Partings Part 7: The Commitment
What is a commitment? I wondered as I looked out in the pre-dawn darkness. We, Sergeant Meyers and I, were ordered in early this morning.
It was still dark when Sergeant Meyers and I crept down the stairs from my rooms in my home. Though we were trying to leave quietly so that we wouldn't disturb my tenant Mrs Pye. But as we reached the door, there was Mrs Pye characteristically clutching her bathrobe.
Only once in the time I knew Mrs Pye had I seen the widowed Mrs Pye dress to leave the house. Right after she sold this house in happier times to my husband Jerry and me, she wore a gown to go to my wedding in the bar around the corner. I was in ragged dungarees. Then times were much brighter. Today with the economic collapse, Jerry and I were drafted into National Service. Jerry was shipped out back in the marine corps; more fortunate, I drew a local assignment in Service Support.
"I heard you rustling upstairs with your roommate this early," Mrs Pye exclaimed in a raspy voice, "I'm worried you might not come back."
"Why worry? Hopefully, my time as a service support person in the Processing Center is winding down and I'll be released to return to school in short order. Regardless, as long as you pay your rent, the mortgage gets paid," I reminded her, "and no swat team will show up here to drag you out of your home and plant you in an old age home," I added sarcastically, "-- for your own good. Other people always know your own good better than you. Just look what happened to Jerry and me."
"Are you sure you're not being shipped out?" Mrs Pye asked, "I hear about all these young people in service support assigned locally who've been reclassified and shipped."
Hands on my hips, I sighed. "Since I got called up, I've learned the Standing Order: all that's required of you is to go where you're told to go, stand where you're told to stand and do what you're told to do. It's that simple."
"Hmm," Mrs Pye exclaimed, "That's a code as old as organized society: `Everything commanded will be done; every place sent, we will go.' That's the commitment of men -- at -- arms." Mrs Pye reflected on her own words quizzically.
Both Meyers and I smiled politely. "Right now," a tired Sergeant Meyers grumbled, "My standing order: we better get going. Mistress Front Hole, our Captain, will ream us a new asshole -- if we aren't on time." Looking at Mrs Pye's mouth agape, Meyers added, "It doesn't seem appropriate to call our Captain the old man. Calling her the 'old woman' might be taken as an eh--offense?" Meyer's voice squeaked as if she were posing a question.
Mrs Pye's eyes widened when I tenderly touched Meyer's shoulder and whispered in her ear, "Start up the eh--vehicle, dearie. I'll join you in a sec."
Chuckling to herself, Mrs Pye recalled, "I do miss hearing your love cooing with Jerry, the sounds of bodies bouncing off the floor," Shaking her head, she sighed, "Combining sex with wrestling for the upper berth, you called it..." She searched for the word Jerry and I used.
"Sex -- ercises," I declared, "I'm sure you heard plenty of beautiful music coming from upstairs before Jerry and I got those notices to report in for National Service. And we both got fucked. Jerry got shipped; I lucked out -- local assignment. Hopefully, I'll keep it."
Throwing a quizzical glance toward the door, Mrs Pye raised her eyebrows. "Have you thought what Jerry will say eh--when he comes home on leave?"
"Jerry and I took heart // pledging on our ado," I chuckled, "to spawn no spurious issue// While forced to be apart// I stick to lasses// his dart //up their asses// To survive// it's bi in the meanwhile// waiting for my guy."
"When will you be back, if I can ask?" Mrs Pye, clutching her robe, asked.
"I'm not informed where I'll end up on any particular day. Usually, Abby and I get released to return home," I replied, "Now, I must go, do and remain where told, until I'm told otherwise."
Mrs Pye was more concerned than I was. My time assigned as a service support person in the Processing Center was winding down to a couple of weeks.
This morning, I had arrived at the Induction Center with Sergeant Meyers in her issued vehicle just on time. Despite my induction, little in my life had changed. While I missed my husband Jerry who had been called up and shipped out, my situation was more like a job. I went to work, came home and slept in my own bed.
As Meyers and I parked in the lot next to the center, Meyers nudged me, "Getting short?" Smiling, she added, "mil-speak, we have only a few more days here -- until we're released to return to school toward a degree in Industrial Psychology. I'm counting on us sticking together and having you to help me through."
To relieve overcrowding in the center, Meyers had gotten permission for the two of us to live off -- the installation in my house. I was doubly pleased. Not only did I sleep in my own bed, but as one of the owners, I was paid rent money for renting rooms both to myself and to Meyers. If Meyers had replaced Jerry, her ability to navigate the system brought me many benefits. Waking in my own bed, I generally showered in my own shower before my ride to work in Sergeant Meyer's issued vehicle.
Oh, there were some sacrifices. Occasionally, I was required to shower before entering the facility. To facilitate entry and exit from the Center on such rare occasions, I wore a bubble cut like Meyers and other females assigned. Scratching my head, I supposed I could endure.
As we entered the center that morning, Meyers told me to strip to shower. I teased her, "Abby, didn't you have enough fun already this morning?"
With a warning glance, "On duty," Meyers whacked my ass as I pulled the trousers of my tan utility uniform off, "it's Gunnery Sergeant Meyers and my word is law; at home it's Abby, but it's still advisable to do what I say; in bed, you better be good. You get the idea. I said everything off. Today, you owe the Center a PT Test. You know the rules."
"I'm required to go where I'm told, stand where I'm told," I rang out the corny version of Standing Orders, "and wear what I'm told to wear."
"Or," added Sergeant Meyers as she stowed her uniform and hopped under a spigot, "wear nothing at all, if that's the uniform for the occasion. It's that simple."
"Saves on the laundry bill," I supposed.
Noticing Sergeant Angela Tucker a stunning red head, wearing the typical female marine bowl-shaped cut rip off her civies a T -- shirt and short. Pausing briefly to feel the nipples of her C -- cup breasts, before entering the shower, Tucker commented, "nothing makes you itch like your bare nips rubbing raw against a coarse fabric."
Moving over to join Tucker under a spigot, Meyer recommended, "To avoid abrasions, cover your nips with a band-aid or better yet wear a bra, Tucker. Your bouncing boobs bob when you bound about."
Laughing and running her fingers through her hair, Tucker soaked herself. "Not everyone comes here dolled up in their uniform, doffs it for a shower and dons the uniform on again."
"Show some pride in the uniform. I wear it proudly," Meyers declared. Purposefully pausing Meyers inquired, "Mistress Front Hole drag you in early too?"
Tucker's breasts heaved when she sighed. "An outbound shipment today merited armed guard. Too many, inductees and returnees are just laying down refusing to be classified. We have to teach the slackers a little lesson." Turning her back, Tucker requested, "Could you reach over and wash my back?"
Did I feel a tinge of jealousy as I watched Meyer's dark hand wring a washcloth? My eyes followed droplets of sudsy water dripping onto the floor.
Commenting, "the guys are treated too leniently" and suggesting "it would only take a couple of guys getting their hoscus clipped to send out the message," Meyers ran the washcloth from Tucker's muscular shoulders down her back to her narrow waist, wide hips and puffy white butt as Tucker swayed, joined her hands under her neck and proudly thrust out her chest.
Not 30 minutes ago, Abby Meyer and I were in the shower. Naturally Abby preferred the aggressive role. Like Jerry she preferred to take me from behind. I'd struggle with Jerry but with Abby I played the submissive. I did not resist her kisses as she ran her fingers across my nipples under my breasts and running her fingers down my belly into the trimmed hair of my mound.
As much as I enjoyed shower sex with my husband Jerry, he disliked sex in the shower. Jerry would say, "I don't get enough friction entering a soapy snatch." I chuckled thinking about shower sex with Jerry.
Watching Meyers reach around and lather Tucker's lower belly and penetrating her with the soapy washcloth, I found myself plunging a bar of soap inside me lathering my vaginal lips and clit.
Reflecting on shower sex, I figured that woman probably prefer sloshy sex over men because the dousing in sudsy water probably activates the neural circuits sending pleasing tactile sensations in electric waves from the rubbery skin to the brain. The rubbery skin makes penetration less pleasing to the male. How do we solve the problem? I wondered. Shower sex with a woman and letting the man watch?
My daydream was broken when I heard the command "at ease" ring off the rude, cracked concrete walls and broken tiles of the floor. Our Captain, standing tall in her olive uniform and boots, ordered, "Ladies," looking around and focusing her grimace on the men, "and those who are not, we need to get to work. Meyers meet me in my office in five. The rest to your posts."
I joined Tucker and Meyers by the lockers. "No need to dress just yet. You're running the PT test."
Though exposure with cold air breezing up my crack, made me feel vulnerable, no one particularly paid me mind as Sergeants Tucker and Meyers marched me naked through the corridors of the center. "Nudity is hardly remarkable. All Inductees are held naked pending classification," Sergeant Meyers commented.
"Here, I am at my post," Tucker exclaimed when we reached the caves, the holding pens where inductees were held, "I'll leave you two to say your goodbyes."
