Odyssey 2016

Chapter One: Blitzkrieg

Train roll on, on down the line

Won't you please take me far . . . far away

Now I feel the wind blow outside my door

I'm leaving my woman at home

My baby's gone . .

Tuesday's gone in the wind

My baby's gone in the wind . . .

- Tuesday's Gone

Moscow, Russian Federation

Midnight -- December 25, 2015

The world had changed. And not in a good way, either, I felt. It had become darker, more sinister. Maybe this was what the world was like after two world wars a century ago. Or, maybe not.

I wondered what life was like back home, back in New York City. Did it feel this grim there? I hadn't talked to my girlfriend in four years . . . four long years without feeling her touch. But I had no regrets about joining the army and fighting in the Third World War. I wanted to help make sure that the twenty-first century would remain the American century.

And we'd won. At a price, of course. Thus is the nature of war.

Moscow was a much different city under American occupation. It was strange . . . as if a large blanket had descended around the entire Russian Federation. The first living things to be affected were the people. I could see it, but beyond that, I could

sense

it. I could

sense

the depression in the air. The Russians were down in the dumps, not knowing if they'd ever make it back to reality as they once knew it again.

'And for what?' the cynics said. It could have been avoided if the two countries had just talked.

But I didn't care anymore. I left when I was nineteen years old. I was about to hit twenty-four in a few weeks after the war's conclusion.

I wanted to go home.

* * *

Moscow, Russian Federation

Dusk -- December 26, 2015

We walked into the prostitution den on a routine morning patrol. It wasn't intentional; we just had to check all buildings across our designated blocks for injured civilians, and a room of young Russian girls and women was the sight that greeted us when we broke into the apartment brothel.

A mixture of humidity and stink was the first thing that hit the five of us. The den must have been four floors underground. It was well kept: not dirty, not ripped apart, respectable. Yet it retained that nasty, oppressive quality that most brothels have: dim lighting which made it look like the walls were crawling with moss and the carpet was stained, even though neither a calamity had befallen the room at first glance. The air was occupied by a distant yet familiar mix of hazy smells: vodka and hashish smoke for sure, but also the more subtle odors of sex and semen. The foyer-like entrance room was decorated with a variety of tropical pot plants that looked in average shape: their survival in a place like this was a miracle within itself. The most surreal part of the brothel was not that dim ambient red lighting, which apparently compliments sexual intercourse very well, but the fact that none of the girls moved when we entered the room. After a few seconds we realized why; in the room ahead of us a fat Russian man jumped out from behind a counter and fired off several of shots through the doorway.

He was probably drunk, which didn't help his concentration. The five of us hit the ground for cover, I rather too quickly, jarring my head against a nearby table. The shots all missed. The man grumbled something loudly in Russian. Shell casings tinkled against the tiled floor of the next room; the man must have been using a revolver. All the girls had managed to huddle up together in the corner. My eyes flicked across and followed my commander, Jamie, and good buddy, Taylor as they slowly inched around the walls of the foyer room towards the doorway. The girls inched back even further; one dark-haired prostitute held two younger girls that were in their late teens to her chest, not unlike how a mother does with a newly-born child.

More shots echoed through the room. Both my comrades crouched and covered their heads. The rounds ripped through the thin, poorly built walls of the brothel, but the shots had never been aimed at anyone or anything in particular. The bullets found no one. At the sound of the man attempting to reload once more, Jamie and Taylor darted through the doorway. The corked sounds of assault rifle fire pervaded the atmosphere.

"Hostile down," called Jamie.

Max, George and I rose to our feet. The two of them headed through to the next room as I checked up on the prostitutes.

"Check for anymore individuals or weapons of any kind," I heard Jamie order. "Fire at will."

The girls were all understandably shaken, but other than shock it looked like they were unharmed. There were eight of them -- six that must have been in their mid- to late-twenties, and two that looked very young, one that might have even been a bit younger than eighteen. All of the prostitutes seemed to be in good health: miraculous considering their position in a war-ravished city. We'd heard of other squads coming across prostitution apartments or houses like this where the girls were beaten and malnourished. This must have been a high-class joint.

I knelt down next to the dark-haired girl that was huddled up next to the two younger ones. "It's okay," I said, trying to sound as assuring as I could. She looked up at me tearfully as I tried to peel her away from the two girls. I told her I just wanted to check that they were okay, but she refused to let go. Standing back, I turned to the other girls and asked them if any of them knew English in English, to no avail.

Squad Commander Jamie joined me in the foyer. "Any of the girls harmed?" he asked.

"Doesn't look like it," I responded. "I don't think they know any English." There was blood running down the side of his head. It mingled in with his bronze hair, giving a messy and wounded appearance. "You okay?"

"Not mine," he said, "the pimp's."

Neither of us knew what to do with the girls. Officially our orders were to leave large groups of people with a guardian and move on once we'd checked that there were no wounded or dead and that there were no weapons in the building; but now we'd killed the pimp, and the addition of two younger girls especially concerned me. They were probably legally aged; their frailty was the chord that struck me. Innocent. Lost. Violated.

Max returned and joined Jamie and I in the foyer with the girls. "There are two more floors underneath us. No more girls or men. We did find a weapons cache, though. Taylor and George are detailing it now."

"Good," Jamie said. He kneeled down to the oldest looking girl, with dark chestnut hair and glasses. She was wearing a sheer pair of matching pink tanktop and boyshort panties, both of which were faintly stained. He began talking to her in what essentially was broken Russian; she seemed to understand though and gave back responses. I had little clue as to what Jamie was asking her. He waved his hands in the general direction of the doorway several times, and once pointed at the two younger girls.

Max leant over and whispered to me. "How old are they?"

"They must be eighteen," I replied.

"No way . . . that blonde one?"

He referred to the smallest girl. She wore a very short black party dress with a small and very sheer black top that had white polka dots. Her body was barely developed, no hips and very white thighs. Her breasts were small, as were her very dark nipples, which showed through the top. The girl drew her knees into her chest, apparently aware we were talking about her. The whole outfit was finished off with a pair of thick three-inch heels, mysteriously out of place with the rest of her clothes.

Jamie stood back up and turned to face us. "From what I can make out she says the girls are all okay, in good shape, legally aged et cetera. And those two . . ." -- he extended two fingers towards the two younger sex workers -- ". . . one's eighteen and one's nineteen. So they're legal workers."

Max nodded. "What do we do with them now?"

"I guess we have to leave them here. As soon as George and Taylor get back up here, we'll move on."

"Wait a minute," Max said urgently. "Are they ready to work?"

I furrowed my brow. "What are you talking about?"

"We've been out in this shit hole for four years. I don't know about you, but I haven't fucked a single pussy in that time. Here we walk into a brothel, off the pimp, and there are eight girls waiting for us. It doesn't take much to put two and two together."

"That's out of line, Private Fletcher," I pressed. I looked at Jamie. He stood back, apparently considering the situation.

"I didn't say you have to join in," he replied.

"We have to get back to patrols," I said. "We can't stop half way for a little sex."

"I understand, David. You've probably got more than enough male ass in these four years to keep you occupied, so you could care less. All I've got is my hand."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I replied. It was a heated argument now. Max and I had never truly seen eye to eye, but had managed to put up with each other. It was a situation akin to the one person you hate in your high school class who you manage to be stuck with for year after year, so you have to put up with them.

"I'm talking about your cock enjoying the time it's had in a guy's crack!"

Jamie stepped in to calm down the situation before it escalated. "Now you've stepped

way

out of line, man," he directed at Max. "Private Carrier isn't gay. And even if he was, who cares? There's nothing wrong with that. Little tolerance, please."

"That's pretty yellow, commander," Max responded.

Regardless, both men were right. I definitely wasn't gay, but there was a very clear reason why Jamie stepped in, and that was because there had been several occasions during our tour of duty where we'd slept with each other out of necessity. I felt nothing for him, and have never felt anything for a man, and never will -- I'm simply not inclined that way -- but without any sex for years, as Max himself said, we needed a release. I knew for a fact that Jamie felt differently. He was probably bisexual. I refused to let it go any further than a few occasions, though. To avoid any controversy now, he'd stepped in. It's not that Max had any evidence, but dirty rumors and hearsay still tend to travel.

Taylor and George came back into the foyer. "All clear, Commander. Weapons . . . old Kalashnikovs, the types that are issued to rebel forces. It's nothing to worry about."

"Thank you," Jamie responded. "Listen up. We'll spend an hour here and then move out. If you see fit to have a girl accompany you, that's fine. We'll keep it off the record. Just stay alert. They might make a rash move against us." Smiles spread across my comrades' faces. "There are private rooms just through that hallway," he said, pointing down the hall. "Try and keep it quiet, please."

Jamie knelt down and began talking to the same girl again.

I wasn't sure I wanted to have sex with any of them. Some part of me wanted to remain faithful to Sarah, my girl back home.

"She says that the girls are ready to work," Jamie said, smiling subtly. "Take your picks, gentlemen."

The boys started choosing their temporary concubines. Max immediately took the younger blonde that had caused the earlier controversy, maybe to spite me, or maybe because he had some kind of fetish. "Try not to hurt her tight slit," I said. "Then again, there shouldn't be any problem with that little water pistol you've got hanging there." Max didn't turn back as the four of us laughed. The Lolita impersonator was legal anyway, so there was no weight to any of us objecting to it.

Taylor took hold of two girls. An ever-so-slightly chubby redhead with a big bubble butt followed him down the hall, as did a tall brunette with massive tits and long, tanned legs that probably hid heaven between them.

George stole two blondes: the nineteen-year-old one that looked nervous and unsure of herself, and an older looking blonde with medium-sized breasts that were held way-up by a push-up brassiere.

Jamie picked the motherly-like raven-haired girl with large breasts. "Take the sisters," he said, nodding towards the girl with dark hair and glasses he'd talked to before and her bleach-blonde sibling. "You need it," he said. I didn't want to make the girls uncomfortable so I showed no hesitation, but Jamie knew how I felt about my girlfriend back home.

In this position, however, I knew I would have to relent.

* * *

Sometimes I wonder if these letters get through at all. Mom says that if they do at all, they might be edited by the censor like they were in World War II. Why, though, I couldn't imagine, because for some reason life here still hasn't changed dramatically since the last time I wrote, or since you left. Hopefully it won't change by the time you get back. Even if this piece of paper never reaches you, it helps me to put my thoughts down somewhere and to talk to someone . . . I miss you . . .

But I know you're doing alright. If something had happened to you, they would have told us, wouldn't they? They know right away when someone's died. Just a few weeks ago I got a call from Molly -- she says to say hi to you, by the way -- saying that Jessica's boyfriend was killed in action. Maybe you don't remember Jess . . . she was in every class of mine from Junior High to Senior Year. Not that we were friends or anything, just luck of the draw, you know?

So I guess I've been lucky. Or you've been lucky, at least. I think of you everyday, about what you'd say if you were here and what you'd do and whatever. Like just now, I remember you telling me the day before you left that luck is just probability taken personally. Because I said good luck to you when you left my place that night and you wiped the tears off my face and said that to make me laugh.

I hope you're still as rational when you get back. I need somebody rational. I still cry every once in a while. I know in your last letter a while ago you said to me not to cry because you'd be home any time soon . . . but I can't help it. I don't blame you for not have written in a long time. I can't imagine what it must be like out there, and you must be very busy just trying to stay alive.

Promise me you'll be home for Christmas?

I probably shouldn't tell you this, but Ally keeps telling me to go out with a guy . . . get smashed or something . . . I can't do it. Don't be mad at her, she just hates seeing me how I am. But I can't be with anyone else. I'll wait for you.

I'll wait for you.

I love you David. Love, always. Until the end.

Miss you . . . come home soon, okay?

Sarah

November 2, 2015

* * *

Moscow, Russian Federation

Dusk -- December 26, 2015

I closed the door behind the three of us. The two girls looked at me, waiting for me to make the first move. I wasn't sure I could. I sat down on the king-sized bed that occupied the center of the room. Like the foyer, the 'red' motif of love seemed to continue throughout the whole den. The room was clean, as was the bed, but in the air hung that same distant smell of sex, sweat, and cum. The brunette came over and kneeled behind me. As if sensing my pain and longing for home, she rested her head on against me and began running her hands across my back soothingly.

I leaned back and allowed myself to fall into the girl's arms. I told myself it didn't matter that I was doing this; that then was the only time so far since I'd gone that I'd been with another woman. I wasn't very convincing. The blonde picked up my assault rifle and examined it. Within a split second, my heart rate shot up, Adam's apple ascended to the peak of my throat; it was a stupid mistake. I watched as she looked it over, and wondered if I was to be executed then.

Everything went silent, apart from moans and screams of different varieties from across the hall; the sounds of Max pounding into a petite whore's cunt.

Eventually the blonde laid the firearm back against the wall near the door frame. I let out a small, inaudible sigh, something to communicate my relief to myself. As her sister continued caressing my back, the blonde traversed onto the bed in front of me. She began removing my clothes one by one; the flak jacket; the vest . . . I found myself topless fairly quickly. Her sister pulled herself out from underneath me so the blonde could mount me and work her magic. I closed my eyes at her gentle touch. She ran her hands through my hair. Somewhere, I'd been left breathless.

Perhaps from another room the intoxicating smell of more hash smoke began to waft throughout the brothels. Maybe it made sex more exciting. The blonde and I continued clashing tongues while the brunette had moved behind her sister and had begun undressing her. Off came the tight blouse, exposing the bare normal-sized breasts underneath. Small but hard pink nipples poked out.

The blonde pulled up and rested back on my crotch.

"What's your name?" I asked.

The blonde didn't respond but the brunette seemed to understand my question. "I . . . Anastasia," she responded, not without a heavy Russian accent. She signaled to her sister. "Tatiana."

Tatiana came back down and started kissing my neck. There was something strange in the way she both girls acted towards me, almost with an unexpected sort of passion. Perhaps it was just the way they had been taught to fuck their customers, just an act. It seemed real.

"You?" Anastasia said.

Guessing she was asking for my name, I responded. "David."

"David," she repeated.

She then crossed two arms and took off her pink tanktop. Her breasts, almost exact carbon copies of her sister's, bobbed about. Her nipples were slightly bigger and much darker. She leaned over and started kissing me as well.

I wondered what to do with the girls, whether it was morally right just to fuck them. They seemed almost relieved to see us . . . but why? Maybe their pimp was treating them badly. Naïvely I'd assumed that they'd be well treated. I took one of Anastasia's breasts in my mouth and began sucking on the still soft nipple. It had been a long time since I'd been with a woman. Hopefully I still knew how to make them happy.

Shouts of pleasure rained in from across the hall. I couldn't tell whether they were Max's or the girl's. The two sisters had me well occupied. Both of them broke away from me. Tatiana drew herself back up, and removed her hipster briefs while still remaining on my crotch, which had now become decidedly hard.

A dark blonde bush of pubic hair had wrapped itself around her labia. It had been groomed down to a thick strip which culminated in a flair of hair just above her pussy. Her pussy lips were pink and young, she looked like she had been dealt with delicately by men -- either that, or she was new into the business.

As Tatiana removed my pants her sister crouched a few inches from my face. She removed her boyshort panties. In contrast to her sister, her sex had been well used. A vast ungroomed bush of brown pubic hair covered her crotch. No where to be seen were the pink, young lips of her sister; instead coarse, dark brown lips protruded and made their presence known. Moisture had already started to develop around her vagina and some had even begun to ooze out around her lips. Her soft pubic hair closest in proximity to her slit glistened in the ambient light with sex juice.

I could smell her strongly. That sharp, distinct aroma of sex wafted heavily between my nostrils, prompting my body to become aroused as well. Anastasia inched forward and allowed her pussy to hover over my mouth dangerously. Her pearly clitoris poked out from beneath its sheath. Somewhere behind her, Tatiana massaged my straining, pulsing cock through the thin material of my briefs. Five minutes ago I had been hesitant to give into the force of ecstasy.