Author's note: This is my way of saying thanks to all the military service members and their families who sacrifice so much on our behalf. I'd also like to express my appreciation to the members of the military who took the time to read this over to make sure it was accurate and in good taste.
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Steven is stunning when he’s naked. He’s standing at the window, the streetlamp bathing his body in bluish light. I try not to move so he doesn’t know I’m watching him. He sighs heavily and leans against the sill, his hip jutting out slightly, the light caressing his tight ass before surrendering to the darkness below. It is cold for March, and his skin carries the slightest texture of goose bumps. Cold or not, Steven always sleeps in the nude at home.
I know why he can’t sleep. It’s the same reason I can’t. The digital clock glows in the darkness. It’s two o’clock in the morning. His orders are to be on base at 7 a.m., ready to ship out. It’s not as though we haven’t been through this before. I was seven months pregnant when he was called up for Desert Storm. But this time it’s different. For some reason, this time it seems more urgent and more dangerous.
I am the last person on Earth you would envision married to a Marine. I was always a bookish overachiever, the one everyone thought would be a doctor or a lawyer, or at the very least, married to a doctor or a lawyer. But my senior year in college, my roommate invited me to her family’s beach house for the week-end on Topsail Island, not far from Camp Lejeune.
It was late September, the tail end of hurricane season, so it was fairly empty on the island, save for the locals. Saturday night was “Ladies’ Night” at the Beach Bum, so we decided to wander over that way. Unfortunately, all the other “Ladies” on the island had wandered over that way, too. It was hot and crowded and smoky. I took my drink and ditched Carrie, who had managed to get into a heated game of pool, and headed out for the beachside patio.
I was leaning on the railing, enjoying the warm sea breeze blowing in my face, when a slightly drunken voice interrupted my reverie.
“You know why Marines make the best lovers?” The voice asked me.
“Let me guess,” I replied, not bothering to turn around. “Because they’re the first in and the last out?”
“Oh, so you’ve heard about the Marines?” He continued.
“I don’t know anything about the Marines,” I said, still not looking at the owner of the voice. “But I’ve heard the Coast Guard is ‘Always Ready’.”
A sharp laugh came from somewhere next to the drunken voice. “Surrender now, Diaz,” the laughing voice said. “This one’s out of your league!”
“What do you mean, she’s out of my league?”
I finally turned to look at Diaz. “I think he means that the little blonde at the end of the patio is giving you the eye.”
“Oh, yeah?” Diaz asked, turning to follow my gaze.
“Yeah,” I told him. “Why don’t you try that line on her? I bet she’ll think it’s clever.”
“Good idea,” Diaz said, wandering off in the direction of the blonde. His friend was still behind me.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, turning back to face the sea. “Don’t you have any corny military pick-up lines up your sleeves?”
“Ma’am, the only things up my sleeves are my arms, and I’d be honored if you’d allow me to put them around you for a dance.”
I finally turned to face the man behind me. He was tall and well muscled, with gleaming blue eyes and a dark, regulation crew cut. “Are you for real?” I asked him.
“Why don’t you find out?” he challenged, extending a hand to me.
There was something charming in his soft Southern tones that appealed to the cynical Yankee in me. For reasons I’ll never really know, I took his hand and let him lead me to the small dance floor at the other end of the patio. One arm encircled my waist and he held my hand in his, pulling me close. He smelled of soap and sea air, clean and safe. I rested my head against his smooth cheek and swayed with him to a slow song. A year after that dance I married him.
Now, sixteen years, three children, two car payments and a mortgage later, I’m lying in our bed watching him worry. I can faintly make out the tattoo on his right arm. It’s the Marine Corps logo, the Eagle, Globe and Anchor. Above it is written “God. Country. Corps.” Underneath it reads “Semper Fi”, the Marine Corps motto,
Always Faithful.
He has another tattoo as well, but I can’t see it from here. It’s on his abdomen, just above the hairline, centered directly over his penis. It reads “I Dream Of Jeannie,” and it’s written in the shape of a heart. That’s how he told me he loved me.
“Steven?” I say, softly.
“Jeannie, Baby. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, coming to the edge of the bed. He leans over to caress my hair, and his dick is tantalizingly close.
“You didn’t wake me. I couldn’t sleep. But you need to get your rest. You’ve got a lot ahead of you.”
“I can’t sleep either, Baby. I’m too keyed up.”
“Well, Captain. You know the Corps’ remedy for insomnia, don’t you?” I ask, slyly.
“No, Ma’am. Why don’t you refresh my memory?”
“Well, I’ve heard a round of P.T. will leave you good and tired.”
“That it will,” he agrees. “But I’m not sure I’m up for it, Baby. I’ve got so much on my mind.”
“See,” I sigh, playfully. “I knew I should have married into the Coast Guard.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, you know, sometimes Semper Paratus beats Semper Fi.”
“We’ll see about that,” he chuckles softly. He straddles me, placing his hands on either side of my head. Then he kisses me forcefully, his tongue invading my mouth.
He knows this will arouse me. It always does. I run my hands down his back to his ass, the solid muscles rippling under my touch. The intense physical training imposed by the Marine Corps keeps him strong in battle and strong in bed. My hands caress their way up to the back of his head, newly shaven, soft and fuzzy. I love the feel of him, all of him.
He shifts to pull the sheet off me, then slides his hand under my t-shirt, cupping my breast firmly. He kneads and pulls, drawing my nipple out, sending a shiver to the deepest part of me. I want him so badly. His other hand draws my shirt up, and then cups my other breast. He squeezes, pushing them together, twirling my nipples in unison, until I let out a little moan.
I can see him smile as he lowers his head to my breasts. He kisses them, first one, then the other. He draws my nipple into his mouth and sucks hard, still working the other one with his fingers. There have been times he’s brought me to orgasm simply by doing this alone. He moves his lips to the other nipple, caressing it with his tongue before gently biting it. He draws his lips down and pulls it in, creating a forceful suction. His tongue swirls around my nipple, and my legs open involuntarily.
Steven slides his hand between my legs and pulls my panties down, then dips two fingers into my warm wetness. I moan and whimper as his fingers slide in and out of me, his mouth still working my breast. He can feel me sucking his fingers, begging them to go deeper, and he pumps them harder, faster. When he feels that I am on the edge, he stops and whispers, “Turn sideways, Baby.”
After all these years I know he means for me to lie across the bed, and I quickly oblige. Steven grabs the panties which have settled around my ankles, and yanks them off, tossing them across the room. He pushes my legs open and parts my nether lips with his fingers. His tongue teases my clit, and I pant softly, “Oh, oh, oh…”
My hands clutch at the sheets as his tongue works me, gliding over my clit, plunging inside me. His lips surround my button and he starts to suck, sliding his hands up to play with my nipples. He is sucking hard and his hands knead my breasts forcefully. The licking and sucking and kneading leave me writhing and moaning, desperate for a moment’s respite from the intense sensations. But Steven is strong and I’m not going anywhere.
Without warning, I feel release. My eyes roll back in my head and I start to shake. White lines and starbursts form against the darkness of my eyelids. My hips rise off the bed slightly and I cry out. When the moment passes, I hear Steven chuckling softly. He reaches up, grabs the edge of my t-shirt, and wipes his face. Then he gently eases it off over my head.
“We never do seem to have a towel handy, do we Baby?” I love the way he says “Baby”. Not with the gritty edge of a Yankee, but with soft, drawn-out diphthongs honed in The Carolinas.
“You should have been a Boy Scout. They’re always prepared.”
