleep. Jordan laid on her side, head nestled on his chest, his arm still around her. She sighed happily.

Sex with love is the best, she realized, now knowing the difference. David had been eager to take her. The silk robe worked like a charm. She hadn't held back, trying out some of the things she had done for Mark…and David went bananas.

She had had two orgasms. With her husband. Two!

She stifled a giggle.

He had feasted between her legs. He always loved doing that, and he seemed extra thrilled that she was already wet with excitement as he began. A valuable byproduct of trying on lingerie in the mirror, it would seem.

File that away for later.

He feasted relentlessly, his enthusiasm infectious, until she wailed in surprise and bucked her hips into his face. She had caught his excited eyes looking proudly up her torso as her pleased contractions slowed. She saw his excitement peak as he recognized the combination of love and pleasure in her eyes.

He had hastened to mount her, and she had stopped him, set him on his back, and gently straddled him. Placing her flat palm on his chest, she explained that she was going to take care of him.

Specifically, she said "let me love you this way…"

He had submitted to her will, relaxing under her straddled frame. She had taken his small, stiff cock into her body and leaned forward, then back as she gently bucked, taking care not to let the small member pop out of her. She found a perfect angle as she leaned back. Where the tip of his penis just barely nuzzled a sensitive spot.

So sensitive.

She sensed his excitement as her tight movements focused his penis into the exact spot she needed. She had stopped her motions and admonished him, carefully explaining that she would take care of him…but that she needed this.

She just needed this little bit.

She just needed a little bit longer.

Just like that.

Please, David, don't cum yet.

Not yet.

Please.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes, David. Oh David. Yes.

Oh my gosh.

Oh my gosh…yes…

YES!!!

She had been shocked to feel his own pelvis stiffen in orgasm as she crested her own pleasure. David was heaving and twitching in powerful pleasure.

Together with the man she loved, Jordan had leaned forward to kiss him deeply.

David wrapped his arms behind her and squeezed.

This was it.

This was how it was supposed to be.

Jordan smiled deeply, happily, as his warm, even breath gently ruffled her hair as she drifted into sleep.

* * *

The operating base functioned as headquarters for the company. Battalion headquarters–the big one–was at another, larger base about 12 miles down the nearest road.

If you could call it a road.

But all of the company level operating bases–this one included–had morale tents, Mark learned. Nothing fancy. Just a canvas arch spanning about 20 feet with a plywood door. But with valuable amenities.

Once inside, you could turn right to find a row of laptops with an internet connection. No gaming or anything fancy, but marines could get on the internet to check facebook or check email, or occasionally do a Skype call with their loved ones if the timing lined up.

Or you could turn left for a row of phones. To call home.

Mark had learned that the platoon could come here once a week or so, but only in shifts for a few hours to use the showers, do some laundry, and use recreation facilities. Here, first and second platoon had already stuffed the little tent to capacity hours before, but they were now all asleep. It was just after eleven in the evening, and the jet lag of switching nighttime and daytime hours by flying halfway around the world meant everyone who had any sense was asleep. Trying to regulate their new routine.

But Mark couldn't sleep. And he had no one to call. So he turned right to sit down at a laptop computer and log onto his gmail account.

Mostly junk mail. He paid his cell phone bill. Checked the news, then began clearing out his inbox. He scanned the list of senders as he checked off messages to delete.

Interesting.

Sender: Molly Cohen.

Mark's heart jumped slightly as he opened the message.

Dear Mark,
I'm sorry, do I call you Sergeant Rein? I asked the kids, because they asked about you and I told them I'd write you an email since you said you had email sometimes over there. Lucy insisted I call you Mister Rein, but you know how formal she is. Max says I should just call you Cool Guy. Or Hulk. I think any of those are accurate enough. Let me know what you prefer.

I'm sorry, is this weird? I'm really unsure of what to say here. I know we left it at "seeing where it goes," but I've never been with someone who is in the military, or deployed overseas. I've been looking up things on military family websites to get some guidance, so I've learned some things. We're supposed to try to keep things positive but honest, try to make you guys feel caught up on things. Oh, and I learned that care packages take a long time to get to you, so they say to send those early.

I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure if that's over the line for us, for where we are right now. Do you want me to put together some things to send to you? Candy bars, books, maybe some Sports Illustrated magazines? Not sure what you guys need out there.

I'm sorry, I'm just really new to this. All of this. I guess I'll let you know the latest news here, and you can tell me what you do or don't want to know. Max is starting soccer in two weeks. We got him some shin guards and cleats from the mall yesterday, and I caught him stomping around in the yard, trying to make holes in the grass yesterday while making monster noises. Lucy goes to the library with her friend most days. They convinced the children's librarian to let them do some of the story times for the littler kids without any grownups helping. I guess one of the little kids made fun of her speech impediment, and she came home crying, but she didn't quit. All that library time though. I had to limit the amount of books she checks out at a time, it was getting to be too much keeping track of them all. Oh, and she checked out Don Quixote. I had to remind her of the name. I don't think she's cracked it yet, though. It's pretty thick, and I think she's intimidated by it.

As for me, I'm pretty much back to normal. Working, mostly evening shifts, some weekend overtime. Work is work. Chris is working a lot too, which is a change. He still games with his friends, but now he feels like he has to tell me that's for work too. He says he's developing a new software thingy with some of his gaming friends. It's still weird, he's just trying to be better at communicating, I guess. It's confusing.

I'm sorry, I don't know if you want to hear this part, but Chris and I are in a weird place. He never used to justify himself to me, and now he's seeking approval from me. Now he never games when the kids are home, and he's been spending more time with them. That's new too. We had a talk last night about the fact that I basically have a boyfriend, and I'm not sure where that leaves us. He seemed fine with it, and I'm trying to wrap my head around that. Actually, he's more than fine with it, he's excited. He wanted to know if I'd heard from you yet. And…sorry if you don't want to hear this…he asks about you in bed.

So I'm sorry to bring that up, but I don't know what to make of it. If you don't want to hear about it, I'll never bring it up again. All I told him was that you and I had a good time over vacation and that you said we could email while you were deployed. I'm trying to meet him halfway with the communication too, so I also told him that I was developing some feelings for you, and that it might get messy if we keep seeing each other after you get back. He asked me if I wanted to keep seeing you, and I was scared to answer, so I said I didn't know. But he still didn't see bothered by it. I kind of think he wants to use it as an excuse to sleep with other women. And if he does, then we can just split up, I definitely don't want to deal with that.

Anyway, sorry to throw all that on you. I just think you deserve to be in the loop, I'm just not sure how much you want to be. I do want to keep seeing you, though. I'm not scared to say that to you.

I miss you, Mark. I liked being with you. You're great with the kids, you're fun to be around, and I felt happy when I was with you. If you don't want to hear anything else, I hope you want to hear that.

Anyway, sorry for the long letter, hope it wasn't too weird or boring. Write me back if you can, if you want to.

I miss you.
-Molly

P.S. Do you really want a care package? Or is that too much like summer camp? I'll definitely send you something if you want, just let me know.

* * *

Final exams: Done.

MBA: Done.

School: Done.

David wasn't completely done yet. He still had to study for his CPA licensure exam, but he was taking some time now to get this new business started. Once things were running steady, he could go back and finish that.

But for pretty much everything else, he was done. Success. He had walked out of the last final just a few minutes ago. A huge weight lifted off his shoulders.

David whistled happily as he stepped out of the Camry. The gravel crunched beneath his dress shoes as he made his way across the large lot to the maintenance building. The school district's bus yard was tucked away in an industrial part of town, surrounded by corrugated metal buildings with wide roll-up doors on the street side.

David's mind drifted as he made his way past row after row of yellow buses. The contract he had managed to negotiate with the school district was solid for the moment–they had work ordered and clearance to be paid upon completion. They could start today. Hamad and the other new guys had been there all morning.

The probationary period written into the contract was three months before they had an option to renew. But they weren't going to find a better deal or train up new full-time maintenance mechanics in early September, right when everything started up at the same time. If his new crew performed even halfway decently with the summer spruce-up, this deal would print money for their little business for the next fiscal year at least.

But this wasn't his only success. He had also secured two other deals. Hanging around dive bars in this part of town was pretty handy for intelligence gathering. Within an hour he could find all the older guys nearing retirement, and find his next target in the business where they worked. That little trick had gotten him in the manager's office of a small concrete company with a fleet of 15 trucks that ran more or less constantly, along with a medium sized used truck lot that wanted to do on-call services to inspect new acquisitions as they rolled onto the lot.

He had gotten contracts with both of them. Starting two weeks from now.

It was almost too much. Hamad had been reaching out to some of his mechanic friends working at local dealerships, as it looked like their aggregate full and part-time staff wasn't going to be enough to cover all their business for long. Especially if they kept growing.

And David had his eye on something else. Consolidated logistics. His last job. The depot. Hamad had brought two of their mechanics along with them. The old guy who ran the shop was ready to retire next year, and David felt that with the right push and a little luck, he could swoop in, snatch all the remaining mechanics with better offers, and leave the depot scrambling impotently for maintenance help.

Right before he shows up with an exciting new offer on a maintenance contract for their fleet. Stepping up to save the day.

The numbers that would come with that deal made David salivate. 275 local diesel trucks running all day every day, and a constant in flux of long-haul tractor trailers, always in need of a new tire here, an oil change there, with lucrative major repairs probably dropping into their lap multiple times per week. A contract with his old company would position this little start-up quite well for a long, steady, prosperous future. He couldn't rush it though. Not even Hamad could know about that plan yet. He'd have to keep his eye on it from a distance until the timing was perfect.

David caught himself smirking at the fantasy. He would lock in the contract, and shake hands with the grateful new manager–the slimy little boss' nephew or whatever that slipped into the job that was supposed to be his–he'd shake his hand and get ready to take their money, imagining the account entries pile up into the receivables column. He would prudently reinvest the revenue, of course, but at some point his ownership share would turn into a nice, fat, rising stack of numbers in his own bank statements, pushing digits toward the left as the billings rose, past the first comma, then the second. Maybe the third, if they kept growing.

David imagined Jordan bouncing excitedly next to him as they bought a nice house together. She would hug him excitedly in the entryway after signing the papers and getting the keys, and he would smell her shampoo, or her work perfume. Or maybe she'd wear her special sexy perfume for him that day. Since it was a special day.

Maybe she'd wear something special under her business clothes while they signed the papers. Then, when they walked around their new, empty house, they'd find the bedroom, and he would walk in first, carefully inspecting the carpet, the walls, the window. He would turn around and see a small pile of her clothes at her feet. She would be leaning against the door in something exciting, like a sexy swimsuit, or even that white silk robe she wore Sunday night. She would use that voice she used Sunday night, when he was studying…

Hmm. Yeah…that voice…

"Excuse me, Mr. Stark…I hope I'm not interrupting..?"

It was a playful voice, but it had a little hunger in it.

She would lean against the door frame and say something like…"I'm so glad I married you, baby…I love how you take care of me…now, how about I take care of you?"

Her eyebrow would cock upward when she said that last bit, and she would pull open her silk robe and show her full, naked body to him. Her perfect breasts, her small, stiff, pink nipples, her smooth, silky tummy, the sweet patch of fluff above and between her legs.

He would drop to his knees and begin lapping between her legs, and she would purr at him like she did the other night.

"Oh, David…" she would say.

"Oh, David…"

"DAVID!"

Hamad shouted from down one row of school buses. Near the maintenance shed. David shook out of the fantasy and turned to walk briskly, if awkwardly, toward his new business partner.

"How's it going, Hamad?"

"Is good, David. Busy. I am doing oil changes according to list we get from district. Jeff and John are doing inspections. How you want to do inspections?"

"I've got a google form they can access on their phones and just upload each one with the relevant bus number. When they're done I'll compile it all into a spreadsheet and meet with the money lady again, figure out what they're willing to pay for before we do any big repairs."

"Okay. I never think of these things before. Before, boss points, I grab wrench and I fix. Now I have to think about all the stuff!"

Hamad laughed at the new problems, smiling broadly in recognition that he was the boss now. David had sat him down to explain that they were partners now, and that they were both responsible for the whole business, and that they should talk about everything. If Hamad didn't understand numbers, billing, taxes, payroll, or expenses, they would meet and David would explain it. If David didn't understand repair or maintenance timing, complications on repairs, or anything mechanical, Hamad would call him over to the opened hood, or crawl under the engine, and they wouldn't leave until they both understood. That was the deal.

After showing Hamad the google form for engine inspections, David headed back to the Camry, passing Jeff and John as he went.

He couldn't help but overhear them as he passed.

"So this David guy…he's like the boss?"

"Yeah, him and Hamad are the main owners. But we own a piece of the company. 10 percent of the profits. Each. Plus an hourly rate. So he can't give us too much shit."

"He ain't gonna say shit to me. I don't care about what some business-casual college boy thinks. He signs my checks and stays out of my way, we'll get along fine."

"You know he was supposed to be the main manager at the depot before we left? He interviewed and everything. Steve was grooming him. I think that's why Vinny kicked the shit out of him. Didn't want to work for him. Some of the guys didn't like him. Said he's one of those up-his-own-ass kind of college boys."

"Nah, Hamad says he's a good dude. And we're set to make a lot of money if he keeps selling the way he has. So don't be an asshole."

"Still. Better not bring his white collar ass around, telling me shit. Bet he doesn't know a wrench from his own dick."

They laughed. David smiled at the image as he passed out of hearing range before arriving back at his car. He put his laptop and notebooks back into his bag, and pulled out a dark blue jumpsuit from under the seat. He looked around, then ducked into the passenger's seat where he removed his tie, button up shirt, slacks, belt, dress shoes and socks before slipping into jeans, a t-shirt, and then put the jump suit on over them along with a comfortable pair of work boots. Then he fished a used tool box out of his trunk. He had bought it from a pawn shop the night before, anticipating some down time from sales and accounting to help Hamad with oil changes. He pulled out one large wrench from the box before snapping the box shut again with a rusty squeak and a clunk. Then he jammed the large wrench sideways in his pocket, picked up the toolbox, and headed back toward the bus lot.

As he approached the voices of Jeff and John, David detoured down the row toward them so they could see him pass. He reached into his pocket and twisted the wrench sideways in his pocket so it forced the fabric of his work clothes to tent out comically near the crotch.

"Hey guys…" he said to Jeff and John as they whirled around unexpectedly to see him.

"Hey, have either of you seen my big wrench? I can't seem to find it…"

* * *

Mark's smile was entirely involuntary. Seated on a plywood bench facing a plywood countertop, he hunched over the pale light of a laptop screen and read the message one more time.

Molly wrote him.

She really did it.

Mark fought back the smile, turning to the business of responding, but unable to restrain a fluttering heart every time he read the words

I miss you.

Mark had never written a letter to a woman before. He wasn't quite sure how to do it. He wrote and rewrote the opening paragraph, deleting line by line time after time before finally mirroring the structure of Molly's message to him in his response back. Finally finishing, he read over it one more time.

Dear Molly,

I'm glad you wrote to me. It's nice to hear from you. You can call me whatever you want, but Mark's fine. I think it's cute how formal Lucy is, and I'm glad Max thinks I'm cool.

I think it's cool that you looked up ways to be a good deployment girlfriend. I don't really know how it goes either. This is my first deployment, and I'm honestly kind of nervous. I can't tell that to anyone else, though, so I hope I can tell you. I think a care package would be cool, I never got one before. I guess you can put whatever you want in it. I think I would just be happy to get something from you.

I'm glad Max is starting soccer, I'm sure he'll be good. He's got a lot of energy and he tries hard. And I'm not surprised Lucy is already trying to be a grownup at the library. That seems like a total Lucy thing to do. And if you want, I can teach her how to throat punch the other kids until they get speech impediments too. But seriously, does she do speech therapy? There's a guy in my unit who said he had a lisp in elementary school and the other kids made fun of him, but by sixth grade he didn't have it any more. Good thing he didn't have it in boot camp. I don't know what they did to help him, though. Maybe I'll ask him. But even if it never goes away, Lucy's really smart, I'm sure she'll be fine no matter what she does.

It sounds like you and Chris are back into the work routine. I've never had a 9-5, really, but sometimes we have workdays that are close to that. But they get longer sometimes in training and work ups to deploy, and then when we're out here, you're pretty much on all the time. Down time when you can find it, work the rest of the time. I hope Chris' programming thing works out, you said he's a smart guy. Maybe he'll make a billion dollars in tech or something.

I'm not sure what I can say about you and Chris. It sounds confusing, and it's a little confusing to me, too. I will say I've heard of husbands liking when their wives have a side guy, though. I don't know how common it is, but I know it happens. I'll be honest, though. I don't know if I want to be a side guy, because I kind of like you. I know your situation, and I know we said we'd let things go where they go, but cards on the table and all that. I'd rather be your main guy, or even your only guy than your side guy. Honestly, I try not to think about you guys together too much. If he's fine with us being together, then I guess that works for me, and hopefully it works for you too. I obviously don't want to mess anything up for you and the kids, though, so I guess I should just be careful.

As far as how things are going here, I just got to the company HQ base today. We are transferring further out to our platoon patrol bases tomorrow, and that's where the real stuff begins. My guys are mostly asleep now, but I can't sleep. I miss you.

Thanks for writing again, Molly. I was really glad to hear from you. I might not be able to answer back quick, because we only get to these morale laptops every week or two, might be more or less, I don't really know. But if things aren't too bad out here, I might be able to block out time for a Skype call if you want. I'll know more in a few weeks.

I miss you.
-Mark R (cool guy).

PS, if you do send a care package, could you send some pictures of you? I'd really like that. My forward deployed mailing address is in the signature line. Thanks
-M

* * *

"Jordan! So nice of you to come!"

Jordan's lips pursed into a thin smile as Mrs. Deleuze threw her arms awkwardly around her and hugged distantly.

"You're just in time. The girls are almost all here, and we were about to get started. Was that you singing in the sanctuary earlier?"

Jordan nodded bashfully, her face turning slightly red. "Mrs. Dolly asked me to sing, she has some pieces with solo soprano that she wants me to try out. I'm actually pretty nervous, I…"

"That's wonderful, Jordan. Wonderful. Come meet the girls!"

Jordan was slightly taken aback at the interruption. She took a beat and looked around the semicircle of teenagers. Maybe a dozen, all between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. Some sullen, some nervous, some bored. A solid mix of teenage affectations.

"Hi girls! My name's Jordan. Why don't we take a moment and you can tell me who you are. I'm interested in your name, of course, and what your favorite and least favorite part of school is. And, if you want, you can tell me what you'd do with a million dollars if I just gave it to you. That way we can…"

"Oh, the girls all know each other, dear." Mrs. Deleuze interrupted again. "I think we should just get right to the point, tonight is a very important night, with some very important lessons. Mrs. Stark is an expert in teenage girls, and she's going to talk to us tonight about the importance of keeping ourselves pure before God."

"Well, that might be a bit hasty, Mrs. Deleuze, I really would like to get to know the girls before we get into the heavy stuff, establish a little rapport, and then maybe ask them…"

"Oh, they never answer questions, Jordan. It's just who they are, it's their generation. I think it's social media. Here, I'll help you get started. Girls, would anyone like a stick of gum?"

A dozen sets of puzzled eyes looked at Mrs. Deleuze as she picked up a small tray with sticks of chewing gum and began to present it to the girls, one at a time. Jordan squinted slightly at the display, noting that there were two girls who didn't get any gum at the end of the row. Mrs. Deleuze made a show of setting down the tray and asking the girls if they enjoyed the gum. The ones who had it nodded, confused.

Then the question.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Deleuze, I didn't get a piece..?"

"Of course Lacy. I'm sorry, I didn't forget you. But all the fresh pieces have been taken. How about…" here she paused and dug a wet, gooey piece of gum out of her mouth. "How about this one?"

"Eww!" all of the girls recoiled at the offer. Jordan squinted a bit harder, clenching her jaw. Where was she going with this?

Mrs. Deleuze walked confidently toward Lacy, the girl with no gum, and jammed it within inches of her eyes. Lacy leaned back in her chair to avoid it, as the gum kept getting thrust closer and closer to her face. Finally, her chair tipped over, and smacked onto the carpet with a thunk.

The girls laughed and Mrs. Deleuze smiled serenely. Sitting down, she held the look for a moment before delivering the moral of the lesson in a soft, even tone.

"You see girls? No one wants something that's all used up. When you all grow up and get married, do you want your husband to have a nice, clean, virtuous young woman as his wife? Or a chewed up, sloppy, sticky mess with a stained soul?"

All eyes went wide. Including Jordan's. The room was silent. Mrs. Deleuze turned confidently to Jordan and handed the lesson back over to her. "Now, girls, Mrs. Stark is going to tell you a little about the developmental harm that you can do to yourself and your mental health when you go too far with boys. Mrs. Stark?"

Jordan blinked in surprise before regaining her composure. She cleared her throat awkwardly, and nervously tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Well, girls…I hope you don't mind…I'm going to take a slightly different approach than Mrs. Deleuze, and I hope she'll forgive me if she finds my methods a little unorthodox. I think it might be helpful to maybe deconstruct Mrs. Deleuze's analogy a little bit. For instance…"

"I think my analogy was perfect, Mrs. Stark. I think it had tremendous impact."

"I don't disagree with you there, Mrs. Deleuze, but I'm not sure that kind of impact is healthy for girls this age. So, girls…maybe we can hit the reset button and maybe just lighten up and chat for a minute, huh? What's everyone's favorite movie? Personally, I'm a sucker for…"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Stark, I don't mean to interrupt, but I think we should…"

"You know, for someone who constantly says she doesn't mean to interrupt, you do an awful lot of interrupting, Mrs. Deleuze."

Jordan had had enough. The girls froze in delighted horror, seeing the normal stream of passive aggression that flowed from their teacher cut short. There was silence for a few moments, and all eyes were on Jordan.

No one dared to step in, and Jordan had lost her train of thought along with her composure. The older woman, seeking an opening, quietly tried to push Jordan onto her back foot again.

"Mrs. Stark, why didn't you answer my question on Sunday?" she asked quietly.

Jordan clenched her jaw. "What question was that, Mrs. Deleuze?"

"Did you save yourself for your husband? Were you pure on your wedding day?"

Jordan gritted her teeth, then stared straight at her accuser. "Yes. Yes I did."

Mrs. Deleuze's tone softened, dripping with that all-too recognizable tone of passive aggressive sweetness designed to pose as love but only convey judgment.

"Aren't you glad you did that, Mrs. Stark? Tell the girls…"

Jordan Stark-Simms, highly accomplished athlete, promising young scholar, and increasingly respected musician, suddenly felt like she was thirteen again. Discovering her sexual self piecemeal through the lens of pervasive shame and passive aggressive humiliation. She had not encountered the "chewed gum" metaphor before, but many others that were almost as bad had made their way into Sunday School lessons that made her terrified of her own body, and had conflated her otherwise healthy desires with moral horror.

Jordan paused. She had an opportunity to change trajectory.

"Mrs. Deleuze…and girls…I'm absolutely glad I waited until I met and married my husband to have sex. We've been married for two years now, and we've had a lot of sex. We had sex last night, actually. And Sunday night, after church. And after I'm done talking to you, I'm going to go home, and I'm going to have sex with my husband. I'm really looking forward to it."

The color drained from the older woman's face as the mouth of each girl dropped open. A short, pregnant silence gave quick birth to delighted shrieks and uncontained giggling.

"Mrs. Stark, this is beyond outrageous…"

"No, Mrs. Deleuze, that horrible metaphor about chewing gum was beyond outrageous. By your logic, every married woman is a chewed up piece of gum. By that same logic, I'm still squishy from it last night. And also, by your logic, my husband wouldn't want me tonight because he had me last night." She grinned as the girls burst into giggles again.

"I've heard enough. I have never, in all my years…I think we need to bring the pastor into this conversation. Girls…let's take a break." She motioned for everyone to stand up. Nobody did. Aghast, she darted for the door. As it clicked shut, Jordan began fielding questions as rapidly as they came.

"Do you really do it with your husband every night?"

"Is he that skinny guy that you sit with sometimes?"

"Did he try to get you to do it before you were married?"

"Were you scared your first time?"

Jordan smiled broadly as she began fielding their honest questions. The round robin quickly turned into an evaluation of Mrs. Stark's goofy looking husband, finally coming to the conclusion that he was at least a little bit handsome, but also not tall at all.

Rapid footsteps were audible coming toward the door. Two sets of feet instead of one. Jordan felt like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar, expecting her own father to come through the door and devastated her.

But one last question let fly just as the door opened. "Does he make you do it with him?"

Jordan laughed freely as Mrs. Deleuze and the old Pastor Ripkin came through the door.

"Does he make me? Of course not."

"So why do you do it?" The final question came from Lacy, the girl who had the chewed gum shoved in her face.

Jordan paused, and her eyes beamed, a hint of moisture apparent in the inside corners

"Because, you guys…I love him! I am absolutely nuts about David. I know he seems weird, but he's such a cool guy. He can fix anything! And he's super smart, and really hard working, and he's fun to talk to. And when you love someone…that desire, that just comes naturally when you feel love. And love is what God wants us to feel. Waiting until you're married…it's just…"

Jordan stumbled with words as she saw the old Pastor listening intently to her speech.

"Waiting until you're married is a good way to know that there's lots of love there. That's really it, I think. And sex and love go best when they're together. You're not a chewed up piece of gum if you do it before. Jesus doesn't love you any less if you jump the gun or go too far with your boyfriend. You should always be careful, and never, ever let anyone talk you into anything you don't want to do. But it's just so much better if you really, really love someone the way I love David. And the way he loves me."

Jordan looked over at the old pastor, who was smiling brightly next to the fuming Mrs. Deleuze.

"That's why I'm glad I waited, Mrs. Deleuze. Because I knew I was in love. Then when it happened, it was beautiful."

The angry woman cleared her throat before trying to regain control of the conversation.

"That's all very well, Jordan. But the Bible is very, very clear on immorality. It says that impure women should be stoned to death!"

"The Old Testament says that someplace, yes." Jordan responded. "But if you read the New Testament, you know, the part with Jesus in it…Jesus met multiple 'impure women.'" Jordan put the offensive phrase in air quotes. "He was very kind to them. And actually stopped one group from stoning women. He said that whoever has no sin should throw the first rock. Nobody was dumb enough to throw a rock. Then when they all left, Jesus talked to the woman, and told her he didn't judge her. I take that passage very seriously, Mrs. Deleuze. Women are valuable in God's eyes. The pure, and the 'impure.' Although, I'm not sure the whole pure/impure distinction really matters for any woman that comes to Jesus with a broken heart. Because he loves everyone most of all. Am I right, pastor?"

The old man chuckled. "You're absolutely right, Mrs. Stark. And girls…listen to this young woman. She's something else. You can definitely learn a thing or two."

Mrs. Deleuze grunted indignantly, picked up her purse, and stormed out.

"Pastor, I think we're done with the heavy stuff. We were just talking about our favorite movies. Would you like to have a cookie and tell us what yours is?" Jordan offered him the plate of treats laying on the side table. The elderly Pastor Ripkin smiled and sat down in the seat vacated by the angry woman.

"Or maybe you want a stick of gum?" Lacy quipped, as the room burst into giggles again.

* * *

Mark's feet were light as he made his way back to the outer wall where his platoon was sleeping. He nodded toward the lone young marine standing guard over the sleeping platoon–the fire watch, scheduled by squad leaders and changed every two hours. Mark made his way to his own sleeping bag, still smiling to himself. Shucking his boots and socks, he zipped himself into his sleeping bag, laying easily on his back in the dirt, hands behind his head and looking up at the stars.

"What's so damn funny?"

Mark looked over to see Corporal Poisson peeking out at him from a slit in his sleeping bag, one eye squinting through the opening.

"Nothing, Frenchie. Go to sleep."

"Bullshit, nothing. You just talked to that girl, didn't you…Walkin' out of the morale tent like nothing happened, then laying here with that shit eating grin…don't bullshit me…"

"Fuck off, Frenchie." Mark smiled again.

"Damn, she got you twitterpated. She must be fine as hell. What's she look like?"

"I said fuck off, Frenchie…" whispered Mark, laughing quietly.

"Bet she ain't fine as this…" Poisson poked a thumb drive through the open slit of his sleeping bag. Mark dutifully picked it up and looked at it, then turned and raised an eyebrow at his friend.

"What's this?"

"Don't play dumb. Pop it in. Check it out."

Mark pulled his laptop out of his backpack, plugged in the thumb drive, and opened the icon on his desktop. Two folders were on the drive. One was named "hubby." The other, "Achilles." Mark looked over at the slit in the sleeping bag to see the same eye, intent on him as he looked at the screen.

"So if I copy this folder onto my hard drive, is it going to give my laptop syphilis or something?"

"Dude, your laptop has AIDS already. Just take the damn thing and stop pretending you don't like it."

Mark smiled again and copied the folder into a password protected folder on his hard drive. He then pulled out the thumb drive and stuck it back through the slit in Jared's sleeping bag. Then, opening the folder, he hummed in approval.

"You married a damn fine lookin' woman, Frenchie." Mark scrolled briefly through the small library of photos of Jared's bride. Some photos were casual, wearing athletic gear or jeans with a tank top. Some were swimsuits. As the library of photos went on, the clothes came off. Mark paused the show on a photo of Megan wrapped loosely in a white sheet, not unlike the one she wrapped around herself after they first had sex a few weeks ago. Her wide, brown eyes were focused in on the camera, looking straight back at whoever might be looking. Mark felt–no knew–that she was looking at him. She was clutching the hem of the sheet in a tentative fist just under her collarbone. Her dark nipples were only just visible through the sheet. Clearly erect.

"Damn fine…" Mark repeated to himself under his breath.

"So what's this new girl look like? Swedish? Blonde? Gigantic titties?" Jared's voice was muffled through the still sealed sleeping bag.

Mark chuckled quietly again. "No, not that. Pretty cute though. Hot in her own way. Like, in a way that only she could pull off. It's…I've never seen it before, honestly."

Jared popped his head out of the sleeping bag. "No shit? This is real? You got a girl, like for real?"

"I don't know, man," Mark said, smiling slightly. "What does it mean, real? All I know is, I like her, pretty sure she likes me. We had a great week together on leave. Chicks usually annoy me by the second date. I spent five nights with her. In a row. And I was sorry to leave. If that's real, then it's real."

"Ooooh, damn. Five in a row, huh? Damn. She suck a mean dick?"

"Fuck you, Frenchie," Mark grinned. "And yes."

"So…you never answered. Swedish? Blonde? Gigantic titties?"

Mark sighed. "Redhead. Kinda skinny. But mainly…she just…she just loves. Like, instinctively. She just loves and cares, and I can feel it when I'm with her. That's hot to me. I just…like that, I guess. She made me feel good." He shrugged, not knowing how to describe it.

"Prioritizing feelings over tits…" Jared cocked an eyebrow. "Damn, son. You're in love."

"Third Platoon!" A strange voice barked into the quiet night. The entire gaggle of several dozen sleeping bags began to groan. Mark sat straight up in his sleeping bag, blinking painfully in the harsh light of a flashlight pointed directly at him.

Mark spoke out confidently. "I'm third platoon sergeant. What's up?"

"I'm the sergeant of the guard on post tonight. You're the relieving company, right?" Mark grunted in affirmation. "We got two guys sick, can't take post. We're tired as fuck, and our CO says he wants two guys from third platoon to take the midnight to 0400 shift. Pick two guys to gear up and report to posts one and two. Five minutes."

"Copy that," Mark's voice dropped into command mode. He grabbed his flashlight, turned it on and swung it around, noting most of his juniors blinking painfully when the light hit them, having just been woken up.

Mark knew that he would see that look a lot in the coming months. That, 'please don't pick me, I just got to sleep' look. He grimaced.

"Well?" the sergeant of the guard's voice was impatient.

Mark briskly slapped the sleeping bag next to him. "Gear up, Frenchie. You and me, we got guard duty."

[Oneillfranko]

Great chapter. Love how you are developing the characters and filling in the storyline. The lingerie part worked well: was hot and fitted in really well. Thank you.