Prologue.
The Staff NCO Creed-
I am a Staff Noncommissioned Officer in the United States Marine Corps.
As such, I am a member of the most unique group of professional military practitioners in the world.
I am bound by duty to God, Country, and my fellow Marines to execute the demands of my position to and beyond what I believe to be the limits of my capabilities.
I realize I am the mainstay of Marine Corps discipline, and I carry myself with military grace, unbowed by the weight of command, unflinching in the execution lawful orders, and unswerving in my dedication to the most complete success of my assigned mission.
Both my professional and personal demeanor shall be such that I may take pride if my juniors emulate me, and knowing perfection to lie beyond the grasp of any mortal hand, I shall yet strive to attain perfection that I may ever be aware of my needs and capabilities to improve myself. I shall be fair in my personal relations, just in the enforcement of discipline, true to myself and my fellow Marines, and equitable in my dealing with every man.
***
I looked over the folder containing my reenlistment, my promotion warrant, my orders to DC and away from North Carolina where I spent most of my career, and this. The Staff NCO Creed. Our wet-down was tonight. A short shindig for the Gunner. He’s a family man if ever there were one. Everyone wanted to see me get thrashed at the SNCO club, as well, but that was next Friday. Some Master Gunnery Sergeant had it locked down for tonight. I didn’t have the heart to tell them my orders were for Wednesday.
I start checking out on Monday.
Tonight was my last night as the Ordnance NCOIC. Tonight I was going to spend time with my protege. The girl I mentored who should see Corporal any month, now. Tonight we celebrate our history.
Chapter 1. Check-in
“You were such a scared kid when you checked in.” I say, with a swig from my bottle and a turn of the label to appreciate the maker.
“You weren’t, Staff Sergeant?” You ask slyly, as you toss the bottle you’d been holding toward the “empty” box where it landed with a clinking rattle, then fish another out of the freezing cold of the melting ice. Your curly hair, which had been tied loosely back with a long ribbon, now spilled down your back and onto your shoulders. You don’t quite remember what happened to the ribbon.
“You don’t have to call me that here. And I was fucking terrified. But I acted like nothing could phase me. It was written all over your face…”
My eyes are twinkling from the bonfire, slightly glazed from the alcohol, and distant with a memory. This is our first night out. I had just transferred out of your unit because I needed to train the other squadrons on the weapon system we had been working on with the engineers for the past year. It was a pain in the ass to put in, take out, run…everything. We were the beta testers. In the field, we were going to put this thing through trial runs. Fucking unbelievable.
“You checked in on a Monday. Your green alpha trousers were too long. Just nasty.” I recall with a exasperated shake of my head.
I was working on the expenditure report for the logistics squadron and some moron had completely fucked things up. I had just come back in from recounting all of the rounds and was ready to throw the computer across the room when you walked through the door. I raised my eyes with a glare and you popped to attention. Your body bolt upright, you said, “Sergeant?”
“PFC?”
“Um. I’m here to check in.” With that, you went to parade rest, your legs in a steady pyramid and your arms held behind you with your hands resting on the small of your back. You looked unsure as to what you should do next since I was still looking at you and hadn’t said a word. I jerked my head to the right. The international sign for “get over here.” You were still at parade rest, went to attention, went back to parade rest, and duck-walked to the desk.
“Duck walked?” You laugh in the present.
“Yeah. That stupid thing every PFC does in my office when they feel they have to be at parade rest, but aren’t close enough to my desk to actually BE at parade rest. Your hands over your butts are like duck tails and you waddle.”
“I’ve never done any such thing!” You laugh again, more heartily.
“You did so. Every PFC in this spoiled generation of Marines does it, now you want to hear the story or what?”
“Yes, Staff Sarg-” A facetious dirty look from me paired with a smirk halted your honorific and you said with a smile, “I do, Rick.”
You extended your orders to me and I snatched them out of your hand with a swipe.
“Looge. Like the Olympic sport.”
“Lue-gee. Like ‘glee’ without the l. Or like what you spit, I guess…”
“They’re going to call you Luge.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“So you’re probably going to be ‘luge’ for a while. Let me handle it.”
“Aye, Sergeant.”
“Don’t fucking correct them. They hate that.”
“Aye, Eskişehir Escort Sergeant.”
Your earnestness cracked my shell a little. Not much, but I lightened up a little, for a second, anyway.
“Back up. Stand at attention. Report in to ‘the Sergeant Major.'” I pointed to myself. You took a step back, pulled your legs together smartly, and looked very serious.
“Good morning, Sergeant Major. Private First Class Luge reporting as ordered.”
“I thought your name was ‘Looge.'”
“Sergeant?”
“PFC?” I mocked, “I thought you said your name was Looge.”
“You said not to correct them, Sergeant.”
“I am going to throw something at you. Are you serious? Did I, acting as the Sergeant Major, Commanding Officer, or fucking Elmo, ever call you by name?”
“N-“
“THEN DON’T INTRODUCE YOURSELF THAT WAY OR THEY WILL CALL YOU THAT FOREVER. OKAY?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“SERGEANT. Do it again.”
“Sergeant.”
“Do. it. again.”
“Good morning, Sergeant Major. Private First Class Looge reporting as ordered.”
“What…the fuck…is wrong…with your…trousers?”
“Excuse me, Sergeant Major?”
“Shut up. Why are your pants so long?”
“I had them tailored before I got here.” You said, your voice shaking a little.
“Was the tailor those birds from Cinderella?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“Were you wearing stilts, then?”
“Patent Leather Pumps.”
“With the skirt. Today, you’re wearing patent leather shoes. Appropriate for the Service Alpha Uniform WITH TROUSERS.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Yeah, requesting the East Coast. Alright. We can fix this. But you have to trust me. Do you have Cammie trousers with you?”
“I brought my Sea bag.”
“Good. Get it. Put them on.”
You walked out of the office and I pressed my fingers to my closed eyelids. You walked back in with your sea bag hefted in front of you like a giant green stuffed sock. I motioned behind me to the privacy screen separating my desk from Staff Sergeant’s.
“Change there. Staff Sergeant is on the rifle range this week.”
I heard the shuffle of clothes and went back to my work. When the shuffling stopped, I asked,
“Done?”
“Yeah.”
I stood up, turned the corner. You were standing there in your camouflage utility trousers and wearing just a white bra, otherwise. I froze. You blushed in a circle, starting around your cheeks, down your collarbone almost to the curve of your breasts in an upside down arc before returning to the other collarbone. Your upper stomach moved as you breathed cautiously. Your breasts gave the same slight tilt up and down and I could see your heartbeat in your neck.
“Put.” I cleared my throat. “Put your shirt on Looge. What are you doing?”
“You said for me to put on my trousers.”
“I did. I meant all of your cammies. Please continue.” I stood there for a second longer, looked at your pale skin and how it blotched red with your embarrassment.
“Excitement.” You say, interrupting again. Your face has gone as red as I just recalled from the story.
“Hmm?” I ask, looking away from your eyes, which had caught my attention for more than a few seconds.
“I was blushing because I was excited.”
“Ah. Were you, now?” I ask and lean closer to you.
You turn your head away, still blushing, and say quietly, “You have a story to finish.”
I took you and your trousers to our parachute riggers next door. In school we called them stitch bitches. Now that we knew they were our connection to flight suits and quick/easy alterations, we called them rank last name, or by the nicknames we tend to collect in our camaraderie. Vegas was a short Vietnamese kid. His mother had been a seamstress and a tailor and he went into the Marine Corps to purposefully escape that fate. But for some cruel trick of timing, his open contract landed him a slot in the flight equipment parachute rigger school and he used his sewing on a daily basis. He took the trousers from me and looked you up and down. A sharp pang of…protection ran through me. You were MY PFC. Did he really have to work you over so thoroughly with his eyes? You’d be with our squadron for years. Plenty of time for that. Just not right in front of me… I explained the situation and he had you change back into your green uniform trousers in the Night Vision Goggle test closet. He made marks to hem your legs and then gave a small tug to your waist band.
“Too loose here makes it too baggy here.” pinched fabric at your butt and marks made with soap chalk, “It isn’t supposed to sit this low. You should fill the bottoms out more than you do.” You turned at the waist to see him kneeling behind you and he nodded to your ass. I glared at him and he remarked,
“That isn’t an official uniform thing. Just an observation.”
“Stick to the Papa 1020.34 Golf (citing the manual for uniform regulations) and I’m sure the Sergeant Major will be able to appreciate Eskişehir Escort Bayan your work.” I said to him and then looked at you.
“Or not even notice it was messed up to begin with.”
You got changed back into your Cammie bottoms and Vegas said the trousers would be ready after lunch. It was when he winked at you that I put my hand into the small of your back and led you out of the room. I sent you around to check in with the rest of the squadron that day. You were fucked with, as everyone is when they first get there. Remember when they sent you to flight line to get a stack of 6048s? I told you there was no way you were asking for that without me in there with you… (“Because 6048 is their job classification and a stack is when they wrestle you down and duct tape you to something. I had wondered why you told me to wait until it happened to Ruiz two weeks later. But you didn’t have a problem with the Quality Assurance Sergeant telling me I needed to ask Gunny Tompkins for a Prik-E7…”)
The look on your face when you found out a Prik-E7 was essentially a pissed off Gunnery Sergeant was priceless. Gunny Tom has a sense of humor about those things. He just looks mean. The Marine Corps does that to people. Did you know he’s only 34? I know. Looks like he’s 55. So I knew which battles to send you into and which ones to let you find out through tactical scouting…
“You were a good friend, Staff Sergeant.” You say and look me in the eyes. Your eyes pale blue, almost grey, and illuminated orange by the small bonfire we’ve built on the beach. Except for that brief moment in DC, this is our first time we’ve been out together, at night, alone.
“I told you. You don’t have to call me that here, Becky.” I reach past you toward the full cooler with the caution I’ve practiced over the past year, but you lean forward to grab your beer from a hole you’ve dug in the sand and I graze your breast from my fingertip to tricep. I look over at you and your eyes are closed with a smile on your face. When you open your eyes, my eyes leap away and I change direction, lean my arm OVER your arm, and grab another beer.
Chapter 2. Green Belt Training. Present.
“You want to be careful where you put your hands, there, Rob.” You say, bemused and give your chest, still tilted toward the fire, a little shake causing your tits to sway lazily back and forth in their bra. Your shirt hangs loosely and I watch your plump round breasts fall from your chest, caught by your bra, and swing pendulously. You bite your lip for a moment, watching me watch them and say,
“I just picked up my Green Belt, remember?”
“Becky, I was the instructor who trained you for your green belt. I tested you out. I know for a fact that you officially know just enough to get your ass kicked by someone who knows what they’re doing, as opposed to someone who doesn’t.”
You put your beer into the gopher hole you’ve dug, sit up on your knees, and put your hands up in a classic boxing stance. We would call this, in the world of Marine Corps Martial Arts Program, a modified warrior’s stance. I would just call you a little tipsy. I’m pretty socially lubricated as well.
“Yeah. What now, pervo?” You laugh.
I say, “You really want to do this?” and set my beer to the side, leaning it against a rock far from the edge of the blanket and tarp we’ve set down. “You might get sand in that hair and I know that curly shit is hard to clean.”
“You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid of my ninja ways.” You say, and move your arms in some nonsensical kung fu kata.
“I’m afraid I might hurt you. You do realize the last Lance Corporal I fought got punched so hard, he ceased to exist, right?”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Remember Lance Corporal Cinnibon?”
“No!”
“Exactly.”
I throw a very slow haymaker open handed strike toward your face. You block it and counter with a backhand of your own to my temple. Expecting this, I lazily catch your hand and hold it there. You throw another, quicker strike to my forearm holding your hand captive and I catch that and push your hands toward you just hard enough to make you fall backward. With you on your butt, I shrug and reach back to get my beer.
“What good is teaching you green belt if you aren’t even going to u-ooof!” The wind is knocked out of me by your very sudden rocking forward from a seated position into a crouching dart toward my exposed midsection. You connected very solidly and you are on top of me now, sitting on my stomach and holding my arms to the ground above my head. Your face is very close to mine and your slightly forced exhalations push hot breath onto my face. It’s sweet and tinged with beer. Your face gets closer to mine and your smile is feral. Like you are a tiger, purring your gutteral rumble before claiming your prize.
When I feel the weight of you is on my wrists instead of my stomach, I buck my hips, popping your ass into the air and your face above my head. My arms come to my sides Escort Eskişehir and they grasp onto your wrists half way down. I reach under your body with my left hand and grab your left wrist. I pull both of my hands and your wrist to the left and use my right arm to off balance your body by pushing you right while still pulling your left arm to my left. You flip over and now we are reversed, with me in between your legs instead of on your stomach. I hold your shins with my shins and your forearms with mine.
“I…am a human blanket.” I announce boldly with my face an inch from yours. There’s something about this that cracks you up and the ferociousness of not 30 seconds ago is gone and replaced by your boisterous laughter. I join in laughing, too, and release my grip on your legs and forearms. I collapse into your shoulder and laugh, feeling our mutual laughter bounce us together. I start to pick myself up, first on my knees, then on my hands, still laughing, but kneeling over you. I look down at you on the blanket, your hair slightly mussed beneath your head. You look at my lips and lick yours, nibbling on your lower lip after your tongue has passed over it.
“I…” I whisper to you, my eyes connected to yours and the thread behind them reaching down to my heart and giving it a tug.
“Yeah?” You whisper back as you hook your legs around my hips and loop your hands around me. One on my back, the other on my head, fingering at the patch where the skin starts to fade into hair. You’re pulling me toward you, or I’m lowering myself to you. I’ve wanted this for so long. There is an ache in my body like my spine is a magnet and it’s being pulled into a solid steel ground. An even stronger ache is coming from my pants and I realize, just as my waist touches your crotch, that I have a very solid erection. Your hips shift upward into me as you feel this and you breathe in deeply then let out a long soft groan.
“I think I need…” I whisper.
“…to kiss me?” You ask, grinding the crotch of your jeans into me.
I don’t answer, but I bring my lips close to yours and we brush soft pink skin together without any firmness. We breathe each others lost whispers instead and stare into each others eyes. You close yours, I close mine. I close mine and you close yours. We open them together. It would seem that we are connected already. It looks to each of us like the other doesn’t even blink and, instead of being unnerving, it’s comforting. The thought of someone so entranced by you that they don’t want to let you out of their sight.
A soft short moan escapes those lips, almost pressed to mine. You move them soundlessly, brushing sweetly across my own. Then you lick me. Your tongue extends beyond your teeth and laps once at my top lip. That is when I give in and press myself to you.
Your hands can’t decide where they want to be. They’re in my hair, they’re on my back. Sometimes they’re up my shirt and grasping at my chest hair, sometimes they’re squeezing my arm muscles as they flex while I support myself above you. Our mouths are connected and we only move away to breathe small moans of delight. I’m first on my palms, then on an elbow, then both elbows, then my arms are around your body, rubbing you and grabbing at you. I nuzzle into your neck and suck softly on its tender skin. You let out a long moooooan as your hips grind your crotch into the firm bulge of cock, pressed against my shorts, then pressed against your jeans, then against your panties, then against your pussy, which was moist with a desire to be filled.
Chapter 3. Torque and tension
Before I picked up Lance Corporal, we used to go everywhere on the flightline together. You left the shop so much more than you used to when you had a bunch of boys working for you. That’s what everyone told me, anyway. You said it was because you needed to check my work because as a new Marine out of school, you hadn’t become comfortable with trusting me to do the work on my own. It was something I had to show you. I think there was more to it than that. I think it was because you were trying to protect me.
You couldn’t very well protect me in the barracks when you were off duty and you had to be at home with your wife. Protect me from those boys. All the boys who would show up drunk at my door looking for a quick fuck. All those boys who would hang around me when I drank feigning interest in whatever I had to say but, really, the same thing. When you had barracks duty was an entirely different story. Since you were the only NCO for the shop until Sweets picked up Corporal, you had it twice a month at least. You must think I’m an alcoholic, with the times you’ve seen me drunk. The truth is, I never felt much like drinking unless you were around. I don’t mean that your presence upset me. I mean the opposite, really. I mean, I saved drinking for when I could BE safe. Because I knew, with you around, no one would want to go near me.
I would drink my homemade mixes of Honey bourbon and sprite in the lounge/duty hut and listen to you tell stories about your old days in the Marine Corps. About how much things have changed. The abuse you used to suffer at the hands of your Corporals and Sergeants. How you were almost thrown from the deck of the ship when you smarted off to your Corporal while you were counting rounds.