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After the first night, Major West drew up a schedule for Selena and Hannah's time. During the day they had the run of the house. The men were not to speak to them or interact with them unless strictly necessary. One hour of her time 30 minutes after dinner. Weekends off.
Condoms. No procreation until a later date.
Hit her hard enough to bruise and lose your privileges for a month.
The whole thing was a perfect example of the mixture of the calculated brutality and ruthless efficiency that Jim had come to think of as characteristic for Major West.
Within a week Hannah drew completely into a shell. Said nothing. Not even to Selena. Flinched when Jim tried to smooth down a stray wisp of her hair.
It's a good thing her father died, Jim thinks. Frank would have tried something brave that first night, and Major West would have shot him and pitched him over the wall, or he would have had Frank kept chained down in the basement next to poor mad Sergeant Farrell, but Jim put that as an outside chance at best.
Selena coped. Iron woman. Plague. Death of everybody who ever meant anything to her. The first days of survival. Killing Mark. This. Jim could see the strain in her big dark eyes. He asked if he could do anything. She gave a caustic laugh. Jim took her hand in his, stroking, and eventually folded her into his arms.
"Clifton's nicer than you'd think," she said after awhile. "Seems strange, don't it, having a favorite rapist? Clifton always remembers it's a person he's fucking. Tries to be gentle. Tries to be nice ... in a way."
"But he does it all the same."
"Yeah, but ... " Selena gave a laugh on the edge of tears. "Everybody else just slams away like a machine on automatic, and Corporal Mitchell likes it too much. So here I am, looking at the schedule, thinking, 'Oh good, Clifton tonight', and I can't fucking believe I'm thinking that."
Jim had no idea what to say to that, so he made what he hoped was a soothing sound and he stroked her dark, curly hair.
The shadows in the parlor had lengthened into dusk before she spoke again, breaking the stillness, "How's the major treat you?"
The question startled Jim. After a moment spent trying to frame a reply, he answered, "I don't know. Drinks three fingers of scotch -- neat. Talks about his plans. Talks about various survival issues. Paces for most of the hour." Jim declined to add that he spent most of the hour, or any time he had to spend more than five minutes in the major's presence, half-hard. Selena probably didn't need to know that bit of information -- that in spite of everything, his dick looked at the major and thought "yum".
Pause.
"Why do you ask?"
He felt Selena shrug. "Just curious. He never came down. His name's not on the schedule. It's not like I'd like to have him fuck me, but when the time comes, I just want to know what --" Her body stiffened in realization and she sat up, jerking around, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise. "Are you saying he hasn't ...?"
"No." Jim said hastily. "Never even --" he made a jerking gesture with his hand. "He just sips his scotch, and paces, and drones on." And looks at me. And I can't stop looking back, no matter how much I want to.
"Because he so wants to!" Selena guffawed. "Some of the men figure ... oh." She said no more after that.
The shadows lengthened. Private Jones would serve dinner soon, and Major West would take him upstairs and drink scotch and talk. And look down that pointy nose at him the way a hungry tiger looks at a steak. And Jim would sit there, half-hard, silently willing himself not to mirror that look right back at the major.
~oo(0)oo~
Arms crossed, Jim slouched against the doorjamb instead of taking his customary seat in front of the desk. He had spent all morning practicing this pose after some ideas (swirling all night his head) finally coalesced during breakfast when somebody (he couldn't tell who) made a vague sort of mutter about giving food to "useless mouths".
Major West had his back to Jim at the moment, in the process of pouring out his usual ration of scotch, droning on about the need for a kitchen garden and the state of the water supply. The slight widening of those blue eyes, the sharp flare of hunger in his gaze and his sudden silence all showed that Jim's hips-thrust slouch had the desired effect.
Boldly sauntering across the floor to meet the major half way, Jim said, "How much to buy Hannah a month off?"
Major West blinked in confusion. "I-I don't "
"How. Much. For. Hannah. To. Have. A. Month. Off?" Jim bit off every word. When the major gave no reply, he continued, "I'm not stupid. Night after night in your office. The way you haven't visited Hannah or Selena. The way you look at me. The way you're looking at me right now. You want me, but haven't done a damn thing about it. So I'm wondering, Major, too repressed to ask, or too chicken shit to take?"
Something brittle snapped in Major West at that moment. Carefully placing his scotch on the desk, softly, his voice little more than a murmur, he said, "Neither, actually. Just realism. Just a vestige of civilization that still abides." He gave a gusty sigh. "Because what I really want, won't happen, not now, so I take your time and maintain the polite fictions of friendship, of civility, if nothing else."
"Yeah?" Jim said bitterly. "I don't have much use for polite fictions and broken dreams, especially not now. You want me. I'm offering." He shrugged, arms spread wide. "It's never going to get any better than this."
"What will my men think?" Whispered. Stricken.
"They already think it!" Jim snapped. "They just figure that it means more for them." He gestured yet again. "This is your chance, Major. You want it, I'm willing. How much for Hannah to have a month off?"
Major West closed his eyes and a sour smile creased his lips. After a moment he replied, "A month off is out of the question. Two weeks. Like for like."
"Business days. Her weekends shouldn't count against her." Pushing it, but it couldn't hurt to try, Jim thought.
The major worked his jaw for a few moments. "Okay. Fourteen business days."
"Done. I pay half upfront, the other when you've made good on your word. You can do what you want, but I won't do anything involving piss, shit, or getting tied up and beaten. Oh, and no extra shifts for Selena, either. Agreed?"
The major nodded. "But there is one condition. When we're in this room, you'll use my Christian name, Henry."
Jim nodded.
"Any suggestion on what to say to the men to let them know their ration of bird is being cut in half?" Major West extended his hand to seal the deal.
Jim pointedly crossed his arms. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
~oo(0)oo~
As Jim ate dinner (Private Jones made a passable French Onion Soup) a strange calm washed over him.
Tonight after dinner, he would go upstairs and blow the major, hopefully forestalling a fuck, but if not, well, he could handle that, too. (He took a deep breath as a jolt of blood surged into his cock at the thought of either or both.) It wasn't like he was entirely a stranger to doings between men.
He was going to go upstairs and blow and/or get fucked by the major. He would do this for the next seven business days. And after, Hannah would get two weeks holiday.
And ... and when Selena found out? Jim would deal. Besides, he had a feeling that she would have told him to pick Hannah if he had made her the offer.
He was doing this strictly for Hannah.
(But no matter how often he repeated that to himself, he couldn't quite make it feel true.)
~oo(0)oo~
(Just like heaven.)
~oo(0)oo~
Oh fuck.
Fucky fuck fuck.
And the worst thing about it all? The look in his eyes. That knowing, self-satisfied "I knew it" look.
~oo(0)oo~
Jim gazed up at the ceiling, watching the patterns made by the mixture of light shifting in through the drapes. He wished there were trees dancing in the breeze, casting shadows, giving him something to focus on, but the nearest trees were tens of meters out.
He half wished for a zombie attack.
Something to avoid being trapped here in this room, trapped here in his mind with the very thing he wanted to avoid just waiting to pounce.
~oo(0)oo~
Based on his assessment of the major, the plan had called for him to kneel and pay homage or to drop trou, bend over the desk, and think of England.
The plan was to suck and get fucked.
The plan had no contingencies. Nowhere in the plan was there anything about walking into the room, walking over to the desk, only to be unceremoniously sat back down in his usual chair, have his fly unzipped without preamble, and have his instantly hard prick gobbled down by Major West who did such amazing things with his tongue that within seconds Jim became a mindless hip bucking mess with a vocabulary consisting of "ohplease" "ohgod" and "more". Nowhere in the plan was there anything about what to do when you came so hard the world grayed out and went to tunnel vision and stayed that way for several moments after.
And then the major licked a sticky finger, swallowed, smiled, and dismissed him.
Now knowing all too well the depths of Jim's lust.
Woodenly Jim had walked back to his room wondering if he ... but there could be no two ways about this, no comforting lie he could delude himself with.
He had walked into that room thinking that he had what the major wanted. He staggered out of it knowing that the major had what he wanted.
~oo(0)oo~
Jim stood before the door, torn between dread -- no, it's not dread when your dick's full hard and leaking at the thought of what's about to happen, is it?
Not having the slightest idea what to call the emotion that gripped him, Jim rapped on the door, and then walked into the study.
The major smiled at him, and ohgod, that smile, it was ... it was the golden boy smile, the dream smile, an utterly artless expression of delight.
"Have a seat, Jim." The major indicated Jim's usual chair.
Silently, Jim sat. Numb. Frozen. Until the major stood before him, and, reaching for Jim's fly, made to kneel.
"Major West, don't you want --"
The whip-snap backhand stung Jim's pride more than it actually hurt.
"In this room, Jim," said the major in a calm voice, "I am Henry."
Hand raised to flaming cheek, Jim nodded dutifully.
The major knelt, and in the same, utterly calm, matter-of-fact voice, continued, "The terms of this deal, Jim, were that I could do what I want so long as it didn't involve BDSM, pissing, or shitting. That means, Jim, that if I want to blow you, I will, that if I want to fuck you, I will, if I want you to suck my cock, you will, and" he leaned in close, his voice low and breathy, "and if I want you to fuck me, you will. This isn't about what you think or what you want, or what you think I want, Jim." He reached up and pulled Jim's head down, his voice a whisper of heat against Jim's ear, "It's all about me, and what I want, and what I plan to do."
As soon as the major had leaned in, Jim started trembling. Not from fear. And when he felt lips and a hint of teeth gentle on the pulse point where jaw met neck, he couldn't stop his breathy gasp.
The Gates of Hell Swung Open --
"I rather doubt you know how incredible you look right now." The major shifted so that he whispered in Jim's other ear. "Milk-white skin, dark hair, bluest eyes, and the look in them right now, it's so very, very," the major trailed a string of tiny kisses along his jaw "very" until he stopped at Jim's lips, "wanton."
And then he kissed him.
-- and Jim Raced In
~oo(0)oo~
He simply had no shame, no, check that, he had plenty of shame -- he spent most of the hour blushing furiously, his mind screaming at him to stop -- it just wasn't enough to stop anything where Henry was concerned. Blow jobs, finger fucks, being slowly stripped and worshiped with hand and lip and tongue (prior to meeting Henry, Jim had no idea that his nipples had a live-wire hotline straight to his dick), being asked to beat off for Henry's pleasure? Jim did it all. In fact, Jim wanted to do it all so badly, he burned from the shame of it. But he came all the same. Once even three times in the hour.
And Henry?
He never even loosened his tie. And no matter how feverishly Jim ran his hands through that caramel colored hair of his, it never seemed to look mussed.
And here it was, day seven (no weekends off) and Jim, jacking himself hard and fast, had begged Henry to please just fuck him already, but Henry simply drove in with a third finger, hard, and Jim couldn't hold back any longer, shot his load all over the blotter on the desk, and would have slumped to the floor, but for the fact that Henry caught him.
"Are you ever?" Jim asked, taking the tissue Henry proffered.
"When the time is right." Henry smiled.
Jim groaned, frustrated. "How is it not right?"
Looking utterly composed as he mopped up the mess on his desk, Henry replied, "Right now it's enough for me to watch. It's more fulfilling than you think, you know. Nice little Catholic boy like you squirming and twisting, begging me for more, begging me to fuck him. I wonder what the brothers and nuns would think if they could see you now."
It was like a bucket of ice water to the face.
"So," said Jim, "tomorrow you make the big announcement."
The major studied him, eyes unreadable and said almost off handedly, "Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Know what you plan to say?"
"I'm going to tell them that it's a measure to reduce complacency and increase their attention to detail. It incentivizes it, don't you think?"
Jim had no idea what to say to a statement like that so he changed the subject. "Poor bastard out in the yard's not looking so well."
"No he's not," the major agreed.
"So, if he finally dies, or rots, or something ... to the point where he's not a threat? What then?"
The major shrugged. "Haven't thought about it." An obvious lie.
"You're never going to let us out, are you?" Jim said sullenly. "Must be nice to have a kingdom. Even as one as miserable and tiny as this one."
To his surprise the major rolled his eyes and let out a long suffering sigh, as if Jim were a particularly obtuse child. "If he finally gets to the point where he's no longer a threat, we wait a month to be certain, and then go looking for other survivors.
"I made myself a goal when this all started. Whatever it took, I would get as many possible out of here alive. I made a promise to myself, and I keep my promises."
Jim snorted in contempt.
The major gave him a wintry look and said, "What do you think would've happened if I had gone back on my word to the men? I might have held out a day or two, but very likely I would've been fragged by Corporal Mitchell, and Sergeant Farrell would die next. How long do you think the men would have lasted? How long do you think Mitchell could keep order and proper defenses? I say 72, 96 hours, tops. In the end, nobody here would have survived.
"Whatever it takes, I'm keeping us alive, Jim. And that's what the two women are -- they're what it takes right now. That's my plan, and I don't give a rat's ass about how dirty and ugly you and Farrell think it is. I'm a survivor, and by hook or by crook, I mean for all of us to be."
Jim shuddered. Selena had nothing on this man when it came to doing what it took.
~oo(0)oo~
The next morning, at breakfast, Major West made his announcement that Hannah had a 14 business day holiday. Discipline, he explained, had grown a bit more slack than he liked, they weren't out of the woods yet. At the end of the period, he would evaluate the performance of the men, and if he liked what he saw, he would return full privileges.
Corporal Mitchell grumbled loudly.
Major West asked if he had any grievances he cared to air publicly.
After receiving permission to speak, Mitchell said that the Major had promised them women.
The major reminded everyone that Selena was still on the schedule and that the matter was now closed.
Mitchell sat back down, but Jim had the feeling that this would not be the last of it. With a great deal of effort, he forced himself to spoon down the rest of the lumpy oatmeal Private Jones had cooked. He bolted from the table as soon as he got the chance.
Selena found him on a terrace overlooking the rose garden. "This is your doing, isn't it?"
Jim sighed heavily. "Yes. Look, I --"
Selena cut him off. "How?"
Quietly. "What do you think?"
"Oh." Sympathy.
"Yeah." To Jim's immense relief, she didn't ask him how it was, because she'd catch the lie, and no way in hell would she want the truth. Nobody would. Nobody (except the major) did.
"It's a good thing you're doing," she said quietly after a few moments.
"Next time I'll try and get --"
"Don't bother. My period should start in a few days. That's a four day vacation right there."
Jim snorted. "No blowjobs?"
"Major said so. He seems to think it's more taxing than it actually is." Pause. She leaned in close and whispered, "I'll tell Hannah."
"You don't have to."
"I think she should know."
~oo(0)oo~
Dinner (green beans and an attempt at savory crepes) was a tense, strained affair.
Afterwards, out of habit, really, Jim went to the major's study, knocked, and entered.
"What are you doing here?"
"I - I thought ...."
Steepling his hands, the major said, "Half now, half on the other end, I believe that was our arrangement."
"Aren't -- Can't we just talk?"
A quirky smile flitted across Major West's handsome features. "It was never just talk, Jim. Besides," he gave a sigh "how will it look if you keep visiting me and I've just reduced the amount of tail for the rest of the men? I've enough problems with discipline as it is." He picked up his pen and began adding to whatever useless report he was working on. "I don't want to see you in here for another 14 business days, Jim. And make sure some of the men can see that you're not in here." he said without looking up.
Oh.
Jim wandered down the back stairs, deliberately avoiding the men, and after aimlessly trolling the halls, finally found himself in Hannah and Selena's rooms.
Hannah, her light brown hair carefully combed into pigtails, couldn't quite meet his eyes but murmured softly, "Thank you, Jim."
He shrugged.
She drew in a deep breath, slowly released it, and said, "Want to watch a video?"
"Sure." He figured that if she was going to make the effort, he should at least oblige.
She popped in Gone With The Wind without asking.
Jim found the choice oddly appropriate.
Selena joined them about a third of the way in. Nobody said anything.
When the movie ended, Jim wandered back to his room. He thought of masturbating, but then decided to save it. Hunger was the best sauce, right?
~oo(0)oo~
Over the next week, tensions mounted in the house. Corporal Mitchell seemed to take a perverse delight in seeing how close he could come to open insubordination and yet not quite step over the line.
Deprived of his daily ration of Major West, Jim tried to visit him at other times, only to be dismissed or hustled out of the room at the earliest opportunity. Jim took to trying to shadow the major on his rounds through the halls and galleries, only the major went to some pretty extreme lengths to avoid him, even sicced Mitchell on him once. At dinner, he seemed to find a way to look at everybody except Jim.
Selena commented on that one afternoon, giving Jim the seeds of an idea.
He spent the rest of his days in his room, reading. Evenings were spent with Hannah. Late nights were spent with poor Sergeant Farrell. Major West had given him the job of bringing Farrell his one meal a day and emptying out his slop jar, something the men were only too happy to hand over to him. Farrell wasn't quite as cracked as Major West seemed to think, on the contrary, he was too sane. And that -- sanity -- had a limited place in the new world, Jim was beginning to realize.
Farrell didn't say much, but seemed to find the notion of Major West dealing with the rank and file soldiers a bit amusing, West wasn't trained for it, you see. Officers used their NCOs so they wouldn't have to get their hands dirty dealing with the men, which was why men obeyed their officers, but feared their NCOs.
Jim personally hadn't seen a thing that made him think of Sergeant Farrell as fearsome in the least, unlike Major West, who still scared Jim spitless on some levels. Farrell's views, his objections, were simply inconvenient for what West needed to do to keep the men in line. He wondered why the major hadn't killed Farrell. Part of his vow? Or was there some truth to what Farrell was saying about NCOs, and West kept him alive because he planned to make use of him at a later date?
~oo(0)oo~
It all came to a head Sunday night. Selena's monthly had started that morning, which meant that nobody was getting any tail for the next three days.
As Private Jones began clearing the plates at dinner's end, Corporal Mitchell grabbed Hannah and tried to take her from the room.
Major West shot to his feet and roared, "Corporal Mitchell! What is the meaning of this outrage?!"
"Yeah, it's like this. Why should we have to go without? This bird's had a week off, and it's not like we get to go on holiday, now is it?"
Utterly cold and patrician in his delivery, the major said, "Unhand her now, Corporal."
"No, I don't think so," Mitchell replied with a sort of false laziness. "You've been getting some every night and we've got none, so unless you plan to farm out your little boy whore, Major Poofter, things --"
He never got to finish. Without preamble, and in a single, fluid motion, Major West drew his pistol and shot him. Mitchell's body dropped, the red ruin of his head smacking the table on the way down, splashing what was left of Jones's lobster bisque out of the tureen.
The major then ordered Selena to take Hannah from the room, put her in the shower, and give her something for nerves.
He then told two of the men to take Mitchell's body out of the room and pitch it over the wall at first light.
Sitting down, he carefully retucked his napkin and called for Jones to bring in dessert.
There were no further challenges to his authority.
~oo(0)oo~
Jim woke, gasping and sweaty from a dream where he had flowed through the house, blade in hand, Death on two legs.
When the surge of adrenaline wore off, he found he had to laugh about it, because the sheer idea of him taking down a bunch of heavily armed, combat-ready soldiers?
Bloody rich, it was.
~oo(0)oo~
Midway through Hannah's second week of holiday, the poor bastard out in the side yard collapsed. By Friday he lacked he strength to do anymore than glare or longingly champ his teeth at any who came to look.
Saturday afternoon he died and was doused in kerosene and burnt to make sure he really wouldn't rally before his corpse was pitched over the wall with the rest of them.
The men reported that they saw several bands of zombies collapsed on the road beyond the perimeter wall.
The major was right, no future indeed.
~oo(0)oo~
Jim's duties on Hannah's first night back on shift didn't take place in Major West's study.
Instead, the major figured that since all the men knew he was fucking Jim, it might as well be in a bed. His bed.
He clamped a hand on Jim's shoulder and steered him down the hallway.
Not surprisingly, he had claimed the master suite.
A massive, old fashioned four-poster bed with a crimson brocade, gold-fringed canopy dominated the room.
"Major --" Jim began.
"In this room, Jim, I am also Henry."
Oh.
Right, then.
The major kissed him, open mouth, wet, devouring. While the little voice of conscience tried to get a word in from the ivory tower, the rest of Jim found himself returning want with want, tangling his hands in the maj- Henry's hair, holding his head right there so there would be no break in the kissing as they stumbled crab-wise towards the bed.
But even the little nagging voice shut up (at last!) when Jim finally caught sight of what he had wanted since -- since he had first laid eyes on Henry, really. Henry's lean, rangy, body gloriously naked and hard for him.
And then (ohgod) Henry's large warm hand closed around Jim's hard cock, stroking, caressing ever so slightly, causing Jim's knees to go jelly for a moment while his dick gave a huge spurt of pre-cum, almost like it was drooling.
"That's what I like about you, Jim, so wanton when we're together, so eager, yet so prim and proper the rest of the time," Henry whispered in his ear, the warm breathiness of it making Jim quiver ever so slightly. His hand reached around, ghosting across the top of Jim's cleft. "I'm of half a mind to add your name to the schedule, give my boys a taste of what they've been missing." To Jim's shame, his dick gave a fresh surge of wetness. "Give them somebody who's such a hot little slut for it," Henry growled as Jim felt his face flame. He pulled back and studied Jim, who only blushed all the harder. "And how glorious your blush is -- the good little Catholic schoolboy is so ashamed that Jim the tart can't get enough of it, needs it so badly -- so aluring." He claimed Jim's mouth in another kiss and Jim tried to repress the urge to rock his hips, to chafe himself against Henry's fist. When they broke again for air, Henry murmured, "No. I think I'll keep you all for myself. Rank has its privileges, and I'll admit to being a greedy bastard where you are concerned."
The major gently pushed him to indicate that Jim should sit down on the bed. As soon as Jim's ass touched the coverlet, he swiftly dropped to his knees and took Jim's weeping cock into his mouth, tongue rasping, head bobbing, slurping, making little moans of eager pleasure, as if this were as good for him as it was for Jim.
And Jim, for his part, did what he always did, closed his eyes, sank his fingers into Henry's hair, and held on for dear life as pleasure surged through his body.
In fact, so dazed was he by the incredible evil-good things Henry did with his tongue that his hazed brain didn't wrap around the meaning of Henry's sticking a finger into his mouth at first. Jim just liked the way the cool air tickled and the way the finger resting alongside his prick made for a sort of lopsided flow of sensation. Different, not bad. Just different. And then the finger left and Jim felt a little jolt in his groin as his prick got equal sensation again.
And then, with warning, no hinting, no nothing, Henry pushed that cool wet finger in, and the rudeness of the sudden intrusion hurt, and Jim's hips bucked in surprise, but at the same time, the tension it created, the smoothness, the purpose behind it sent a different set of white hot flares running up Jim's spine and he could not contain the shout as his hips snapped forward and he came and came and came.
Flopping bonelessly back on the bed, he gasped for air, and, and after a few tries, said shakily, "I feel like the top of my head just lifted off." After drawing another breath and forcing himself to focus, Jim continued, "Don't expect me to say anything too intelligent for the next several minutes, right?"
Henry stood and smirked down at him. The sight of his hard and very red cock caused a twinge in Jim's loins -- he had little over two weeks of forced abstinence to thank for that. "That's not what I'm looking for in you, Jim. Willing compliance is. Now move up towards the head of the bed."
With arms and legs seemingly made from noodles, Jim scrambled to obey, goaded on by his own eagerness and the heat in the major's blue-steel gaze.
He didn't have to wait long. Henry crawled towards him like a panther, pausing only to get a good squirt of lotion from the bottle on the nightstand. He told Jim to roll on his side, facing him, and hooked Jim's leg over his hip while he slowly worked two lotion slicked fingers in, causing Jim to groan into Henry's shoulder.
They kissed for several moments, Henry pumping his fingers slowly in and out; Jim tried to rock his hips a bit, chafe his rock hard cock against Henry's, but the angle wasn't quite right and Jim couldn't get any real, driving, sensation going. He groaned again, this time in frustration.
As Henry abruptly withdrew his fingers and rolled on his back, Jim heard himself make a bereft little noise, but before he could speak, Henry said, "I want you to climb on." His lips quirked. "I want the best seat in the house, you see."
And Jim, for his part, felt his eyes glaze over, felt that delicious little surge through his loins at the thought of straddling Henry, sinking down slowly, and taking all of that into him. The libertine in Jim giggled in glee at the idea of climbing aboard and riding Henry hard. The part of his brain still capable of prudent thought said, "Condom?"
Henry frowned. "James, it is only you and I. If you've got anything, well, I've certainly got it by now. Besides, as we both well know, there are diseases worse than AIDS." Pause. "Get on with it," he growled, looking at Jim through slitted eyes.
Jim didn't need to be told twice.
He couldn't -- didn't even try to -- contain his hiss of pleasure at desire at long last sated that flowed out in a long breathy exhale as soon as Henry's cockhead breached him and continued as Jim sank all the way down.
He closed his eyes and savored the feeling of fullness -- fullness up to his eyebrows it seemed -- wriggling his hips slightly, smiling at the groan that got out of Henry.
Jim opened his eyes and gasped at what he saw. For, if Henry had sent heated glances his way before? Well, now, he burnt. A bonfire. All the urging Jim needed to see if he could turn it into an inferno.
~oo(0)oo~
It continued much the same way for the next three nights in Henry's bedroom, exploring every inch of Henry's long, lean body, learning the contours of those sinewy muscles, even sucking his cock to diamond hardness, but not enough to make him come, Henry making Jim come either by sucking or jacking him off, and then Henry would fuck Jim. Tonight, Jim had dared suggest that Henry try taking him from behind and the results were ... Jim had no idea Henry could deliver such a good, hard fuck. He would certainly be walking funny tomorrow, and Henry had also sucked one hell of a lover's mark onto him at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Jim would have to make sure he wore a shirt with a high enough collar tomorrow -- no need to flaunt it, that could cause problems.
With a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, Henry slowly pulled out of him, and Jim hustled to the bathroom to clean himself up. Henry had made on thing clear the first night -- he didn't want a wet spot in his bed. (Jim's pointing out that a condom would solve that problem still didn't change Henry's mind about wearing one.)
"What's next?" Jim asked as he pulled his shorts on.
"Eh?"
"There haven't been any attacks in nearly a week. Do we just stay holed up here forever? Or are we going to go out to re-supply and look for survivors?"
Henry favored him with a sated, sleepy smile. "I think tomorrow, I'll send the men out on a few short excursions to check for activity. And if the bastards really are dead? Well, we'll make plans from there."
"Oh, come off it. You never improvise. Well, you do, but you've been planning your egress the day you holed up in here. Can't fool me on that one." Jim stepped into his jeans.
Henry let out a long sigh. "Very well." He sat up and stretched before reaching for his pants. "Yes. We will be leaving. And then, after three days, we will be leaving. I said I was going to get as many out alive as I could, but I think I've earned the right to not stick around afterwards. So, on day three, provided all seems to be going reasonably well, we'll slip away in the middle of the night. My parents had a cottage in the highlands of Scotland. We'll stay there."
Jim was in the act of pulling his sweater back over his head. He felt as if he'd been ducked into an icy pond at that statement. He stood for some moments, face smothered in wool, arms over his head, knowing he had to compose himself before he dared show his face.
"Something wrong, Jim?"
Right.
"It's -- that's ... Henry, do you mean it?" He forced a note of eager hope into his voice, put on what he hoped was a believable smiling face, and pulled the sweater the rest of the way on.
Henry raised an eyebrow at that. "Yes, why wouldn't I?"
Jim sat on the bed, and keeping his gaze carefully focused on his shoes and socks, said, "It almost sounds romantic." Pause. "Tell me more about this cottage. What part of the highlands?"
~oo(0)oo~
Gasping and drenched in sweat, Jim woke from the dream. Third time he'd had it since things had started back up with the major. Only this time, he couldn't ignore it. He understood what it meant. He knew what he had to do.
Silently he opened the door, stole a quick look at the clock on the end of the landing, and judged the whereabouts of the soldier on patrol. Since the threat had lessened over the past week, discipline had also grown more slack amongst the soldiers. Jim counted on this.
He wasn't counting on finding Jones snoring away in a chair overlooking the terrace.
Jim slipped past him, gliding down the hall and into the kitchen. He felt a strange sort of calm giddiness as he studied the knives in the butcher block for a moment, giggling almost manically as several lines from Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels -- a movie from what seemed like a lifetime ago -- flitted through his mind. "Guns for show, knives for a pro," he murmured as he selected what Soap would've called "a big, fuck-off shiny one", and ghosted out of the kitchen, down the hall, and back to Jones.
He studied the man for a moment. He wasn't snoring anymore. His head had flopped forward, almost on to his chest, and a fine string of particularly slimy looking drool stretched from his sleep-slack mouth onto the front of his fatigues. His hair was still military short, though, and his collar crisp as ever, giving Jim an excellent view of the nape of his neck.
Jim didn't hesitate as he drove the blade deep into the slight cleft at the back of Jones's skull, that tiny gap of soft flesh between cranium and the first vertebrae.
Jones's body instantly went boneless. Dead even before Jim eased him to the floor and relieved him of walkie-talkie, rifle, pistol, and knife.
On little cat-feet he flowed down the stairs into the basement.
A nudge to the ribs woke Farrell. "We're getting the girls and we're getting out of here tonight. The major's completely gone-off." Not entirely true, but Farrell didn't need to know the whole truth at the moment. Jim knelt and unlocked Farrell and helped him climb somewhat slowly and stiffly to his feet.
"Oh, that feels good," Farrell said, stretching, working the blood back into his muscles. "So, what's the plan?"
"We slip back upstairs and get Selena and Hannah and fucking kill anybody who gets in our way. We've got about 40 minutes to get it done."
A long shadow fell over Farrell's eyes as he worked through the implications of what that would mean. He scratched idly at the scruffy beard along his jaw before saying, "Alright. 'S not much of a plan, though."
"Do you have a better idea?"
Farrell flashed him a sardonic grin. "No, not off the top of my head."
~oo(0)oo~
To say that things did not go as planned? Understatement.
Slipping into Selena and Hannah's rooms proved easy enough, but rousing the rather medicated Hannah? Jim wanted to kill Selena when they hit the top of the stairs. It was taking both of them to support the girl, who weaved unsteadily at best, and now they had to negotiate stairs. Armed with the rifle, Sergeant Farrell started down first.
The four of them had made it halfway down when a cry went up. Jones's relief had discovered his corpse.
All hell broke loose. He wasn't Death from his dream, sliding coolly from room to room and dealing in mayhem. He was Jim, trying to run across the foyer half-crouched, half dragging, half carrying Hannah, as bullets ricocheted around him and glass shattered. And he, like a stupid asshat, hadn't thought to slip on a pair of shoes before he embarked on this grand scheme. One of the men, the Paki, nearly killed him when he stepped on a piece of glass and shrieked in pain. At the last second, too late, really, Jim tried to whip his not quite so bright and shiny now knife up and slash at him, but Selena -- whom he had lost when everything started going to hell -- came up out of nowhere and blew the soldier's brains out with Jones's pistol.
Pell mell, both of them with a death grip on Hannah (who had roused enough to stumble clumsily on her own) they careened down the galleries, weaving, ducking soldiers, killing two more of them, trying to find a way out, a way away from the sounds of gunfire and screaming men.
Except in all the confusion they ended up turned around, heading right back where they didn't want to be.
The grand foyer was a lake of blood.
And in the middle of it, panting, grinning savagely, stood Sergeant Farrell, who had managed to gun down the rest of the men. He looked at them, and took aim with his rifle before he recognized them,and lowered it.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Silent as death, a tall figure slipped out from behind the staircase.
Jim tried to scream a warning, tried to tell him to turn around, but found his tongue rooted with shock and atavistic terror.
The beginnings of the smile on Farrell's face crumpled as Major Henry West's bayonet drove through his back. Farrell's legs buckled.
"My boys!" the major screamed, "You've killed my boys!"
It was Selena who did it -- charging blindly forward in that split second before the major could free his bayonet from Farrell's body, firing her pistol wildly, a banshee's shriek upon her lips.
Jim didn't know if she actually hit him with any of her shots before she crashed into him, bowling them both to the floor, and somehow the major's knife ended up her hand a split second before she sheathed it in his throat, just above the adam's apple.
Jim hung there, panting, frozen, until Selena very calmly rose, took him by the hand, and lead him and Hannah out of the house.
When she got both of them in the car, she turned to Jim and asked, "What now?"
Jim blinked for several moments before he said, "I ... I know a place."
~oo(0)oo~
The past few months have passed with days spent in an almost idyll. Jim's foot -- thanks to Selena's care -- healed well and without infection.
Their cottage has chickens now and a little garden. The view is breathtaking.
Hannah has started to bloom again. The pastiness and horrible gauntness has gone from her face, and she almost never has nightmares. She smiles, even laughs. She hugged Jim the other day. She's shown some amazing creativity and initiative in gathering sheets, blankets, and even some large towels for the banners they're working on.
Selena's levelheaded calm has kept them all going. She never talks about what happened, but she's dealing with it in her own way, internally sorting through it, and Jim knows to give her a wide berth when she's got that look on her face. The banners were her idea.
She took Jim into her bed about a month ago. She's a firecracker, a fantastic partner, the kind of woman Jim wishes his last girlfriend was.
But on some sleepless nights as she lies sated next to him in bed, Jim finds himself thinking about life and the state of things as he looks up at the rafters overhead.
Sometimes he wonders if he made the right choice.