The Distance Between Dreams

by Sherry L. Brown

  I come. My muscles clenching him in ecstasy. I don’t want to ever let go of how full I am, how alive I am. All muscles clenched, pleasure spiraling down and out. Ten seconds, fifteen, twenty. I don’t care. I just had a phenomenal orgasm and I don’t want it to go.

  I give an experimental tilt of my hips. Yep, dick still hard. An aftershock of pleasure echoes within my womb.

  He pulls out and I’m flipped onto my stomach. I reach behind me, I need skin contact. My fingers graze his muscular thighs; he tilts my hips up, and thrusts. I’m immediately penetrated, the surprise, the pleasure spinning me to new heights. A sudden slap- stinging heat warming my right ass cheek.

  I pull away, but not enough to completely disengage him. He grabs both my wrists and pulls me back to meet his thrusts.

  Another orgasm has me screaming into the pillow. I’m aware of Broussard, on a peripheral level, he thrusts only twice after I come, and has his own orgasm. I am just a pile of gelatinous goo, muscles, inside and out, quivering in pleasure.

  He pulls out landing beside me on his back, one arm thrown over his head, the other gripping the condom to his dick.

  I let my legs relax, sliding down to my stomach and turning my head from Broussard’s panting form next to me.

  What have I done?

  He gets up, and I hear the light click on, the faucet start and stop, then the shower.

  Good. Maybe if I lay here, he’ll get cleaned up and kiss me goodbye, and be gone. No more embarrassment, no more Broussard. A tinge of sadness flows through me at this thought. No. I will not bring it to the front of my thoughts, I will not give it attention, and thus substance.

  His hand wraps around my ankle pulling me backwards along the bed.

  “C’mon Ryan. Shower time.”

  “Ughhh…” I groan unhappily back at him.

  He drops my leg when my bottom half is on the floor.

  I look back and just glimpse his apple-bottom and broad shoulders going through the door into the bathroom.

  “Don’t make me come get you,” he hollers from the bathroom.

  I push up from the bed. There is a soreness and slickness between my thighs. A shower sounds heavenly.

  30

  I put my hand underneath the water - it’s hot and ready- just missing my girl. Shit! I can’t think of her that way. Just yet. Right? After she was discharged, we haven’t been in contact at all. I was kept appraised of her status, the surgery and rehab on her shoulder, but other than that, I never reached out.

  I turn, readying to go get her and drop her in the shower if need be, but she’s there, standing silently in the doorway, looking for all the world just so sexily fucked- messy hair, red, swollen lips. Her body language is hesitant though, she’s got one arm crossed in front of her chest, the other dangling down by her side. She’s looking down at the floor.

  I hold my hand out to her, she takes it, and I guide her into the shower enclosure, adjusting the spray so it doesn’t hit her squarely in the face.

  I look down. She’s staring solidly at my chest.

  I’ve never known Ryan to be so timid. After sex people get awkward. But Ryan? Well, this is surprising the shit out of me.

  I grab the bar of soap from the cubby, and spin her around and start washing her back.

  Her shoulders are slender and feminine. With the exception of the four inch pink scar on her right shoulder - it’s flawless. I continue washing, my gaze following my hands. Down her spine, to the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen- and it’s currently sporting a bright red hand print. It’s fucking beautiful seeing my mark on her. My dick jumps in happy response.

  I trail the soap, my hand down into the middle of those two luscious globes, while kicking her feet apart, unbalancing her so that she throws her hands up against the tile in front of her to steady herself.

  Her breathing is loud. I replace my hand with my now throbbing dick. It’s sliding oh-so-good with the soapy lubricant between the globes of her ass.

  Fucccck. I’m going to come again.

  Not wanting to leave Ryan behind, I reach around, grab her breast and give her nipple a tug.

  She moans. I do it one more time, before dipping lower to her pussy.

  The soap, the water and her moisture combine in a pleasurable friction-reduced glide. I tease her outer lips, inner lips, never hitting her clit, all the while my dick is cradled by the softness of her backside.

  She’s writhing in my hand.

  “Please, Eric...please…”

  Damn. I think this is the first time she’s called me by my first name. Hearing her use my name in tandem with a beg, it ratchets my own building pleasure up just a notch below orgasm.

  Bringing my lips to the junction of her neck and shoulder, I look down the front of her- her soaped-up breasts, my hand between her thighs- it’s a glorious sight.

  “What do you want, Ryan? Tell me.”

  She doesn’t pause in her writhing, in fact she leans her head back more solidly against my shoulder. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her face in concentration.

  “Please...my clit…”

  My balls draw up at her words, and I don’t hesitate to give her what she’s asking for. The instant my finger draws on that tight little bundle of nerves, she’s pulsating in my arms. It’s damn near the first simultaneous orgasm I’ve ever had- my come splashing onto her lower back.

  I take a second to catch my breath. I’ve curved my upper body around hers, my forearm braced against the wall supporting our slight lean into the wall.

  I push away and reverse our positions so the stream of water is now coming from over my shoulder and hitting her back. I reach down to the bottom of the stall and pick up the soap, washing the mess I made away.

  This woman I vowed to never touch. Too young, too sexy, too much attitude, and under my command. I hated the thought of her at first. But a begrudging admiration morphed into a simple pride, all throughout our deployment, she continually surprised me with her tenacity and abilities. But the probability of more situations where she might be hurt, my gut always clenches at the thought. The scar on her shoulder, I trace my fingers down it. Maybe I’m not happy that it meant the end of her experiment, I am satisfied that she’s safe stateside.

  She spins in my arms, grabbing the soap out of my hand. Starts gliding those smooth gentle hands up my pectorals, around my lats, down along my sides.

  Wash. Rinse. Repeat- it’s heaven.

  I’m nearly catatonic after two orgasms. And I know, I know my time with her is limited. I’ve got just a half day, then I’m shipping back. I try to keep my eyes open, but the heat of the shower, combined with the stress of the day, I’m nearly sleeping on my feet.

  The shower is switched off, and Ryan’s there in a towel, holding my own out to me.

  “Ryan. Let’s go to bed. I’m beat.”

  I scrub the towel over my face, meet her gray eyes.

  “Yes. Bed.” She agrees.

  31

  I lie in his arms, completely awake, and now completely sober. Tomorrow I’m back to California, to a life that isn’t a life. He’s still got four or five months on his deployment. I’m not really sure. I’ve convinced myself that it’s best if I distance myself from the details of my ex-team.

  I take a deep breath. I’m finally alive and I can’t go back to sleep. Seven plus months I’ve been absent. I recognize it as the depression it’s been.

  Now, at the touch of this man, he awakens me. I’m alive. His touch brought me back to life. And T - he’s dead. My best friend, a man way more deserving than me, lies cold in the ground. I want to go back to numbness. I don’t want this pain. I’ve felt it before, and it spurred me down a road that led to failure.

  Damn Broussard.

  I lift his arm from my shoulders and scoot across the bed our legs no longer touching. I sit up and look back at his form. He’s splayed out, stomach down, one arm cupping the pillow to his head, the other down by his side, leg splayed out. I was, a moment ago, under that leg, u
nder that arm.

  His face astonishingly younger in repose. He’s not tensing his jaw or furrowing his brow. It’s almost as if he is smiling to himself.

  I turn from him and run my hands through my hair, still slightly damp from the shower.

  The clock is shining its red neon face brightly, 3:42AM.

  I have a flight at seven AM. I run through the calculations in my head. One hour to get there. Six AM. One hour to get ready, five AM.

  I'm close enough. Plus, I won’t have to do all that mushy/awkward goodbye stuff with Broussard if I leave now.

  I stand up, pull my bag into the bathroom with me.

  I’m not sneaking out.

  I quietly brush my teeth and get dressed.

  I go back to the room, allowing the light from the bathroom to illuminate what I need. Picking up my skirt, my shirt, my shoes, my cell phone charger, I place them all in my go bag.

  I pull my cross trainers on, and leave my key card on the sideboard.

  Take one last look at the sleeping male form on the bed. Broussard’s got the blanket tucked up under his arms, and underneath it his chest rises and falls in deep rhythmic breaths. He has one masculine foot sticking out the bottom of the covers. Seeing him like this - vulnerable, relaxed- well it’s a softer side of him I never would have thought existed. Like catching a glimpse of a unicorn under a rainbow.

  Should I leave a note?

  I’ve never been in this situation before. Mixed emotions of remorse, shame, and embarrassment crash through me.

  I grab my bag and as quietly as I can exit through the door.

  Broussard

  I know a second before I open my eyes I’m the only one in the room. I groggily roll to my side and push up, swing my feet over the edge of the bed. I let my head fall into my hands for a moment and take a deep breath.

  “Fuck.”

  I say the one word out loud. It doesn’t make me feel any better. I scrub my hands down my face and stand while doing a slow scan of the room.

  Yep. Her bag and cell phone charger are gone. I walk to the bathroom and look at the vanity - no toothbrush either. I turn on the faucet and splash some water on my face.

  Look up into the mirror.

  “Face it Broussie, there’s a first time for everything.” I turn off the faucet.

  This just happens to be the first time a woman has left me without a goodbye after a night of great sex. The first time a woman has left me period.

  I walk back into the room and start gathering my gear. I sit on the bed to pull on my pants. Put one leg through and pause as a thought crosses my mind.

  Damn. I didn’t want it to end this way.

  I chuckle to myself. Really, should I have expected anything but the unexpected from Ryan?

  Time for the burn portion of this turn and burn.

  Pulling my cell out of my pocket, I see I’ve got two texts from Peanut.

  Where u at Chief?

  I had to leave rather hurriedly to catch Ryan as she was leaving the bar last night and didn’t have a chance to signal that I was leaving to anyone.

  1600.

  The last was a simple reminder of our bug out time.

  I pull on my shirt and take a look at the clock. It’s not even nine AM - I have plenty of time to get back to my room, get changed and get something to eat before we roll out.

  I take one last look around the room before I leave, just in case I missed a note or something. But it seems the only thing she left behind is her key card on the sideboard.

  It’s for the best, I tell myself, no awkward goodbyes or empty promises.

  PART IV

  FIDO

  32

  I’ve been looking at the same topography maps for about two hours, trying to find an insertion point that isn’t stupidly vulnerable when Butters walks into the office.

  I lean back in my chair, happy for a break.

  “Yo. Chief, you ain’t gonna believe this shit.” He says.

  He’s got a face splitting grin on as he slaps a magazine down on the desk in front of me. It’s not any magazine though. There is a pair of glorious naked tits split by the barrel of M4, staring up at me from the glossy page; but it’s what’s directly under one of those breasts that catches my eye- a semper fi tattoo. My heart stops beating.

  No fucking way. I scan up to the face above the tits. Holy shit, it is Ryan.

  Gloriously laid out on an American flag, naked as a jaybird, cradling the M4 with one hand just below her breast, the stock resting just at her waxed pussy. Her eyes in hooded desire, her other hand thrown up over her head. A look I would have thought not possible for her to make had I not seen it myself the last night we were together. Her hair is blonde. So different from her own chestnut locks but definitely sexy with a Cameron Diaz vibe. My dick rises to half-mast.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. What the FUCK is this?”

  I open the magazine all the way up from where Butters had it folded in half. It’s Playboy. I flip past the centerfold, to the picture of Ryan three-fourths of the way in. The opposite page has an article titled, “Kicking ass and taking names in the Military- interview with one of the first woman to participate in active combat missions.”

  I flip the page without reading, my curiosity and dread mingling to see more pictures. I’m delighted to find there are. One black and white art photo taken from behind, her face in profile. She’s wearing a giant angel wing, just like the models on the Victoria’s secret fashion show, but it’s a bit more droopy and with black tinted feathers instead of all white. The scar on her left shoulder is standing out in huge relief- they must have added makeup to make it look like that. A fallen Angel. How ironic.

  Her perfect ass tapers into long glorious legs, perfectly formed and on display in a pair of fuck me heels. The background is some empty industrial warehouse. Damn. The imaging is as haunting, dramatic, and striking as much as it is beautiful.

  The next image is another black and white, this time she’s facing forward, her dog tags dangling between her bare breasts, the one wing just visible over her shoulder, her hands hooked into the panties at her hips- pulled provocatively low. Dark rimmed eyes, making love to the camera. Sharing this last page is four photos in the right margin, stacked one on top of another. The first, she’s laying on her stomach on the flag again, her arms cushioning her head as we get to see down the back line of her body. The second, she is standing up legs spread wide, shot from behind she has the flag draped over her shoulder, her other arm straight out from her side holding the M4 by the barrel as the stock sits on the floor. The third she’s laying on her back, biting down one a dog tag with a half smirk. And the final picture she’s sitting on a rough wood pallet type box, dog tag and chain dangling from one wrist, wrapped like a damn rosary, palms together in prayer, elbows on knees and knees together feet wide. Her head down. It’s poignant.

  I flip one more time, but that’s it. I flip back to the article and start reading. The first paragraph is the author’s observations of meeting Ryan in person:

  Meeting and photographing the magnanimous E. Ryan was one of the more challenging -and rewarding- assignments of my career. She’s humble to the point of closed off. She’s a risk taker, but hardly a thrill seeker. A spine of steel, a heart of gold, bad attitude and a quirky sense of almost-nerdy humor. Can women serve in the military? Ryan’s proof they can.

  Could the man have his nose any further up her ass? I keep reading. Standard first interview question, Why did you join the military?

  I keep reading. Her response nearly floors me.

  It’s probably against woman code to say this, but I joined up because of a man. Not any man, Kurt, but my fiancé, David. I was in the middle of my second year of college, when he was killed in action. IED. After his funeral, I couldn’t stand the thought of going back to “normal” life. So I joined up.

  She had a fiancé? One she loved so much, she quit college to start a career in combat?

  The next few questions and answe
rs give the basic outline of her career path in the marines, leading to the question of why she joined the Navy and didn’t just re-enlist with the Marines.

  I had an opportunity, to do something women have been ostracized from since the creation of it; I was invited- on an experimental basis with six other women - to go through BUD/s. For civilians out there, this is the elite training program for SEALs.

  And did you make it through?

  I’m restricted by security protocols from answering that question.

  The next several lines are more questions pertaining to where she’s been the last two and half years since she left the marines. She doesn’t give him any answers, but the line of questioning alludes to the fact that she graduated and was placed on a spec ops team.

  The interview turns to a question about men and woman fraternizing in the military - has she ever…?

  You know, there are so many brave, courageous and handsome men in the military-but I think of them all as my brothers-in-arms, that’s it. There’s been one exception, but I can’t talk about it.

  Damn. My heart stops and starts back up again. Am I the exception?

  I read the rest of the article- the interviewer asking about the scar on her shoulder, how she managed to keep up with some of the most physically fit men on the planet, and how she feels about taking a stand, blazing a path as a woman in the male dominated military.

  She answers each with depth, vulnerability and smidge of aloofness. The article closes with the writer thanking all military and their families for the heroic sacrifices they have made for freedom and country.

  I flip the page and look at the pictures one more time.

  Close my eyes and see her that last night, below me, face concentrated in pleasure.

  I sit back all the way in my chair and look up at Butters.

  “Who else has seen this?”

  “Just about everyone in C company. You know we get about thirty copies delivered each month in the care packages.”