A Medal for What?
A short erotic story of love, from the Desert Wars in the Middle East.
They got rid of all of their clothes in the dark, outside of the fence, away from the prying eyes that usually watched the pair of them all the time. They said nothing, helping each other keep balance in the shifting sand as they disrobed, laying their clothing carefully aside. They could take their time. Most of the camp had retired.
They had done this many times in the past six months since they'd first met. There were few places they could be so private with each other, and they knew enough to keep vigilant about what was happening on the other side of the fence inside the military compound with its glaring lights, constant guard patrols, and the dogs; as well as outside of it. The dogs knew they were there. They had watched them walk to where they were, could even smell them, but kept their secret.
Six months earlier, was when O'Brien and Margaret had first met.
Within minutes of that introduction, it had been obvious to those who observed them that something special was happening. Every single progression of life from the first unicellular organism at the beginning of time had been gearing up for exactly this moment between these two. Nothing else in life existed. Within seconds, and without exchanging a single word, they knew all about each other, and were already planning for that moment, only minutes away, when they could be alone with each other to make love. Some things were pre-ordained, and this had been one of them.
After all of their clothes were off, they stood holding each other upright, caressing, kissing, whispering, knowing what they would be able to see in each other’s eyes if it had been light enough. Margaret was standing higher on the sandy slope to make it easier for them both as they got started with each other; blending together, sinking deeper into the shifting sand as most of their combined weight was over his feet now with her above him and slowly sinking down onto him with one of his large hands behind her, under her, holding her close onto him as he slid into her, and the other on her breast.
O’Brien held Margaret’s thigh at his waist level, his hand under her, his little finger touching excitedly up against hair as he had slowly but steadily, guided himself, lifting under the tip of his penis, pulling her labia apart, to push into her. It was easy with long practice; and they'd had a lot of practice.
She had prepared herself, although when they finished, the Gel she had used, would attract and hold the sand onto their exposed flesh until it could be wiped off.
She helped him find her and stay there between her legs as she flexed her hips to settle him deeper into her, always pulling themselves closer to each other. He almost lost himself right there with what she was doing to him, and feeling her breasts-- superb breasts, with their hard nipples proclaiming her excitement for him-- snug against his chest.
They stood still, as he recovered his wits, then made sure they stayed together that way with a few turns of Saran wrap around their buttocks to keep them engaged; from slipping from each other too soon; as well as to keep the sand from interfering in what they were doing. They smiled, kissed tenderly, yet hungrily, and chuckled.
He felt breathless already, and always would, no matter how many times they did this. Any other way to begin this and he would have been pushing sand where it shouldn’t be; up into her, and it would be a dry, abrasive and unsatisfying union, but always exciting. That old song about the camel trying to bugger the sphinx, came into his mind….
The sphinx’s posterior orifice was blocked by the sands of the Nile, which accounts for the hump on the camel, and the Sphinx’s inscrutable smile.
And then the song was just as quickly forgotten.
They fondled in a delicately exploratory way, running their hands over each other’s body, investigating, intruding, squeezing, drawing it out as they kissed, feeling their temperatures beginning to rise. Before either of them came for the first time, and only when they were fully engaged with each other, to keep the sand out, they slowly dropped back onto the sand together, as one, O’Brien uppermost, bodies entwined; and buried themselves in the warm sand. Margaret covered their heads with a towel to keep the sand out of their hair and ears as she dragged the sand over them both from the side of the dune to hide their pale skins. They wiggled their legs and their bodies deeper into the sand and deeper into each other in an often-repeated ritual that could be interrupted anytime as they came for that first time. Sand stuck everywhere to them on their perspiring bodies, camouflaging them to some small degree. They could stay where they were all night, dozing in each other’s arms as they continued this. There was no bed check.
It was an exercise in self-control not to give in and push, tensing up in that way that would begin that inevitable process that he would be unable to stop. Few men could slow that down when faced with such excitement as Margaret caused in him all of the time, even when she was not with him. He just had to think of her, no matter where he was, to become aroused. He focused on being relaxed and putting his mind onto everything except what they were doing and feeling of each other.
As they settled deeper into the sand, covering themselves with sand, keeping their bodies close together, he moved their clothing, already neatly folded (in case they had to move fast) up to their heads under the same sand-colored towel with his pistol on the top (an instinctive action, no matter where they were), before he began to lose his mind for the first time that night. They could be here for at least an hour, maybe two, maybe all night, depending….
That was the night he had shot those four intruders who had intended to cut through the fence and toss grenades around into the mess hall, the club, and around the compound; into tents, under vehicles. There had been four of them. Suicide-bent on wiping out the foreign invaders before they themselves were martyred to join with their promised virgins in paradise.
Those men hadn’t seen them making love close beside them, blinded by the bright lights within the compound and with the pair of them mostly hidden under the sand at the side of the small dune, almost on a level with their heads. Their rancid body odor from being unwashed for too long, and from the heavily-spiced food they ate for each meal, was obvious. The dogs would soon detect their scent and raise the alarm.
The four of them squatted and talked their plan through, less than ten feet from the lovers, and fifty feet from the wire, unaware of what was happening beside them.
O’Brien and Margaret tried to remain frozen, though approaching their first climax with each other and too far along to stop now. Inevitably, the men heard them then... their breathing... seeing the unstable sand cascading in a mini avalanche down the slope from that pairs’ involuntary movements under the sand, forcing O’Brien to shoot the four of them, even as he and Margaret had both been coming. How in hell he expected to hit anything while that was happening, was something he had no choice about.
Six shots; a group of four, and then two, at almost point-blank range, all in about three seconds. It left their ears ringing, the adrenaline flooding over them both, and personal fluids being expelled and exchanged as their bodies writhed together in the final throes of the most exciting climax either of them had ever experienced. There were no other terrorists following those four. If there had been they would be running by now, knowing they had been detected. Then the two lovers had kissed with a strange abandon, submerged for a few seconds in a different personal world as they completed what they had begun, unable to help themselves any longer, and feeling more excitement than they had ever felt at any time in their entire lives. Four men lay dead beside them, emptying their life-blood into the sand. Dead. Shot through their heads at almost point-blank range, and they were both still coming, as O’Brien expelled the last of his fluids into her.
Four men dead. But two individuals vibrantly alive. More alive than they had ever been before.
There had been something cathartically satisfying about that to them both; having averted a catastrophe for them, and for their compatriots and friends. That emotional rush, those two coinciding events, had never been repeated in that way, even though their frequent couplings continued, but Margaret hadn’t wanted it to be repeated like that. For her, O’Brien was excitement enough without adding to it quite like that.
O’Brien had talked it through with the Marines in the glare of their flashlights when the guards had eventually listened to them from inside the fence instead of shooting first. A ‘German-Shepherd’ rushed up and fussed around the pair of them, recognizing them and their voices and smells, before it examined the four men lying there, growled, and then loped off into the night as its handler called to it with an unheard whistle from somewhere out in the darkness. Because of the dog recognizing them, and with them being naked, they had not been shot out of hand.
The entire camp was awake after those shots. Men and women tumbled from their tents with guns in their hands. Were they under attack?
The marines on guard had been unnerved by the shooting, seeing four bodies in the sand, but then seeing the pale white skins of two others that they easily recognized, even without clothing, showing up in the glare of their flashlights. The situation was soon seen to be under control as more responders spread out, firing flares to illuminate all movement further out, but there was none, apart from the dogs and their handlers.
The two left standing were both recognized, of course, and were seen to be completely naked, still bound together with that transparent wrap, and still doing what they were so obviously doing with each other. There was relieved, nervous laughter as others came to see the spectacle.
O’Brien’s and Margaret’s sexual antics with each other were well known. They knew they might have two minutes to get dressed, however they could, even in the glare of those lights which never wavered for an instant. O’Brien shielded her with his own body from the searching and curious flashlights. Other guards and their dogs would soon be with them outside of the fence.
O’Brien took a knife down the transparent wrap to separate their bodies as he dropped out of her, leaving it wrapped around her hips. He hurriedly helped her dress, caring nothing about his own naked state; only hers, before other guards came around the fence at a run, guns at the ready, and escorted them back in, with O’Brien carrying their belongings.
Others, carefully assessed and then removed the bodies. A small crowd watched the parade back through the gate; Margaret carelessly dressed; O’Brien completely naked; proud, and still rampant, but he didn’t care. Only Margaret, mattered to him.
O’Brien had hidden the towel and other personal things away in his own clothing, which he carried in one hand, not having had time to dress himself. He tried to explain, unsuccessfully at first (there are none so obtuse as those who do not want to know) as he stood naked in front of everyone, to the smirking guards, and then to the commanding officer in his tent, what he and Margaret had been doing outside of the fence in those dunes; him, still stark bollocks naked, and her…, almost so. As if anyone needed to ask.
Sand was dribbling from her mis-buttoned shirt, still revealing too much of her mind-shattering body. A tanned, wondrous body covered with sand that stuck to every drop of perspiration that had erupted from them both as they had reached their climax together. She was still hiding her body by pushing his shirt into her over-long trousers—his trousers, not hers, grabbed up in the dark—which she held up on her body with one hand, standing to attention, just as he still was, but in a different way. At least she was mostly covered. Mostly.
“At ease!” The officer was struggling to decide how he would write this one up.
Margaret could feel where O’Brien had been in her. He was still dribbling from her, washing sand grains out of her overly-sensitive vagina and down her legs, but no one else would know that. She resisted fidgeting at the sensation, and the strange consciousness of what had happened, what they had done: amazing, mind-shattering sex. And death!
The wet at the top of her legs after the sauna bath in that Saran wrap, and from his fluids, as well as her own when they had quickly separated to get dressed, had picked up sand like a magnet. Her vagina had been unable to close fully to keep it out when O’Brien had backed out of her in the glare of those lights. She was still open, and would be for most of the night. She would dream about what had happened, repeating it over and over in her mind, and marveling that they still lived. This, was living. Real living. But you also burned out fast. No one could live at this level, or on this edge, for so long.
O’Brien, standing beside her, was completely naked but didn’t care. He had her shirt, and her underclothing and trousers in his hand, carrying their boots in the other. He could do nothing about it with her wearing his clothes. He would survive. There was a sand sheath in the shape of a strange condom, sharply demarked around the base of his damp, but still intumescent member, telling its own story of where it had recently been and how deep into her after sand from their clothing had fallen onto him as he picked them up to get her dressed.
He was still leaking. They had separated too soon, and before he had fully finished with her. They both wanted to catch up and finish properly, but couldn’t now. They would make up for it soon, however. They always did.
The marine who had escorted him in, had O’Brien’s pistol which the officer examined, seeing six shots had been fired from the clip: the number that others had heard in rapid succession and that had got the entire camp on edge.
It had been dark, so O’Brien had fired six times to be sure about two of them, killing the four men almost instantly. He liked to be sure that there would be no come-back, and no grenades, so he had made doubly sure about the last two men. He didn’t want any surprises, but he was known to be a good shot. He was just as cool about what had happened as any man who often faced such a war situation could be, as he explained it, leaving out almost everything important to him.
The four bodies laid out in the temporary morgue had bullet holes in their heads. Two of them also had bullet holes in their bodies; through their hearts. Each of them had been festooned with webbing holding enough grenades to do a hell-of-a-lot of killing that night.
If O’Brien had hit a grenade with one of his shots...?
The officer shook his head not sure how to deal with it, but after the first rush of anger, after being suddenly woken up, and his intemperate remarks, striving to understand what had happened, he had listened to what the pair had to say in their own defense.
He had eventually rolled back his questions about what the hell they had been doing outside of the fence, as though it was not obvious. He calmed his nervous anger and recovered his wits enough to see the proper course of action. He thanked them for having stopped what could have been a costly and embarrassing attack that could have taken a lot of lives. It would have cost him his rank at the very least. He owed them his thanks, not his censure. He’d tighten everything up after this wake-up call. Then he gave them the expected tongue-lashing and reprimanded them mildly, for the record. If it were needed.
He dismissed them both with a final smirk, and commended O’Brien for having wit enough to keep his weapon handy (while O’Brien’s other weapon had been fully occupied). He’d write it up as a tale of heroic vigilance, while hiding the truth. He would have to mention their names, of course. No hiding them. His superiors might ask what the hell was a nurse doing outside of the fence at that time of night with a Marine. So he concocted a story to satisfy any questions. He would brief them both in the morning. The story would be that O’Brien had been investigating some activity outside of the fence and had taken on a lone attacker, getting injured. She had been seeing to his needs when three more attackers came along. Yes, she had certainly been tending to his urgent needs.
He’d find the right words for that report.
O’Brien and Margaret were taken off in different directions under escort, having no choice about it.
O’Brien walked back to his tent in only her hastily-donned and unfastened shirt, too small for him, and still aroused, frustrated to have to deal with the inevitable questions and the constant ribbing from his fellow marines as they walked him back. Margaret would have an easier time of it. No one would rib her. O’Brien was a catch, and he was hers. She would rinse out his damp trousers that evening and get rid of the sand out of her vagina and from between her labia in the shower or bath. Neither of them would ever forget this night.
They would calmly exchange clothes the next day at lunch in the mess; unbowed and unfazed by the ribbing, and chuckle over what had happened while others looked on, envious of both exploits. The entire camp knew what had happened and the details, and how lucky they had all been. Especially O’Brien, the lucky sod! That, was a commonly used phrase around those two.
That strip of sand was bulldozed flat the next morning, hiding all evidence of love, and death.
They both got a medal for that, for bravery in action. And what an action it had been! Truer words were never spoken…. They regarded it as a medal for loving each other, and that was how they would describe it to each other, and to their children, whenever they would come along—it was obvious they would eventually marry—and for having got caught making love, rather than for averting anything more serious, as they had. The marines never gave medals out for fucking anything other than the enemy, but that had happened too. A medal for fucking a friendly. It was surely a first.