Down and Dirty

by Sandra Hill

  “What’s wrong?”

  He continued to pull at the waist and legs of his shorts. “Those stupid Superman underpants you bought me are stuck in my crack.”

  “Way more intel than I need to know! What did you wear when you were in Afghanistan?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope. When you gotta piss in the middle of a firefight, you don’t wanna take the time to pull your underwear down.”

  His father’s jaw dropped open.

  “What do you do in the middle of a battle?”

  “I wear underwear, and don’t you dare try going commando around here. You’ll give Madrene a heart attack, and the little girls in the neighborhood will be filing sexual harassment lawsuits.”

  “That witch needs a heart attack. An’ all the little girls round here are nothin’ but whiny-ass split tails.” Anyhow, that’s what his uncles called most girls.

  “That was not nice.”

  He shrugged.

  “Were you around actual fighting very much?”

  “There was always bombs and guns goin’ off. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam! Never knew when one would hit. A bomb hit our house one night. Ka-boom! Then we lived in a cave.”

  His father stared at him as if he might be thinking about hugging him.

  Samir ducked around him and started down the stairs.

  “Kid, you’re gonna be the death of me yet.”

  Chapter 5

  A woman can have multiple WHAT?…

  Britta was facing a difficult dilemma, unlike any she’d ever experienced afore.

  Should she attempt to go back to the place where she’d fallen off the cliff, knowing it would mean a life in the nunnery? If reversal of this bizarre experience was even possible.

  And if she could go back, should she just yield to her father’s demand that she accept wedlock to one of his toadish puppets?

  Or should she take up Zack-hairy’s offer to deliver her to Hilda and her sanctuary here? That would mean she was depending on another person; she misdoubted Hilda and her women needed her warrior skills here.

  Or should she continue to participate in this strange female unit, the WEALS? It would be difficult, but really, it was what she was: a fighter.

  Sad of mood, Britta began to think she really had died when she’d gone over that cliff. She just could not credit Zack-hairy’s time-travel theory.

  But then the paths of destiny were in the hands of the Norns, beyond the comprehension of mere humans. Besides, the Norse culture was an ancient one, steeped in fanciful notions: gods, spells, trolls, giants, dwarves, sea serpents and other fierce creatures, Valhalla with its golden halls, the Valkyries themselves. But this was even more incredible than all the sagas.

  Let tomorrow bring what it will, she finally concluded.

  America was an enchanted land where carriages carried people without the use of horses, where metal structures flew across the skies, where water flowed freely inside buildings, where rooms were lit not by candle or torch but tiny magic wall levers, where women had little cylinders of fiber which they inserted inside their bodies to collect their monthly flows, where women’s arses were tattooed, where tiny pellets could be swallowed every day to prevent a man’s seed from taking root in a woman’s womb.

  Then there was the food in this land. So much of it and so varied! People ate here for pleasure, not just to fill empty stomachs. She could love this land for its chocolate alone. Chocolate cake. Chocolate pie. Chocolate cook-hes. Hot chocolate beverage. Chocolate sweetmeats, known as fudge. Chocolate iced cream.

  And, finally, it was a land of freedom and equality for all, even women. A land where women could have multiple orgy-as-hims, whilst a man could only have one. Finally some fairness in this world!

  When Zack-hairy had mentioned orgy-as-hims to her earlier today, she had not known what he meant. She did now. Since then, the women had spoken at length about their various orgy-as-hims. Explosions, splinterings, heated frenzies, shatterings…all confusing terms, except for the fact that the women liked these orgy-as-hims. Immensely. Despite being a virgin at her advanced age of twenty and seven, it did not take long for her to comprehend the idea of a pleasure so intense it was like a little death. Apparently these orgy-as-hims were best delivered in the company of a man.

  Right now, it was hardly dark, but she and the women who shared her sleeping chamber were all talked out and preparing for bed. They would have to get up very early, but especially her as punishment for fornicating with the pretty lout…which she had not even done, let alone have an orgy-as-him.

  As the women continued to talk on this subject, Britta said, “By Odin, I vow, I am going to have one of those someday.”

  They all looked at her, dumbfounded, then laughed. Her partner, Terri, gave her a one-armed hug and whispered in her ear, “Honey, you and I are going to have such fun!”

  She hoped so, because thus far her experiences had been far from fun, more like torture.

  Britta wore a long sleeping shirt of Terri’s, which would have hung down to Terri’s calves but hit midthigh on her. In the front was a painting of a frog with its middle finger raised. It must be some odd hand signal in this country.

  Terri had been a physical education teacher in a school for young adults, called a high school. She had been a gymnast in her earlier years. Gymnasts were people who bent their bodies in various contorted ways, for what reason Britta had yet to fathom. Although she had now seen thirty winters, Terri claimed to still be able to do a “kick arse backbend,” which was apparently a much-to-be-desired talent in this country. Britta vowed to try this, as well.

  “Now dish, girl, what’s with you and that pretty SEAL? Man, I wouldn’t mind him putting his boondockers under my bed.” Terri waggled her eyebrows at Britta.

  The other three ladies in the room—there were four pallets in each sleeping chamber—agreed.

  Donita Leone, a tall, slim woman with ebony skin and tight black curls like a cap, said, “I heard that Lieutenant Floyd is the poster boy for hottie Navy SEAL…you know, screw everything with breasts.

  Britta gave Donita her full attention. “I have noticed that Zack-hairy and some of the other leaders carry the title lewd-tenant. Is that not an odd choice of naming? Though perhaps not so much for the pretty boy with the lewd fingers.”

  “Huh?” Donita said.

  Terri had told Britta earlier that Donita was an aging—at twenty-seven—Olympic swimmer who had suffered a great scandal years ago when she was accused of “drugging,” whatever that was…a form of cheating. The Olympics were something like the old Greek games. The charges had been proven false but never lived down. In recent years, she had been diving from a high board through fire into a pool of water at circus events. That was something Britta would like to see.

  The fourth woman, Marie Delacroix—a Cay-jun, just like Cage, whom she’d met afore—summed up the questions for everyone. “Did ya do the deed with the pretty bad boy, chère?” Marie, a Marine, was the only one of them with previous military experience, except for Britta. She had good reason to want to fight terrorists, her father having been one of those affected by a bombing that took place at some far-famed towers.

  Britta was fairly certain she knew what “the deed” meant, having been accused of and punished for it by the commander. “I did no such thing, even though the rogue has tried repeatedly.”

  “Whoa! You knew Lieutenant Floyd before?” Terri asked.

  “I met him and some of his comrades-in-arms—Torolf, JAM, Geek, and Cage—two years ago.” Britta was unsure of her position here in America, and some instinct warned to be careful how much of her past she exposed. “In the Norselands.”

  “And he tried to jump your bones?” Terri asked.

  “Nay, he ne’er tried to hurt me.”

  Terri shook her head as if Britta were unbelievable. “Did he try to make love with you?”

  “Yea, Zack-hairy did try to lure me to his bed furs. To no av
ail.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake? Are you…were you…married?”

  “Nay.”

  “Engaged?”

  “Dost mean betrothed? Nay.”

  “Are ya gay, darlin’?”

  “Betimes. But what has my gaiety to do with anything?”

  Marie giggled and said, “I don’t think she understands. Gay means a lesbian, a woman who loves women, not men.”

  At first, Britta frowned. Then she understood. She had heard of such women but never met any. “Nay.”

  “Don’t you think he’s good-looking?”

  “Hah! He is so good-looking he makes my bones ache.”

  “Holding out for love?”

  “Of course not. At my advanced age, I am long past dreaming of those softer sentiments.” Well, that was not quite true. Betimes Britta ached deep in her shuttered soul, but she had learned to ignore the pain.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty and seven.”

  “Good Lord! And you think that’s old?”

  She shrugged. “I concede, I am not yet in my dotage. Still…”

  “Is it like a religious thing? No sex before marriage?”

  She shook her head. “’Tis not that, precisely. What bothers me most about Zack-hairy…Lewd-tenant Floyd…is that he waves his manpart hither and yon. I suspect he has swived an army of women. Just like my father and brothers. They tup anything in a gunna that walks by with no care for the many by-blows they produce.”

  They all nodded their understanding.

  As they bedded down, dark now, conversation evolved to other subjects, mostly involving the grueling days ahead in WEALS. Cushioned by these newfound friends, Britta resolved to make this, WEALS, her new life path. And as for the soul-ache, she had survived worse.

  I like your sugar, cookie…

  “I don’t know but I been told,” the women running on the beach sang out lyrics in what Britta had come to recognize as grody jody calls. What an odd military they had in this country that sang as they performed battle exercises.

  “Navy men are mighty bold,” Terri, her swim partner, called out the cadence.

  “Navy men are mighty bold.” The rest of them repeated the refrain.

  The five SEAL instructors who were leading the WEAL program wanted them to sing traditional Navy running songs, but the women had their own ideas.

  The men, damn their hides, barely broke a sweat on these long runs. In truth, she suspected they slowed themselves down so the women could keep up. The whole time the women ran their hearts out, the instructors trotted amongst them, making both encouraging and harassing remarks.

  At first it was difficult to sing and run, huffing and puffing, at the same time, but Britta along with the other women—those who had not yet “rung out”—were better able to perform various tasks at the same time after several days of brutal torture of their bodies, that torture taking the name of PE, or physical education.

  The only one unaffected by the excessive running was the nimble-footed Donita, who ran like the wind, her long legs nigh flying over the sand. The rest of them staggered by the end of the ridiculously long runs. “For strength and endurance,” their instructors kept saying. Britta girded herself with resolve to persevere, but she was not sure how much longer she could endure the pain. Leastways, for now, she could run and sing at the same time, and that was no small thing.

  “But Navy women are better than gold.”

  “But Navy women are better than gold.”

  “They can fight and they can flirt.”

  “They can fight and they can flirt.”

  “They can make a grown man hurt.”

  “They can make a grown man hurt.”

  “Men can grin and strut their stuff.”

  “Men can grin and strut their stuff.”

  “But women know they ain’t so tough.”

  “But women know they ain’t so tough.”

  “Boobs and butts, latex rubber…”

  “Boobs and butts, latex rubber…”

  “Turn bad ol’ SEALs to drooling blubber.”

  “Turn bad ol’ SEALs to drooling blubber.”

  “Sound off, one, two…”

  “Three, four.”

  There was a small satisfaction in seeing the five men gape with astonishment at the lewd lyrics, then scowl their opinion. She especially liked making the pretty SEAL scowl.

  Britta had been in this strange land only four days, and she was more tired, sore, bewildered, and angry than she’d ever been in all her twenty and seven years. It was so bad she half wished she could return to St. Anne’s Abbey.

  But, nay, she would run and then run some more if that was what it took. Bad as this was, she had no wish to return to the life she had back at the nunnery. Which was no life at all.

  Commander MacLean, the leader, was married to Madrene, though Britta could hardly credit a strong-willed woman such as Madrene tolerating this arrogant man. Right now, said arrogant man raised a halting hand for them to stop running and yelled, “Time to cool down before lunch. A little surf passage should do the trick.”

  The women groaned, knowing that their being nigh drowned in the pounding waves of the cold ocean water would soon prove punishment, not relief. If that were not bad enough, when they all came staggering out of the water, it was to see the five brutes staring at their drenched bodies to which their scant clothing clung. Men! They were the same everywhere. Show them a bit of breast or arse, and they became like rutting beasts. Especially that one master chieftain called F.U. who’d taken a particular delight in tormenting her.

  “How about some sugar cookies now, snuffie?” Chieftain F.U. said, standing practically toe to toe with her. “Snuffies are the lowest rank in a training compound, in case you didn’t know, and you ladies are the lowest of the low.”

  In her weakened condition, Britta could barely take her usual pleasure in noting that he was a half head shorter than her. That was no doubt why he picked on her. “Petty Officer Asado, why don’t you show us how it’s done?” Petty officer was the rank given to all the women who had not come up through their regular military. They would have assigned her the same rank she had in the Norse navy, which she had learned was a type of military. Instead, she’d demurred and accepted the same as the others. Besides, being an officer in WEALS gave no special privileges. All of them were treated alike. Badly.

  She flopped down to the beach for the exercise called “sugar cookies” and rolled over so that the sand clung to her skin, her clothing, her hair, and in fact some unmentionable places that sand should never be. The other women followed her example.

  “No, no, no, sweetheart. Put your face in it.” Chieftain F.U. placed a boot on the back of her neck so that sand went into her mouth, her nose, and her eyes. Then he used the same boot to tip her over to her back. “Now wiggle your hips a little, like a worm. That’s it. Pretend you’re getting nailed, and you like it a lot. Oh, yeah, baby. Now you look just like a sugar cookie. Good enough to eat.”

  Britta did not see the humor in his joke, but several of the men laughed.

  “That’ll be enough for now,” she heard someone say behind her.

  “Says who?” Chieftain F.U. asked.

  “Says me, maggot. Pick up your gear and meet me and the commander in his office at eleven hundred. And, ladies, at ease. You can go to your rooms to shower before lunch, then report back to the grinder at oh two hundred.” Under his breath, the same man murmured something about “inappropriate conduct for an officer.”

  It sounded like Zack-hairy coming to their defense, but it was hard to tell with all the sand clogging her ears.

  Moving clumsily to a sitting position, she blinked repeatedly, trying to get the sand out of her eyes. Unable to see, she took hold of the hand stretched out to her. When she was standing, she saw that it was indeed Zack-hairy, and for once he was not grinning.

  “You exceed yourself, lout, coming to my defense. I can protect myself.”

>   “Bullshit!”

  “Crude oaf!”

  “Come on,” he said, still holding on to her hand and leading her back into the water.

  “No,” she squealed, trying to pull out of his grasp, to no avail. “No more salt water.”

  “It’s the best way, honey.”

  Still, she resisted.

  But then he lifted her in his arms, something the brute persisted in doing, though Britta could not recall any man but him being able to do it since she’d gained her full height at sixteen winters. “Here we go,” he said, tossing her into an enormous oncoming wave, which hit her like a stone wall, knocking her over, then tumbling her head over heels, repeatedly.

  Britta was not sure how much more punishment she could take, especially from this man. Now she had salt water in her mouth and nose and ears and throat, in addition to the sand. She was on her hands and knees crawling toward the beach minutes later, coughing, too tired to raise herself to a standing position.

  Zack-hairy sat on the beach, arms resting on raised knees, watching her. If he dared to laugh, she might very well pick him up and dump him in the ocean. And she could do it, too, in the mood she was in.

  When she got close to him, she managed to maneuver herself into a sitting position. And, actually, Zack-hairy’s maneuver had helped remove the sand from her eyes and some of it from her other body cavities.

  She was too exhausted to chastise him, like she usually did, but she could look. The man was too pretty for words. He matched her in height and then some. Wearing only running shorts—they had special garb for running in this country—he was slightly brown all over, except for his blond hair. His muscled chest. His long muscled legs. His perfectly sculpted face.

  And I look like a drowned rat.

  “Why don’t you just ring out, Britta?”

  “I am not a person who quits.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t sign on for this, honey.”

  “Do not call me honey or sweetling or dearling or any of your other slick words.”

  “Sweetheart, you don’t need to go through all this,” he said, totally ignoring what she’d just said.

  “Yea, I do. You have to understand, I have no skills in the womanly arts. I cannot do needlework or run a castle household. I can count the times I have been in a scullery. Herb gardens look like weeds to me. As for babies, they are stink-some, and their cries make me wince. But give me a bow and quiver, and I can shoot an arrow straight and true. Swordplay comes second nature to me.”