Semper Fi!

Not my usual. I set out to write a revenge story, and I hope that you lioke it.

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There was no two ways about it: I hated Larry Marshall, I despised Larry Marshall, I abominated Larry Marshall. If his legs were on fire, I'd piss on him alright, but it'd be in his face, not where the flames were. If the fire was in danger of going out, I'd squirt charcoal starter fluid on him to get them going again.

Have I mentioned that I hated Larry Marshall?

It was 2001, and we had both just graduated from high school in our small town in Maryland. Marshall came from what passed for wealthy in our town, while I was the son of a divorced, working class mother. My father? Well, he was out there somewhere, maybe alive or maybe dead, it didn't really matter. He thought of child support as more of an option than an obligation, and when mom had to go to the courts to get his wages garnished so that she'd get support to raise our fucking father's own children, he just took off, disappeared, abandoned his responsibilities. I hadn't seen him since I was seven, and my younger sisters didn't even remember him; I just barely did.

The difference in family wealth was the difference in our futures. Marshall went off to college, and not just any college, but to fucking Harvard. Me? I got my education at the University of Parris Island, a nice, oceanfront 'college', though somewhat less pleasant than Harvard Yard, I suppose. Marshall left for Boston in August, while I left for Parris Island in July.

Yeah, maybe starting boot camp in South Carolina in July ain't the smartest thing to do.

I was eight weeks into boot camp when September 11th came around. The US had been at peace ever since the Persian Gulf War ended in 1991, though there was a little bit of a kerfuffle in Kosovo.

Whatever; nobody had really expected a war.

The United States invaded Afghanistan in October, looking for Usama bin Laden and trying to destroy al Qaeda, but I wasn't in that first wave, or even the second. Actually, I wound up at Naval Amphibious Base (NAB) Little Creek in Virginia Beach.

That was where I met Traci. She was a civilian employee working in the base commander's office, and she was a real Virginia cutie: on the tall side at 5'9, thin to the point of being almost too skinny, 21 years old, with long, shiny brunette hair that came down to her elbows. She must've spent a lot of time laying out at Chick's Beach or someplace, because she had that golden brown tan that the girls get.

I was a year younger, at 20, and we'd managed to hook up. Luckily I was taller than her, at 6'1, though with those funky rope wedge sandals she favored, she could look me dead in the eye. My hair was a sandy blond, not that it mattered with my high-and-tight haircut. The main thing was that I had gained thirty-five pounds of muscle, ripped muscle, thanks to the Marine Corps.

I'd seen her a few times on base, but the first time we'd shared more than a glance was early in the morning, when I was running laps. I spotted her on the track ahead of me, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her butt encased in some very nice running shorts. It was Saturday, so she wasn't working, and, as a civilian, I thought it odd that she'd come on base to run, until I remembered that some woman got assaulted not that far up US 60 running on the streets. She had a gate pass, of course, and running on base was safe.

I caught up to her, and then slowed down to her pace, because, yeah, I was going to flirt with her. Sure, I struck out as often as I got a hit, but what the heck, it was worth a shot.

Traci knew instantly what my intentions were, but she didn't shut me down, and actually seemed to be enjoying it. It was a bit difficult for her to converse, as she was measuring her breath for the run, but she tried gamely. For me, five miles on the track was nothing; Marines have to be able to do three miles in under 28 minutes, but I always hit the max score time of under 18 minutes. I could hit the max score of 115 sit-ups in two minutes, too, but, damn it, I hadn't quite managed to max the pull ups; the best I'd done was 18, and I needed 20 to max the test.

Like I said, I was ripped, and I could tell, she was impressed. I suggested a cool down drink at the Galley over on 8th and E, and she accepted.

We wound up spending the whole day together! It was July of 2003, the day was sunny and hot, and Traci told me that we were going to the beach together. I figured that my running shorts doubled as swim trunks well enough, but I whipped by the barracks and got some other clothes as well. A two-minute shower washed the sweat off of me, and we headed to her place.

Of course, Traci couldn't shower at the barracks with me -- as much as I'd have liked that -- so she excused herself once we got into her apartment, saying that she had to wash the sweat off her body after the run, and to make myself at home. It was four minutes later when I realized how special this day would turn out, when I heard her yell, "You need to get in here and wash my back for me."

Oh my God, she was gorgeous in the shower! Her tan lines showed just how small a bikini she wore, and then I noticed a second set of tan lines; at least some of the time, she laid out in a thong.

There was good light in her bathroom, which just emphasized how her body glistened in the shower, rivulets running down her back, and emphasizing the skin indentations over her muscles. Yeah, she was skinny, and no one would ever think of her as being ripped when she was dry, but with a kind of thin skin, the water just emphasized everything. She had those sexy lower back dimples that a few girls have. I was naked in about 2½ seconds.

It was just so sexy! I was behind her, as she reached around and handed me a soapy facecloth and I started washing her back for her. I scrubbed it very well, bringing out a slight rose color underneath her tan, and she didn't stop me as I started washing slightly lower than her back, to places she could certainly have reached on her own. It only got better when she turned around, facing me, the soapy water cascading down her tiny breasts, divided into two small waterfalls on each side of her erect nipples. Her arms went around my waist, as mine went around her back, pulling her closer to me; the shower water ponded up a bit between her breasts as my chest was crushed into her.

The difference between our heights was a bit more pronounced with us being barefoot, and I looked down into her eyes. They were a mesmerizing blue, a clear blue with no grey in them. I could see her lips just slightly parted, in anticipation of a first kiss.

Traci was hardly the first girl I had kissed, but it was, hands down, no competition whatever, the best, most exciting kiss of my lifetime. With her eyes and he lips, it was as though she was pulling my entire soul into hers, a kiss that was somehow both light and passionate at the same time.

Somehow, we made it to her bed. Fortunately, she had made her bed this morning, because we had never dried off from the shower, and we made love on top of her comforter. Seeing her standing there, with the bars of light coming through the venetian blinds striped diagonally against her tanned skin, I was wholly enthralled. Dropping to my knees, I was kissing her breasts, her flat stomach and then lower.

When my lips touched her pubic hair, she stepped back a bit, to lay down on the bed, propped up on her elbows, watching me as I kissed her womanhood. Not too thick and not too sparse, her pubes were as soft as the hair on her head, emphasizing a cool, calm sexiness in the way that so many of the women who are shaved bare can never match. My fingers parted her lips, and I used my tongue softly, with just enough pressure to make it a promise of more. Traci shuddered into orgasm quickly, curling up into a ball and telling me, "That's enough, that's enough." She was totally wasted by her orgasm, and needed a couple of minutes to recover.

A couple minutes of cuddling, and Traci was ready again. She reached down to grasp my manhood, and gave all the clues that she was about to return the favor, when I rose up and over her, still very hard, and poised to enter her. Her hand never left my cock, and she smiled as she guided me inside of her.

Traci must've been able to see it in my eyes, because it was an immediate fight to not cum right then. I was making love to her slowly, knowing that if I speeded up, I'd lose it. Thank God, I could see her own heat rising up in her quickly, but then, before it washed over her she whispered to me, "Roll over."

If making love with me on top was amazing, it was absolutely sensational when Traci was above. Her hair, still mostly wet from the shower, was hanging down, her face half obscured, as she rode me even more slowly than I had been going. I could see the taut muscles in her abs flexing, and the separation between biceps and triceps as her arms were stiff against my pecs, as she flexed her hips while riding me. Her eyes were closed, and her face painted with a look of tension, almost a grimace, when her climax hit her.

At that very last, as slowly as we had been going, she suddenly slammed down on me, holding her pussy as tightly as she could against me, as though seeking the last half millimeter of me and trying to pull it inside of her. That was it, that was when I lost it, and could hold off no more, emptying myself, emptying my soul, into her.

It was about two hours later when I woke up. Our climaxes had been so shattering that we had both fallen asleep, Traci now on my left, her head on my shoulder, and her legs intertwined with hers. With the air conditioning on, and us not having fully dried ourselves after the shower, Traci had pulled the comforter up and over us, completely messing up her bed, as we slept.

I had slept with women before, and it was clear that Traci wasn't a virgin either, but this was different, in a way I could never explain. Waking up, with Traci beside me, was like nothing else in my life, a deep connection I had never known could exist, and on the first day we had ever said anything to each other.

This just made no sense to me! I had managed to be a bit calloused in my relationships with women before -- other than my first girlfriend, who I'd gotten stupid over after the first time we'd fucked -- but I was ready, right then and there, to ask Traci to marry me. I had stupid thoughts about soulmates and Craftsman style houses and four kids running around the yard, all while laying next to a woman I hadn't even known when I woke up that morning. I was wondering; did Traci feel it, too?

Because of the angle of her head on my shoulder, I couldn't quite see her face, couldn't see if she was smiling in her sleep. As I tried to tell, I guess it was my movement which awakened her, and that was when I got my answer. She looked up at me, an amazing smile on her face, and it was enough to tell me that yeah, she was feeling it, too.

There were so many things that happened that first day, things that are fainter memories than our first lovemaking. There were sandwiches, as Traci made us lunch, there was the trip to Chick's Beach, a bit more of a family-oriented beach than the beach by the new concrete boardwalk, but families or not, we still had eyes for only each other. There was a seafood dinner at Ocean Eddie's, on the main Virginia Beach pier, along with a live band playing Jimmy Buffet songs.

I had to head back to the barracks, to sign out for the night; Marines who don't sign out cause problems if they aren't in their racks in the morning. I was an E-4 now, a corporal, so I had some liberties, but I'd have to be back in the barracks tomorrow night.

Were we in love? I was 20 years old, young and dumb and full of cum, but I sure thought so. And come Sunday morning, I said so, which led to Traci throwing herself on me and kissing me with abandon. Yeah, she was feeling it just as much as I was.

I can't be sure when it happened, but I like to think it was that first time we made love, but yup, you guessed it, Traci was pregnant. She was so upset, thinking that she had ruined everything, but I calmed her down, told her that we were destined to get married and live happily ever after anyway, so we might as well go ahead and do it now. Besides, married Marines get more money!

It was October when we got married. We had no money for a fancy wedding, so we'd just elope, but we at least arranged it so that my mother and her parents could be there. We got married in the chapel on base, on D Street, just three blocks from the Galley where we'd first had our cool down drinks after the track.

And it was December when I got my orders. The United States had invaded Iraq in March, planning to rid Iraq of chemical weapons and depose Saddam Hussein. The war had been a quick success, but the peace far less so, and it was looking like we might be there for a while. We were still in Afghanistan, but having pretty much wiped out al Qaeda, it was the Taliban, another group of very fundamentalist Muslims, we were fighting there. The Taliban had seized control of the government in the nineties, and was a pariah government, recognized only by Pakistan, a government which forced women into bourkas and banned girls from being educated. Afghanistan was getting the short end of the stick, but Iraq was really ramping up.

It was a cold day in January when I shipped out to Iraq; Traci was six months pregnant, and though she was in really good shape, pregnancy was difficult for such a skinny woman. We had already made the decision: she was going to quit her job at Little Creek, and move to Frostburg and in with my mom.

Iraq was brutal. More than brutal, it seemed like it was never-ending, that whenever we'd kick the insurgents out of one place, they'd show up in another. We got to take Fallujah twice in 2004, because you could never count on peace after you had won a battle. I picked up a bullet in the second Battle of Fallujah, in November, but it wasn't a very serious wound. The round had passed through the calf on my left leg, and left no fragments, so it was just a matter of stitching me back up. Still, I'd been in country for ten months now, so with the wound, I'd get rotated back to the States.

That took almost a month, first to Ramstein and then on to Dulles. I had thirty days leave coming to me, so I was going to go back to Frostburg. I had seen pictures of my son -- Traci had named him after me, Jeffrey Allen Coelho Jr -- but I hadn't met him yet.

It was my mom and my sister Chelsea who met me at Dulles; Traci had gotten a job at the college, Frostburg State University, they told me, and couldn't get the day off. It was the end of the semester, and grades were being processed and sent out, and there were just no leaves for anybody.

It's a long drive from Dulles to Frostburg, about 2½ hours, and my mom and sis wanted to hear all about Iraq. They were boisterous and so very glad to see me. Traci would be really glad to see me, too, when we got back.

It was almost seven in the evening when we pulled into the driveway. Frostburg is in the Maryland mountains, and winter had come a bit early, with some flurries and snow showers, so mom had to drive a bit more carefully than usual. Everybody laughed when I did my usual, singing the theme song from The Flintstones when we passed by Flintstone, Maryland.

I was a bit surprised when Traci didn't run outside to greet me when we pulled in, but it was pretty cold outside, and the wind was blowing to boot. When we walked in, the scent of a delicious pot roast was filling the air. After a year of military dining facilities, the thought of a wonderful home cooked meal was wonderful.

And there was Traci, wearing an apron over her clothes, with a wistful smile on her face . . . and what looked like a five-month pregnant belly.

"What the fuck!" I yelled. "How did this happen?" Well, I'm not that stupid; I knew exactly how this had happened.

"Jeff, it's not what you think."

"Oh, really, how can it not be what I think?"

"I guess I was raped."

Well, that shut me up for a couple of seconds, and I managed to get control of myself before asking, "What do you mean, you guess you were raped?"

"It was the evening of the bank's Fourth of July employee party, and somehow I can't remember anything, but I woke up in my car around sunrise."

"What, you mean you got roofied?"

"Roofied? What's that?"

"Roofies are date rape drugs. They make you defenseless, sometimes unconscious, and you can't remember what happened."

"I don't know, maybe. All I know is that I woke up in my car, had no idea how I got there. Then, in August, I started feeling sick, and then I missed my period. I knew I hadn't screwed anyone, so I never even thought about a pregnancy test. Then, with my second missed period, I went to the doctor, and he told me I was pregnant." At that, Traci broke down crying.

I had to think. There was no way in Hell a urine test would show evidence of roofies, not that long ago, so there was no way Traci could prove her story. "Do you know who did this to you?" I asked, as much to have something to say rather than standing there looking stupid.

"The last person I remember talking to was the bank president's son. The president is Quintin Marshall, but I don't remember the son's name."

"Larry? Larry Marshall?"

"Yeah, I think that was his name, but he's just the last guy I remember. I can't swear that he was the one who drugged me."

Dinner was tense, no doubt about that. Nobody had told me anything while I had been in Iraq, because they didn't want me upset and not paying attention, they said, and Chelsea and my mom just couldn't bring it up on the long drive home. But somethings can't be hidden forever.

But what the fuck was I going to do about it. I could picture that asshole Marshall doing shit like that, not that he needed to. He was tall and good-looking and had plenty of money; he didn't have any problems getting laid.

Which was part of the reason I hated him so much. Like I said, I'd gotten stupid over the first girl I fucked back in high school, until Marshall took her away from me. He knew how pissed off I was, and taunted me about it. I tried to kick his ass, but the fight got broken up before it really got started. I'd like to say that I got a good punch in first, but he was ready and defended himself well enough for the two seconds he needed to fight back.

Of course, I was the one who got suspended, because I threw the first punch. But even if Marshall had thrown the first punch, what with his father the wealthiest man in town and his mother sitting on the school board, so nothing bad was going to happen to precious Larry.

Of course, Marshall was a student at fucking Harvard, though it was Christmas break for them now. I'd guess that his father's estate had all sorts of security precautions, so I'd never get close enough to kick his ass, or even shoot him.

And, truth was, Traci didn't know it was him, just that it could have been him. As much as I hated him, and could have shot him dead between the eyes if he walked in front of me, I sure wasn't going to jail for the rest of my life, not when he might not even be the guilty party.

Traci wanted to make love to me that night, but my heart wasn't in it. After her doctor told her she was pregnant, and she said that she didn't know how it happened, he ran an STD panel on her, and she came up clean, so there were no worries there. But as much as I loved Traci, I had a lot of anger in me, mostly directed at Marshall, but not a little of it toward Traci. She'd given me a story that could have been true, but there was no way to prove it. She could have willingly fucked Marshall, and then fed me a cock-and-bull story to placate me.