Petgirl

By DX

Copyrighted, 9/2026, all rights reserved.

 From the top of my barn’s roof I spotted her as she walked down the long, lonely dirt road to our farm.  The early morning sun hit her full on, and I saw she was tall and lithe, and wore a long, flowing summer dress that swished around her ankles.  She had something on her head, but from that distance I couldn’t quite tell what, perhaps a scarf.

 She moved easily, and her hands were empty, and I couldn’t imagine her dress to have pockets, and I dismissed all that because I had work to do.  I was resurfacing the metal roof of the barn and the sealant, once mixed with an activator, had to be sprayed on before it set, coupled with the equipment I had was rented.  The pressure was on to get it done.  I didn’t have time to worry about some rando woman walking down my road.

 My worst worry was the sun.

 I had a small window before the blazing sun turned the roof of the barn into a glowing, hellish landscape.

 “Let’s be farmers!”  I had convinced Zack, my boyfriend, that for my third incarnation of my life I wanted to be a farmer; to be one with nature, feel the land, my cheeks flush and my hands rough.  “Farming is fun!”  I said.

 No farmer ever said that, because they know how hard farming is.

 My first incarnation was the Army, and back in the day it was tough for women like me who took it as a serious career choice.  The Army didn’t like feminists.  

 My second incarnation was an administrative supervisor for the State.  I detested the job, and my subordinates detested me because I held them to a work standard.  They were delighted when I was able to use my military time and add it to my accrued time to take early retirement.

 Now in my fifties, and armed with two pensions, my boyfriend and I bought a hundred acre farm.  It was a fixer-upper, to be polite, and I in my delusional state I declared I would do the DIY.

 To be fair, Zack used his best diplomatic skills and tried to warn me off because farming is the most difficult, miserable things a human being could do, but I took that as a challenge.

 He was right.  I was wrong.  

 When faced with reality and logic, I chose neither.

 We could have spent a lot of money and had professionals do things, but I could be stubborn to a fault.

 Which is why I was on the roof of the barn sweating to death in a paint suit, armed with an air powered spray gun, my back already being roasted by the dawning sun, spreading goo across a metal roof as a woman walked up to the front door of my house.  

 I left Zack to deal with it.

 He has this job, it has a title, and I’ve seen him do it, just don’t ask me what it is exactly.  For eight months of the year it was four hour days with an hour and a half lunch, which meant he would have plenty of time for farming, and painting, and fixing things because there was a lot of that to do.  It was a good plan.

 Except the closing on the farm was at the start of his ninth month, where his fluffy, purring job became a rabid beast of fifteen hour days with foreign dignitaries and Prime-Ministers on video chat, and spread sheets twenty-two feet long.  He would be ensconced in his home office, living off of meal bars and caffeine.  His salary was insane, which is how I got the farm.  He simply bought it out right and signed it over to me.

 Did I mention I love him?

 I took some notice when the woman climbed up the steps to the front porch and rang the bell, but I had goo to spread and I was confident that Zack in his calm and extensive vocabulary would tell the woman we weren’t interested in whatever she was selling, and to fuck off.

 On the roof, the unmerciful sun climbing in the sky, balanced precariously on the slope, I spread sealant and gave no more thought about anything.  I made good progress.

 “Yip!”  Something said.  “Yip!”

 I paused the machine, not sure what I had heard.  I had only lived on the farm for few weeks, so many of nature’s sounds were strange to me.  Although we didn’t have any domestic animals yet, except the chickens which came with the farm, there were still plenty of wildlife, like wild turkeys and deer, neither of which said, Yip.

 “Yip!”  It said again.

 I shifted carefully and looked around.  I actually lifted my goggles so I could hear better.  Surprisingly, that did work.

 “Yip!”

 I made my way over to the edge of the roof and looked down.

 I had assumed the woman had left.

 She had not.

 She was naked.

 She was also bald, and in her brief moment in the sun her skin was already pinking up in preparation for a nice deep burn.

 I was gobsmacked, and only stared, mouth agape.  She only smiled, and pointed to something.  I creeped to the very edge of the roof and craned over to see.  On the shelf of the open dock was a pitcher of ice water, and a tall glass.

 The woman nodded, and turned back toward the house.

 She was naked, and brought me water.  This was all my brain could process as she made her way back to the house, carefully picking her way through the tall crab grass.

 As I watched her walk away in her bare feet, she suddenly skipped, then jinked, then hopped frantically.  

 “Yip!  Yip!  Yip!”  She screamed.

 I knew by the stress of her voice she had walked into a moundless nest of fire ants.

 They were hidden land mines of single minded terror.  Imagine an ant, and he suddenly finds himself looking up at a mountain so big he can’t even see it all, and armed only with a knife requiring a micro-scope to see, screams, “Die Mothah Fuckah!”  and attacks.

 That tiny, tiny bite delivers a neurotoxin that hurts like being stabbed with a needle that’s glowing red hot, multiplied by a thousand, because that’s how many are screaming Die Mothah Fuckah! at you.

 I set down the sprayer, scrambled down the ladder as quickly as I could and ran over to the dancing girl, trusting my work boots would give me some protection against the ground now seething with angry ants.  I wrapped my arm about her waist and hoisted her up, and hauled her over to the water trough, filled with rain water and bright green with algae, and dropped her in.  

 I quickly splashed water over her thighs to brush the climbing ants off, then down into the murky water to scrape off the ants still screaming, Die Mothah Fuckah!  except punctuated with blubs.

 My short time on the farm made me an old hand about fire ants.  They were my initiation to the dangers of living on a farm.  Next were hornets, wasps, and black widow spiders, followed by copperhead snakes, then bears.

 Let’s be farmers!  Farming is fun!

 You quickly learn a stick is your friend to give the wildlife a half second to run away when moving a pail, or lifting a sheet of metal.

 Moundless fire ants, however; give no warning.  You’re just there, and suddenly your leg is on fire.

 Water didn’t kill the fire ants right away, but it would slow them down long enough for me to scrape them off.  It also broke the connection as reinforcement ants were now looking for her.

 The attackers had already done their duty, however; and her legs were already beginning to show the hits.  The neurotoxin was now taking effect and setting her legs ablaze.

 Now, close to her, my hands on her skin, my work gloves soaked, I discovered she wasn’t actually, exactly naked.

 I helped her out of the trough, which was compounded by the fact her legs were shackled together.  Heavy, shiny cuffs, two inches high and a quarter inch thick connected by a heavy tow chain commonly used to pull tree stumps out of the ground.

 The tow chain had a thin, delicate chain connected to it at the halfway point, that traveled up and looped around her waist.  The purpose of this was to keep the heavy chain from dragging on the ground as she walked.

 I might of mumbled, ‘what the fuck’, but I had to get her inside as the ant bites would feel like lava.  “Come on!”  I did say, and she quickly waddled as fast as her chain would allow, giving the ant’s nest a wide berth.

 Once inside, I guided her through the ocean of unpacked moving boxes, and into the kitchen.  She was mewing from the pain and struggling to keep calm.  I sat her in a chair.  

 “Whatever you do,”  I warned her.  “don’t touch it.  It will hurt ten times worse!”  I ducked into the bathroom and grabbed our large bottle of antihistamine spray.  

 As I returned, she was shaking from the pain.

 I quickly patted her legs dry with a dish towel, then coated her legs in spray.

 “You have to focus past the pain.  And don’t scratch!  Don’t rub it, or touch it!”  I ordered.  “If you touch it, it will only make the hurt last longer.”

 She just mewed.

 “Life is going to suck while this spray does its thing.  It won’t hurt less, you just won’t mind as much.”  I looked at her leg shackles, making sure to spray down inside them.  I shifted them enough to chase out a couple half drowned ants and sprayed more, until she dripped onto the floor.

 “How do I take these off?”  I asked.  “Where is the key?”

 She only grimaced from the horrible pain, mewing.

 The shackles were continuous bands of metal, without seams or locks.  It was as if they had been welded on.  I concluded the key was magnetic, or possibly magic.

 I took further survey.  She had thick rings through her nipples, ears and nose.  She had no eyebrows, or any body hair.

 At her neather, was a triangle steel cage, I wasn’t quite sure how it stayed on.

 She was in her thirties, and beautiful like a fashion model.  She had full, puffy lips, and exotic, almond shaped polar blue eyes.  She had a bit of a pug nose, and a delicate cleft chin.

 She wore no make up, but she didn’t need it.

 She managed to smile through the pain.

 “I’m Corra.”  I said, trying to be friendly and distract her from the boiling of her legs.

 “Mmm.”  She said.

 I looked at her, trying not to give her that askance expression.  “And you are…?”  I didn’t ask why she was naked and barefoot and why her ankles were cuffed together with anchor chain.

 “Mmm.”  She was trying to be pleasant, and ignore the rage ravaging her feet and calves.

 “Do you…”  I moved my hands like I knew sign-language, even though I didn’t.  “talk, at all?”

 “Mmm.”  Was all she said, and tightened her face from pain.

 How do you respond to that?  

 I heard Zack come up behind me and I celebrated in the distraction.

 He was in a suit and tie and shorts.  He looked right at the naked woman and knew instantly what had happened.  “Okay!  New rule!”  He announced.  “No going outside naked.”  He declared.  “And you must wear shoes and a hat,”  he nodded to his logic.  “and sunblock!”  He jutted his chin, then looked at me with an expression, ‘I see you have this handled, I’ll get out of your way’, then turned and left.

 I looked to the woman.  “Uh, wait here.  Don’t do anything and whatever you do, don’t scratch, rub, or touch your legs.”

 I went after Zack.  

 He was pulling his office door closed and I grabbed it and pulled it back open.  “Do you mind telling me what is going on and who is…”

 His silent, stoney face spoke volumes.

 With the corner of my vision I looked to his desk.  The screen was on and filled with twenty or thirty faces on the video call; all white males in their sixties, wearing suits and ties.

 He had been in a video conference, heard the doors slamming, the scrape of chain on the hard wood floor, my harsh voice saying FIRE mumble, and interrupted the meeting to check on the potential emergency.

 He didn’t mute his microphone, or switch off his camera.  

 I was in a white paint suit, splattered with green algae and grey goo, and looked more like a forensic expert at a murder scene than a farmer.

 I said nothing.  I only left and closed the door, leaving him to make up something to explain the meeting’s interruption.

 Back in the kitchen, mystery naked woman was unpacking things.

 Zack and I had just moved in, hitting the ground running.  He was in his mad work season which left me to deal with a long list of projects to get the house livable.  Unpacking got lowered on the list as I had to figure out how to kill the black widow spider’s nest in the shower, then lowered again when I had to deal with the large snake in the chicken coop, and lowered again when the outside faucet sheared off in my hand and water gushed out like a rooster tail.

 Lowered again and again and again.

 Now she was doing it.

 I wanted to insist she stop, that she was a guest and I should make her tea and cookies and be a host, but I didn’t.  I wanted to explain why the house was shit, and Zack was very busy, and I could handle everything, but I didn’t do that either.  I wanted to demand to know who she was and did she just escape a prison chain gang and why she was naked.

 I watched her open a box and unwrap brown paper from a coffee mug, then look at the empty cupboards for where coffee mugs should go and decide above the outlet where the coffee maker would be placed when she finally unpacked it.

 The goo to spray the roof was gelling, and if it cured inside the sprayer there would be a one hundred and thirty-two dollar fee to clean it.

 She was in agony, and anything, like the mindless task of unpacking, would distract her from it.

 Zack was in the other room, and when his video call was done, he would come deal with it.

 This was my rational.

 I went back outside and the sun punched me in the face, but I shrugged it off, got back up on the roof, and started spraying.

 I was a little mad.  Here was this naked woman doing my job in my kitchen in my house.  I was a little embarrassed because I was failing as a farmer and farming; tasks I should have somehow magically done.  I was disappointed in myself as a feminist because I had woman power and should be able to build a log cabin with only a multi-tool and grit, but couldn’t.

 And this naked woman… what the fuck?

 Did Zack hire a naked woman?  Zack knows I’m a feminist and wouldn’t stand for that, but his only concern was wearing sunblock?  Hello?  She’s naked and in chains?

 Like… like a slave?


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Copyrighted 9/2026, all rights reserved.
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The Substitute Wife

BY DX

Copyrighted 7/2000, 12/2024, all rights reserved.

Victoria sat on the edge of her seat, her blue eyes wide with amazement, her breath, light in her lungs, as she stared, almost unblinking at the stage. Kate Jackson, hostess for the Chasti-Permalock corporation was up there putting a young girl into restraint. 

Permanent restraint. 

The girl was nervous, apprehensive. She stated she wanted to go the next step, but trembled when the gag, massive and intimidating was held up before her. Once inserted and activated, a host of nanites would fuse muscle and bone to the gag making it a permanent part of her.

Vicky held her breath as the young girl opened her mouth wide. She could feel the girl's jaw ache from being opened so far as Kate Jackson stuffed the ball over the girl's teeth to settle in her mouth. There was a little twisting to get the flanges to slide into her cheeks and for the gag to set. Once in place, Kate activated it. 

"Welcome to the world of silence!" She told the girl, then turned to the audience. "Now that there will be no more debate, let’s get all those accessories her mistress ordered installed in her." She looked out over the audience. "Are there any questions?"

Vicky found herself gasping, dizzy, almost as if she had orgasmed. How she longed to be the girl up on the stage. Silenced, bound and chastised for life! She didn't even move when her friend Brenda nudged her.

"I don't get this." She whispered to her friend. "I figured this was gonna be the suburban wives spice up you life with a few whips and chains, but this? Chastity devices?" Brenda looked at her, and for the first time noticed her gaze. "You're thinking about getting something for Malcom, aren't you?" Brenda nodded to herself. "Hey, now that's not a half bad idea. I wonder if I can get one for my low life husband and that slut he's been sleeping with."

Vicky shook her head without looking away from the stage. "No, not Mal."

Brenda's eyebrows came together in confusion. "For you? What ever for?"

Vicky only shrugged as she continued to watch the stage. Kate was slipping a steel collar around the girl's neck.

Not getting an answer, Brenda raised her hand. "Uh, Ms. Jackson? Why would someone volunteer for this? I mean, with a gag, chastity, ear plugs and the hole nine, how can you enjoy life anymore?"

Kate's long legs seemed longer in her towering heels and short, short skirt as she came to the edge of the stage. She smiled brilliantly, her dimples showing. "I'm so glad you asked! First let me say, everyone has their own reasons. As for Millie here," She motioned to the girl on stage. "She is doing this as a devotion to her mistress. As for her mistress? During our interview, she stated there is a great pleasure in reducing a slave to an object." She regarded Millie for a moment. Her mouth sealed with a gag, her head forced erect by a wide collar, her breasts contained with mirror polished cups, her waist nipped tight by a corset, and her pussy covered in steel. "I think she looks absolutely yummy. Totally submissive. I'm sure her mistress will get a charge each time she looks at her." Kate looked at the audience. "As for Millie? There is more to life than the big 'O'. There is the pleasure in the dedication of service and secondly, the paradoxical nature of pleasure by denial. The more something is denied, the more precious it becomes. Permanent denial, for some, is the ultimate achievement of pleasure."

"If you want denial of pleasure, you can marry my husband." Brenda quipped.

The audience chittered, scandalously.

Kate laughed gently, her steel eyes sparkling. She sat back on her stool and lifted her skirt showing the gold plate that locked up her pussy. "This type of denial goes far deeper than marital difficulties. In fact, we have many cases of how the Chasti-Lock 2000 have invigorated the enjoyment of sex." She turned to her assistant on stage. "Such as Linda here."

Linda stepped forward. Vicky already knew the story, she'd heard it before. Linda had never been a sexual person, and after counselors, toys and therapy, she tried a Chasti-Lock 2000 which supercharged her libido. Although she cannot receive any external sexual contact or orgasm, she discovered that her denial incites her to give pleasure to her husband and in that giving, receives pleasure herself. Vicky understood the paradox and wasn't surprised Brenda didn't.

In the car driving home, Brenda suddenly broke the heavy silence. "But I like sex."

"So do I. I'm not asking you to give it up." Vicky said quietly.

Brenda drummed the wheel. "I thought everything was okay with you and Mal."

"They are. In fact, having sex with Mal is the one thing I'll miss the most."

Brenda stole a glance at her friend. "So why would you want to lock yourself up? Is this Mal's idea?"

Vicky sighed. "He hates the idea."

"So then why? These things not only make sex impossible, but they do something to you to make you horny. Why do that to yourself?"

Vicky felt a shudder slip though her. "I don't really know." She said quietly. "I was looking for a little spice for Mal and I to try, and I came across a web page for the Chasti-Permalock corporation. Ever since then, that's all I've thought about for the last two years."

Brenda almost choked. "Two years?"

Vicky nodded. "Yes. And with each and every upgrade product they've come out with, I've wanted it more." Vicky's eyes lit up as she smiled inwardly. "Can you imagine, sealed in a cocoon of latex, your sex drive out of control, unable to do anything about it. Deaf, blind, no external distractions from thinking about your predicament. Being an object for Mal to play with. It's a torturous bliss." She looked at her friend. "Think about it for a moment. Doesn't the thought of being helpless to your sex drive make you quiver? Just a bit?"

Inside, Brenda quivered quite a bit, but suppressed it. "So, you want to go for the whole bondage package? Have you spoken to anyone about this? You, know, professional?"

Vicky nodded. "Two different shrinks. Mal insisted."

"And they said?"

"They both said I'm a normal, well adjusted woman who doesn’t want to hurt herself or others.  They suggested I retreat to my happy place whenever I feel any stress.” She shrugged, looking at her friend. “Well, my happy place is in total restraint; liberation through bondage."

Brenda shook her head. "More paradox, right?" She sighed. "And you dragged me to the seminar so I can help you convince Mal that you should go through with this, right?"

Vicky shook her head. "No, not quite." She looked at her friend. "The reason I haven't done this is because Mal is dead set against it." She shrugged. "I mean, I kind of understand. He would sort of lose a wife."

"And a friend. You guys are like two peas in a pod. It’s not like you can go out for romantic walks or a movie, right?"

Vicky watched her friend carefully. "So that's what I was thinking. Mal would need a substitute wife."

Slowly Brenda's eyes grew wide as plates. "Are you saying...?"

Vicky nodded. "Yes. That you and Mal, you know, get together. I mean, with all the problems you've had with Brad… and let’s face it. If I wasn't in the picture, you'd go after Mal. Be honest!"

Brenda sighed with resignation. "Who wouldn't. He's Cosmopolitan's Millennium Dream Date." She looked at Vicky. "Is this your plan? Does Mal know?"

Vicky shook her head. "No. It’s hard enough to try to convince him that I want to be chastised let alone that I want him and my best friend to have a relationship." She touched Brenda's arm. "Listen. I want you to think about it, that's all. After I'm locked up, you'll have all the time to think about it."

"You're going to do it?"

She nodded. “I have too.  My whole body, my whole being wants this.  I’ve been saving up money and I'm just about ready. Mal and I are financially set and I'm getting my affairs in order. When I do this, I'm virtually going to be a non-person. I have a date set for mid month. I haven't told Mal that either, but I think he knows I'm going to do it. He's sort of consigned to the idea that it’s my body and my choice. He told me that whatever I choose, he will still love me." Vicky looked out the window, then back to her friend. "I guess I want my two best friends close by. I'll be isolated, but we'll be together. More paradox. Anyway, to make it easier, I'm going to wait until Mal goes to work. When he comes home, I'll have installed everything."

Brenda pulled the car smoothly into Vicky's driveway, parked and killed the engine. She sat in the silence for a moment before looking to her friend. "So you're not just talking about the chastity."

Vicky shook her head. "Everything." She held out her hands, delicate and soft. "Even my hands will bound. By fingers will merge together into a thumbless mitten. It will be next to impossible to communicate."

Brenda looked away. "I don't know, Vicky."

Vicky took her hand. "I know this is a big shock. I understand. I would just like to know that you and Mal are together before I do it." Vicky smiled. "Even if you lie." She took a video tape out of her bag. "This is a video of Chastity Libertore installing the works on herself before and after. Watch it. Perhaps you'll get a better idea of how I feel." She kissed Brenda on the cheek. "I'll see you later." She climbed out of the car and went into the house. 

Inside, Mal came out of the kitchen to greet her. He mentioned something about dinner was ready but Vicky only latched onto his neck and pulled him down to her, their lips locking harshly, hungrily. Without coming up for air, she kicked off her shoes, ripped off her blouse, ripped off his shirt and dragged him to the floor. Watching the seminar she had become so wet she stained herself. The thought of being this horny and not being able to satisfy her urges drove her even more to the edge. Her first orgasm came instantly as Mal slipped into her very lubricated pussy, the second and third followed soon after. By time they got to dinner, it was quite cold.

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Copyrighted 7/2000, 12/2024, all rights reserved.

Yours to Command

By DX

Copyrighted, 10/2024, all rights reserved.

 “I shouldn’t even be here.”  Walter mumbled to himself as he looked at the last two bullets in the magazine from his M-18, Sig Sauer 9MM pistol.  “Sgt Montgomery was supposed to be here,”  His hands shook as he re-inserted the magazine.  “not me.” 

 He was bleeding from his head.  A bullet had scraped him, leaving a groove in his skull and a bit of a concussion.  Listing his resources:  at hand he had a broken Kalashnikov, a multi-tool, a flashlight, a first aid kit, and a compass.  

 He was in a small outcropping of a cave, just a slight space.  Wedged in with him was Sheik Bahir.  An opulent man dressed in the finery of a tribal leader.  His regal robes were all ruined with blood stains from where a bullet had shattered his hip.  Slave Chanda was applying direct pressure to the Sheik’s wound.  Blood was oozing between her fingers.

 “I wasn’t supposed to be here.”  Walter whispered to himself.

 Forty eight hours ago Lance Corporal Walter Gains got up at precisely oh-dark-thirty, dressed, and headed over the motor pool.  It was cool, and he watched his steaming breath curl as he walked down the path, brightly lit by street lights.  At the motor pool he checked out an ULTV, a small but rugged vehicle, then drove to the SBEQ to pick up Staff Sergeant Montgomery.

 Staff was sick.

 “It’s your lucky day.”  He said through his mask as he climbed in.  “You’re single, right?  No girlfriend?”

 Walter didn’t really understand the question as it appeared out of context.  “Uh, what?”

 “Just drop me off at Sick-Bay, then head to the tarmac.  Tell them you’re there to meet Mr. Warner.”  He sneezed and blew a massive booger into his mask.  “Ah, fuck.”  He mumbled.

 Struggling with a fully loaded mask, Staff said nothing else until he arrived at sick-bay and climbed out.  “Remember!  Mr. Warner!”  He waved feebly and walked into the clinic.

 Confused, Walter drove to the flight deck.  At the gate, he told the Sergeant that Staff was sick.  “I guess someone should tell a Mr. Warner?”

 The Sergeant smiled.  “Must be your lucky day!  Single?  No girlfriend?”

 “What the hell does that mean?”

 “They didn’t tell you?  Well…”. He paused as he heard the roar of a C-130’s engines as it pulled from the hangar.  “They’ll explain it to you!  You’ll find Warner there!”  He handed him a small plastic sealed package containing ear plugs.  “Hurry up, Devil Dog!  Your transport awaits!”

 Walter shook his head.  “I don’t have orders to…”

 The Sergeant waved him on.  “Double-time!  Ooo-rah!”

 Walter drove where he was directed, until an airdale with a flashlight showed him were to park.  “I have a message for Mr. Warner?”  Walter said.

 “That way.”  He pointed to the C-130, now being loaded.

 Walter sighed, then put in the ear plugs the sergeant had given him.  He clambered out of the ULTV and headed to the back of the C-130.  

 The C-130’s engines made a horrible racket, and as Walter approached, someone pointed to the back of the plane.  There, lights from all the service vehicles flashed and created a myriad, maddening pattern, lighting up the plane.  Walter saw the back of the plane was open and cargo was being wheeled in.  

 On the ramp surveying the operation was a man dressed in a cross between a tan business suit and utilities, looking more like a British soldier from Queen Victoria’s army.  His well polished boots were bloused, his trousers pressed and starched, and his cargo pockets looked as if they’d been glued flat.  To add to his look, he wore a pith helmet with a green ribbon around its crown.  Clasped around his waist was a utility belt the same color as his helmet ribbon.  He had a holster and pistol, and two utility pouches.

 He wore no rank or any insignia.

 Not knowing if he should salute or not, Walter didn’t.  “Mr. Warner?”  Walter shouted over the din.  “Staff Sergeant Montgomery is sick and is at sick bay.” 

 Mr. Warner turned, and his glacier cool eyes regarded the young Lance Corporal.  Warner was excessively handsome, with a cleft chin that could smash ice, and cheek bones that could cut paper.  He had either just stepped off a movie production, or Walter had accidentally driven on set and was talking to the leading man.  

 Mr. Warner motioned to his ear, showing his ear plugs, then walked into the back of the plane, inviting Walter the follow.  From the wall, Mr. Warner pulled down two head sets, handing one to Walter, and plugged them in.

 Hearing the click, Walter adjusted the mic.  “Staff Sergeant Montgomery is sick.  I dropped him off at sick-bay.”

 A warm smile crawled across Mr. Warner’s face and he glanced at his watch.  “Must be your lucky day.”

 “Why does everyone keep saying that?”  Walter said, a little hotter than he intended.

 “Strap in.”

 Panic flashed across Walter’s face.  “What?  Uh, I have get back to motor-pool.”

 “Not any more.”  Mr. Warner said casually.

 “But I checked out a ULTV.”  Walter protested.  “I gotta bring that back.”

 Mr. Warner glanced at his distractedly.  “It’ll be taken care of.”

 Walter looked to head out of the back of the plane, but the back hatch started to close with a painful whine.  “What?  Wait!  Wait!  I’m not supposed to be here!”

 Warner held up his hand.  “Calm down Marine.”  He then took out his mobile.  “What’s your name?”

 “Lance Corporal Walter Gains, sir.”

 Mr. Warner tapped his phone, then reached up and turned a switch on the com.  “Hey, Skipper?  Can you step back here?”

 Stunned, Walter watched the pilot, a Lieutenant Colonel, climb down from the cockpit, walk over and plug into the com.  

 Mr. Warner pointed to Walter.  “This is Walter Gains.  Would you inform him he’s with me?”

 The Colonel looked at the young Marine and smiled.  “It’s your lucky day, War Dog.”  He pointed to Mr. Warner.  “He’s your new commanding officer.  His wish is your command.  He says, jump, you say, ‘how high’, while you’re on the way up.”  He then added.  “Don’t salute.”  He then looked at Mr. Warner.  “With your permission, we’re cleared to taxi.”

 Mr. Warner shrugged.  “It’s your plane, Skipper.”

 The Colonel nodded, unplugged, and disappeared up the ladderwell.

 Walter blinked as he realized that Mr. Warner had just commanded a light colonel, pulling him out of his cockpit.

 Mr. Warner, was in charge.

 Mr. Warner nudged him.  “Buckle up.”

 So commanded, Walter sat down in the web harness against the wall, and bucked up.

 As they taxied, Mr. Warner held out his phone and showed Walter his new orders.  Walter had been assigned to a command he had never heard of, and based in a place he had no idea existed.  Mr. Warner flashed to another page and pointed at the words, Non-Disclosure Agreement, then showed Walter where to sign with his finger.  He then slid to another document and signed out to Walter a web belt, holster, a 9mm pistol, thirty-one rounds of ammunition, a first-aid kit, compass, K-Bar, and sheath.  

 Walter signed.

 The engines roared and the C-130 rattled and ran, and slowly, desperately crawled its way into the sky.  

 When they reached cursing altitude, Mr. Warner clicked on the com.  “In the remote region of Somewherestan, in the mountains of Irrelevant, there is a band of tribesman called Urktus.  They have been their own kingdom before the building of the pyramids.  They live as if it was the third century, but they like their twenty-first century toys.  Well, in their mountains they are sitting on a massive vein of raridium.  We need it.  I can’t stress how important this stuff is.  More importantly, we need no one else to have it, especially the Kragiras, sworn enemy of the Urktus.  Sheik Bahir is friendly to our country and we are going to do everything to make sure it stays that way.”  He looked at Walter.  “Nod if you’re with me so far.”

 Walter nodded.

 “Good.”  He smiled.  “Part of their ethos is hospitality.  Any welcomed visitor will be offered to sample their hospitality.”  His cold eyes peered at Walter.  “These guys will jump off a cliff if they fail to please their guest.”

 “So no matter what,”  Walter offered.  “I’m happy.”

 Mr. Warner nodded slowly.  “and accept their hospitality.”

 “Oh, well that’s easy.”  Walter said, relaxing.

 “Your lucky day!”  Mr. Warner said triumphantly.  “Not every day you get to lay pipe as part of your job description, am I right?”  He leaned back into the harness as he thought.  “Yeah, guys like us, you know,”  He flashed his wedding ring.  “the wife isn’t too keen… so that’s why we bring a single guy like you to sample the hospitality.”  He grinned at Walter.  “Sacrificial lamb.”

 Walter looked confused.  “Lay pipe?”

 Mr. Warmer fanned his hands, back peddling.  “Okay, one more time.  We need to be their favorite guest.”

 “Yeah,”  Walter said not fully understanding it.

 Mr. Warner blinked.  “I’m surprised I have to explain this to a Marine.  To be clear, there will be a woman,”  He paused,  “or man, however you swing, to show you all of their hospitality.”

 “Yeah.”  Walter said, now understanding it.

 Mr. Warner shook his head.  “You don’t get it.  They will show you… everything.”

 “Yeah, everything.”

 “Sex, Marine.  She’s going to want you to sleep with her.”

 Walter’s face lost all expression.  “With me?”

 “Yes, you!”  Mr. Warner pointed to Walter.  “Besides, you’re a good looking guy!”  He smiled.  “I’m sure she would be happy to sleep with you.”

 “What if she doesn’t?”

 Mr. Warner tried to speak several times before finally finding words.  “She will.  I promise.  You just let it happen.”  He smiled.  “I will be giving the Sheik the latest high tech, while your job is to enjoy the hospitality.  Those are your orders.”  He snapped his fingers as he remembered something.  “Oh!  Take this.”  He pulled something with a lanyard and draped it over Walter’s neck.  “Whatever you do, don’t lose that!”  He slapped Walter on the back.  “You get to take one for the team!”

 Walter smiled weakly.  “Your wish is my command.”  He replied less enthusiastically as he looked at the object Mr. Warner had given him.  

 A gold, ornate, old timey key glinted in the dim light.  Walter slipped it under his blouse.

 Hours later they landed in a place that didn’t have a runway and met with the rest of their team which comprised of U.S. and U.K. civilians, all armed with holstered pistols.  They then drove by hummer to a place with no roads, then on horse back up into the craggy rocks where there was no trail, before arriving before two, massive iron doors nestled in a titanic crack in a mountain face, hidden from the world.

 When the doors slowly opened, Lance Corporal Walter Gains stepped back in time.

 It was a city carved from solid rock.  

 Dark, hooded and shadowy men dressed in flowing robes, strode out, rifles slung over their shoulders or casually in their hands.  Walter noted it was a mishmash of FNRLs, M-16s, SA80s, and one M1 Garand in sniper configuration.  Each man had a curved dagger tucked into their waist sash.

 Walter followed Mr. Warner’s lead and dismounted.  Unfamiliar with horse technology, Walter’s foot snagged in the stirrup.  Balanced precariously on one leg, he struggled not to face plant.  He could hear the laugher of the men around him as he desperately tried to keep his balance by hopping in a circle with one foot on the ground, and the other tangled in the stirrup.

 The horse, perhaps trying to be helpful, took a casual side-step, and inadvertently took away the last of Walter’s balance.  As Walter prepared for impact, he smelled the wonderful aroma of jasmine.

 Strong, lithe arms embraced him and held him up.  Then, with an easy sweep of her hand, slipped his boot free from the stirrup, and stood him up.

 Walter looked into the eyes of the jungle, and thought of rain rolling across a deep green leaf.  She had delicious, creamy skin, and vibrant, fiery red hair.  She was dressed in near invisible swaths of silk, showing clearly her curves that ran for days.

 Her dimples flashed as she gave him a warm, bemused smile.

 “Thank you.”  He managed to say.

 A moment of pride hinted on her face.  “You have my key, I am yours to command.”

 Lost in the music of her words, Walter had no idea what she was talking about.  He looked around for a bit of guidance and saw other women, draped in vibrant gossamer veils, were fawning over the party, while Mr. Warner shook hands with, based on his royal garb Sheik Bahir, while showing off the gift of new computer servers.

 The woman, still holding Walter’s arm, gently lead him to follow the rest of the party, and Walter, awestruck and bewildered, numbly followed.  Everyone was laughing and chittering like friends re-united.  Walter noticed everyone had a beautiful woman holding their arm.

 “What do I call you?”  He asked the woman holding his arm.

 “What ever you would like.”  She said, smily dubiously.

 Walter swallowed nervously.  “What does everyone else call you?”

 “Slave Chanda.”  She said proudly.

 “Can I just call you Chanda?”

 She smirked.  “In private.”  

 Slave Chanda ushered him to a bench along side the rest of his party outside a central building.  There she knelt before him and began to remove his boots.

 “Whoa, careful there.”  He warned.  “I’ve been percolating in those boots all day.”

 She pulled off his sock, then lifted his foot slightly, and put her nose to his toes.  “They smell of blossoms.”  She said happily.

 Walter was speechless.

 Slave Chanda gently washed, then dried his feet.  She then helped him up, and lead him into the great hall.

 It was a huge, arched, palatial room lit by hundreds of lanterns.  The steady lantern light illuminated the mosaic tiled walls and floor.  In the center was a massive fire pit where cooks worked the spitted lambs roasting in the flames.  Musicians played happily, and filled the air with the top ten hits from the year 800AD.

 Slave Chanda lead him to sit on some giant pillows, carefully arranging them so he was comfortable.  She then gave him a drink, cutting it with a little water, and fed him cheese and grapes.

 Walter checked on his party.  Mr. Warner and Sheik Bahir were laughing raucously.  The rest of the men each had a drink in one hand, and a slave in the other.

 “My orders are to be happy.”  He reminded himself.

 “What did you say?”  Slave Chanda pressed, her voice almost lost in the echoing sounds of the festival.

 “Oh, nothing.”  Walter replied.  “I’m good.”

 She nodded to his drink.  “Drink slowly.”  Her wonderful eyes regarded him.  “You don’t want to over do it… yet.”

 Walter nodded and sipped.  

 It was molten fire.

 Walter, a U.S. Marine, displayed no emotion as he swallowed the lava, but Slave Chanda sensed his distress.  

 “Is it not to your liking?”  She pressed.

 Walter glanced at the others, then held up his cup in a silent toast and sipped again.  As his lips went numb, he tasted on the one part of his tongue that had not been burned with acid, a flourish of liquorish.  “It’s lovely.”

 She added a splash more water.  “Pace yourself, we have all night.”

 Walter looked at her, and was trapped by the magical green glow of her lidded eyes and didn’t notice when the servers brought him dishes of couscous and lamb and spiced olives and flat bread and rice and more lamb, until Slave Chanda was stuffing his face with it.

 He also noticed as she refilled his glass, she cut it with even more water, giving him a sly wink.

 As dessert was brought around, the music grew louder and Slave Chanda got up and danced.  Through her thin, translucent veils he watched her shifting, swaying hips slide and jerk to the beat of the music.  He could see her silhouette through her veils and she had the curves of dunes, sweeping and heaving through the desert sands.  When she arched back, he saw her breasts were magnificent and bountiful, very, very bountiful.  As she turned, her eyes sought his and pulled him into her trance.  Although she danced for everyone’s entertainment, and she would dance for anyone who held her key, Walter couldn’t help think she danced for him alone.

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Copyrighted, 10/2024 all rights reserved.