by Selena Kitt
"Yes, sir. I understand."
Chapter Nine: 30
Being an algebra teacher was not all it was cracked up to be. I much prefer trigonometry or calculus. Instead of teaching the quiet, scholarly students, being the new teacher in the school got her the remedial algebra students. The ones who had already tried to pass—or didn't try, as the case may be—but who needed it to graduate. The worst part is all the papers I have to grade. It was a big high school, so she had four full classes. On days like this, when a third of her students had just flunked their pop quiz and the two worst troublemakers were in the hall again, Irene considered quitting and getting a machining job again. That's what she usually did in the summers to supplement their income, and when they first moved it was sometimes easier to find a part time machinist job than to jump right into a new school midway through the year.
Still. Being a teacher paid more—it actually paid more than Drew was paid as a Staff Sergeant—and she needed all she could get to keep up with her aggressive savings plan for the boys' college, for retirement, for any contingencies such as the time they moved and it took her seven months to find another job.
She picked up the twins from elementary school and drove them home, chattering about the dinosaur book their teacher had read, the way one girl had spilled the whole jar—"The whole jar, Mom!"—of paint water, and it was so cool how the papers were all muddy gray colors now.
Drew was home already, his shift on base having ended earlier. He picked up the boys and took them off to the base rec area to throw tennis balls, and Irene flopped onto the couch. I don't even dare look in my bag yet. I can't believe how many papers I still have to grade.
She was still there when they returned home. "Hey, guys! Did you have fun?" The twins clambered over her, both talking at once about the ball that smacked daddy in the stomach.
"Haden threw it, I saw him, Mom."
"I did not, Jason threw it, I saw him do it."
"No way, you saw yourself throw it."
"How would I see myself? You're a silly fathead."
"No you're a doodoo head!"
Irene rolled her eyes. "Seriously, boys? Can we not call each other names?"
Drew stepped in. "Boys." His voice wasn't loud, but firm. "What do we have for each other?"
Both boys looked abashed, and cuddled closer to their mother while blinking innocently at their father. One ventured an answer. "Res-pec?"
"Respect. Yes. Does calling each other mean names show respect for each other?"
"No…"
"Then I expect that you will not do it."
Both boys stuck their lower lips out, displeased with that restriction. Drew leaned over and picked them up only to deposit them on the floor one at a time. "Now go read, I need to cuddle your mother for a little while."
Irene smiled at her big husband as he crawled over her body on the couch, pinning her down. "Just cuddle?"
"Yes, apple cheeks, just cuddling for now. We still have to get them fed."
She snuggled closer so she could wrap her arms around his chest. "Okay." For a while she let herself doze, lulled by the steady sound of his heartbeat. He's so strong. Our leader. My alpha. My soldier.
Chapter Ten: 32
It was their anniversary and, as usual, he couldn't get leave on the exact day of their anniversary, but the Thursday through Saturday after was good enough. The boys stayed with Beth and her two children. For the rest of the day and half a night they rode together like they had for years and years. Irene loved it. She'd learned to drive on a motorcycle, and even after nearly ten years of driving the boys in a car, she still felt strange and confined in it. This is freedom, right here. The Harley growled between Drew's legs and she pressed her thighs tightly to the outside of his, her pelvis sealed against his ass. She didn't like the full head helmets Drew insisted were safer—even though they did keep more of the dirt and bugs out of her mouth—because she had to keep her head turned on his back, facing to one side or the other and not forward, over his shoulder. Still, having to turn her head every so often to ease the tension in her neck was worth the comfort of wrapping her arms around his waist when they rode together.
The cabins were small but well maintained. That was one of her main jobs at every new duty station: locate the best cabins within a day's ride.
"I expect to have a hot shower," he told her when they finally arrived and dismounted, just like he always said. "I do enough roughing it when I'm deployed. I don't want to rough it on our anniversary."
She smiled back. "We used to, remember?" They opened the door with the key she'd picked up at the cabin rental office. It was clean inside, though the scent of cedar was strong. There was a bed covered in down quilts in one corner, a small table with two chairs on the other side and, in the back, a bathroom. She sat down to unbuckle and remove her boots, then unzipped her leather jacket and draped it over one of the chairs. Standing in her stockinged feet she wiggled out of her leather pants, bending over and shaking her ass suggestively at him as she did. He didn't speak for a moment, and she peeked. His eyes were glued to her ass, to the lacy cheeky panties she wore. She straightened up and started to unbutton her thin shirt while he shucked his own clothes.
She didn't get a chance to finish before he picked her up, strong hands on her thighs while he kissed her soundly. "We did, didn't we?" Then he leaned forward, pinning her between his hard chest and the wall. She was relieved to find it was just as smooth as it looked. "We still do play rough, though, don't we?" Her weight supported by the wall and his left hand, he put his right up her shirt to pinch her nipples. She gasped breathlessly. "Very rough, sometimes."
"Drew! Oh, gods…" She tightened her hands until her nails left imprints in his shoulders and he pressed his hairy thigh forward to support her body at the apex of her thighs. It left his hands free to squeeze her breasts and she moaned.
He nudged her jaw to the side and she obliged, giving him access to her throat. He bit and sucked, leaving a mark she would have to hide at work, but she didn't care. It sent a wave of goose bumps over her skin and she shivered, her nipples standing at attention. He bit down harder and she cried out. "Drew!"
He broke the suction to murmur against her throat. "What is it, Irene?"
She flexed her fingers on his shoulders, the desire strong in her bones to cut tracks in his skin with their sharp tips. "More, please, please…" He tightened his fingers on her bra-covered breasts, lifting upwards until just the nipples bore the pressure of his fingers.
"Like this?"
"Oh, gods!"
He chuckled, releasing her breasts only to yank her shirt open. Buttons pinged on the hardwood floor, announcing the reason she bought a new see-through button down shirt every year. She sighed in relief when her bra snapped open quickly, and then his hands were on her breasts again. Digging into her softness, he slid towards the tips again. She arched towards him, her nails raking down his upper arms and back.
"Bite. Please?"
"Bite? You want me to bite your soft titties?"
Her head lolled on the wall. "Yes, please, Drew!"
"Ask me nicely."
"Please, sir? Please bite me!"
He flicked her nipples and she gasped, her throat working around louder sounds. She wasn't ready to give him the satisfaction yet. But two could play that game. He grinned at her. Hands spanning her waist he hoisted her higher against the wall until he could easily kiss her breasts.
Kiss, not bite. Bastard. Irene squirmed and wrapped her legs around his hips, trying to goad him into greater aggression.
"Oh no, you don't." He slapped her thighs until she put her legs down, her body sliding back down the wall. "You need to ask me the way I want you to ask."
She felt silly. An educated woman, asking—begging… she shook her head, stubborn.
"Too bad then. Just licks for you." He leaned over and returned his attention to her nipples, flicking them with his tongue while she squirmed and moaned.
"Pleas
e? Drew? Please? Bite me, please?"
He chuckled. "Not good enough, apple cheeks. You know what I want." She groaned, yanking at his head and thrusting her chest at his face until he pulled back. "You're so pretty like that, standing there all blushing and huffy. I bet I could cum just looking at you." He began to stroke himself and she grabbed at his hand.
"No! No, Drew, I want it. I want you."
He chuckled as she dropped to her knees, mouth open and hot against his balls. He allowed it, spreading his feet to allow her greater access while he continued to stroke himself, her little hands futilely dragging on his big one.
"No? You want me to fuck you up, apple cheeks?"
"Yes, please, Drew, I want it so badly!"
"Tell me." She continued to lave his balls, a way to please him with her tongue without being obedient. "Tell me, or I'm just going to cum all over your pretty ass and then go to sleep."
Her head jerked back, and she stared up at his dark eyes, her own filled with desire and embarrassment. "Please. Drew. Please. Bite my titties. Bite my clittie. Please. Please bite my titties, sir."
He leaned over her to wrap his hands in her hair. "Good girl, Irene." He drew her up by the pressure in her hair and then shoved her backwards over the bed. She fell back, limbs akimbo, chest heaving. His mouth descended on her left tit and she cried out at the sharp pain that radiated through her chest. It spiked through her belly to her clit and she spread her legs further in a wordless plea. He slid one rough hand beneath her panties to pinch and torment her clitoris, squeezing tighter with every bite to her soft breast. Her nails raked up and down his back. He switched to her right breast, nipping at the nipple before engulfing half the globe in a solid bite. She rubbed her hands over and over his short hair, her thighs clenching against his hips. He released her breasts to slide down her body and bite her belly. She cried out—pain scattered along her nerve endings and set them on fire. Her cunt was dripping onto the cute quilt and she longed for him so intensely she thought she could never be sated.
Drew shoved her legs wider and tongued her swollen flesh through the panties. Irene cried out and arched up. "Please Drew, please Drew, please Drew…"
"Ask correctly." His voice was thick with desire and even so, implacable.
"Please bite my clittie, please bite me, please..."
"Bite what?"
"Bite my clittie, please, sir, bite my clittie!" She knew it wasn't the word that mattered so much as her compliance in something she found difficult.
"Good girl." He obliged her then, yanking her panties down and delving between her swollen lips. Irene writhed against him, pinned down by his hands on her thighs. His sharp teeth found the slick nub between and sent lightning shocks through her body. When she felt herself nearing climax he stopped to leave a trail of harsh bites down the inside of her right thigh. She bucked on the bed, her breath coming in hot pants. He bit down on the inside of her left thigh and she cried out. This was what she wanted. I need this so much. This was why she loved their anniversary trips.
"Oh, Drew, please, more!"
He leaned in and bit her engorged lips, licked and sucked and bit down hard until she screamed her release. She couldn't come like this at home.
When the aftershocks of pleasure had mostly subsided, he wrapped a thick arm around her waist from beside her on the bed and pulled her towards the pillows. "My turn." His growl delighted her, and she shivered in anticipation. Hooking her right leg over his hips, she fell back against his arms at the feel of his stiff cock slowly pressing inside her. "So hot and wet. What a beautiful woman you are." He continued to murmur endearments along her jaw line as he thrust slowly, so achingly slowly. Her body melted against his, dissolving in the heat of her desire. Will I ever stop desiring him? He fits me so perfectly, I don't think I ever could.
* * *
The next morning they spent walking along the beach. Her bottom throbbed with every step and she grinned to herself. In a rare fit of pique, she'd defied his wish to go to the beach instead of stay in the cabin. The result was predictable, and necessary. He'd bent her over the bed and strapped her buttocks until they were covered in crisscrossing welts of red and purple. When her tears had slowed, and her breathing calmed to the rhythm of his heartbeat, they'd gotten up and ridden to the pier.
The wind plastered her peach dress to her body and Drew took a photo. It turned out well, so on their way back home he stopped to get it printed.
"I'm going to be deployed again. Next month."
Her heart dropped out of her chest and bounced around her ankles. "Again? Oh, Drew." She wouldn't cry—had cried enough when he'd spanked her to last for a while. Instead she clung to him as they rode, every mile filled with that many more prayers for his safety.
* * *
The phone rang. As always, Irene snatched for it, her eyes blurred with sleep. Her left arm stretched out across the empty bed, reaching for… Drew. He was deployed. Again.
"Hello?" Her voice was slurry and thick.
"Mrs. Breckridge?" The voice was too formal, too careful. Especially for 3 am. She sat up, her heart pounding.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Breckridge, I'm sorry, but there was an accident. Gunnery Sergeant Breckridge was on the road in Afghanistan when his vehicle came under hostile fire."
Her heart in her throat, she interrupted the Marine on the line. "Is he alive? Is he okay? Is he hurt?"
"Yes, ma'am, he's alive. Barely. He's lost a lot of blood. He was airlifted to Germany an hour ago. He just came in to the medical unit this morning, but they got him stable enough to transport."
"Oh, thank all the gods." Irene could breathe again—her chest was filled with searing pain, but she could breathe. "Where? Germany? I'm coming."
The marine cleared his throat, and she felt like her heart was in his fist. "Uh, ma'am? He said, uh, to not."
"What?" Irene couldn't find words for a moment, sure she had to have heard incorrectly. "What?"
"He was awake enough to ask about his men. And he said, 'tell her not to come'. He was shaking a photo. Uh… It was a photo of you."
Irene closed her eyes. How could he do that? How could he say that? How could he not realize that I need to be with him right now?
"Ma'am? Is there… is there anything you want me to tell him?"
She shook her head for a minute before she remembered he couldn't see her. "I love him. That's it. Just… where is he?"
The marine gave her the name of the hospital in Germany, and she sat up, shaking. For a long minute she stared at the phone in her hand, then she dialed his number. It went to a recording that the number was temporarily not in service. For a moment she stared at it, confused, then realized he'd probably had it with him when he was hit. And who knew, maybe the phone was broken, too.
Irene stayed in bed for the rest of the night, unable to sleep, concentrating on sending all her love to Andrew. Heal. Get better. I'll take care of you, just as you've taken care of me for so long.
She called the hospital in the morning.
"We're sorry, ma'am, he's still in surgery. He lost a lot of blood, but we're cautiously optimistic."
She almost screamed at the phone, but kept her voice level. "Of course. He's strong. He's a soldier. He'll be fine." She pretended she didn't hear the doubt in the nurse's voice.
She called her parents. "Mom. Pop. I need you. Please."
Her mother put the phone on speaker. "Of course, honey. What do you need?"
"Drew… he's been hurt. I… I just need you. Here. Please?"
"Of course. We'll be on the way today." She could hear her father starting to pack in the background, and she hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. She wouldn't be alone. No matter what happened.
Nothing's going to happen.
She called the school. "I'm so sorry for the last minute call. But I won't be able to make it in today. My husband…" her voice broke, and the principal cleared his throat.
"I understand, Mrs. Breckridge. Take whate
ver time you need to grieve. Your job will be here."
"No! No! That's… he's not dead. He's just… wounded."
"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to assume. Of course the staff will keep him in our prayers."
"Yes. Of course. Thank you."
Why would they assume he was dead? Does Mr. Ropko have an intuition that I don't? Wouldn't I know first? Wouldn't I feel it? Wouldn't I be the one to be sure that Drew was gone? She slumped at the table, terrified of the moment her boys—their boys—Drew's boys—would wake up. I would know. And since I don't, he's fine. Hurt, but fine. He's been wounded before. Remember that time he took a bullet to the calf? He's fine. You can't even tell that every so often he limps. Not unless you're looking for it. Remember? He'll be fine. He is fine. Oh, gods.
The boys cried. At ten years old, they knew what death was, and they wanted their daddy. No one else would do.
She kept them home from school. And all day, they ate ice cream and goldfish crackers with peanut butter and apple sauce and marshmallows, and watched what felt like a hundred episodes of some mindlessly funny TV show they liked. Cuddling in her arms they seemed to be soothed—but today was just one day. I can't hide away with them until Drew comes home.
She called the hospital again. "Please, just tell me how he's doing."
"He's fighting. We can't save the arm—we're going to have to amputate his right arm. But if that goes well, he has a much better chance of recovery. The shrapnel; it tore up most of the muscles and ligaments, shattered his elbow and most of his forearm. The infection would be too much for his body to handle if we don't."
"Of course. I understand. You're doing whatever you have to to keep him alive."
"Yes. If all goes well, he should be awake tomorrow."
"Thank you. Thank you."
The boys were staring at her when she emerged from the kitchen. She swallowed hard. "Daddy's going to lose his arm. But the rest of him… the rest will be okay."