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My last day at the office was Wednesday. I was mostly checked out of the Army, but I had to turn in my badges and keys and get removed from the computer network access. Wednesday promised to be a boring day. I was fatigued because I had cleaned out my dorm room—we call it Bachelor Enlisted Quarters in the Army. I wasn’t quite a senior NCO, just a staff sergeant, my career ruined by events early on—but the Army let me stick around a while, anyway.
The detachment executive officer was First Lieutenant Catherine Athena Simmons. I had to see her to finish out-processing before the detachment commander finalized my “report card,” the NCO-ER (non-commissioned officer evaluation report) and being shown the door.
“There was an event in the Midwest several years ago,” Lieutenant Simmons said. “You were called from overseas on temporary duty to examine the crime scene because the terrorists used military weapons and tactics. After you filed your report you were sent back overseas. What can you tell me about that incident?”
“Nothing, Ma’am,” I said. “Compartmented information. I was warned that dire consequences would result if I compromised the national security.”
Lieutenant Simmons stroked her keyboard.
“You suggested that the Athena Cell was a black flag operation set up by a media conglomerate in order to boost cable sales and increase advertising revenue,” the lieutenant read the words on the screen. “You analyzed the equipment and tactics and concluded that the women were set up for failure. I’ve read your analysis repeatedly. Why did you conclude that the women were set up for failure by the media conglomerate?”

“I am not authorized to remember that, Lieutenant,” I told her. This went on for nearly half an hour. There was not much to tell. The women had the equipment—you can read about it in the unclassified report issued by the FBI. A lot is still unknown about the women and the dead “security personnel,” but it was obvious even to our oblivious media that the women’s satchel charges had all be armed with time-delay detonation systems prior to their assault on the broadcast studios. The media even released radio chatter to the public! The entire operation was poorly executed by skilled amateurs—and was compromised from the start.
“You lose, Catherine,” Major Miles said from behind me. “I told you so. All you are going to get is that report Sergeant Thistle wrote years ago. That, and the conclusion that Athena Cell had nothing to do with either a feminist uprising nor was there an abolitionist rebellion brewing. Sergeant Thistle named names and pointed fingers based on the information he was able to gather in a week-long investigation. Needless to say, that upset a lot of powerful people. Those people have long memories.”
Major Miles shoved a stack of boxes in my lap.
“Sergeant, you have an appointment at the pistol range at fourteen hundred hours,” the major ordered. “You are retiring and this is a retirement gift from a grateful nation. Sign the receipts and don’t be late to the range. You are authorized to use your POV to transport the weapon and ammunition to the range.”
The boxes held 100 pistol cartridges, 9mm NATO M882 ball, an M11 pistol, and two magazines. It was enough to fire one pistol qualification table. Retired Army NCO’s and officers were authorized to carry concealed weapons in public, just like retired police officers. I would need a holster and several more magazines.
First Sergeant Davis was grinning as I entered her office. There had been only four women in the detachment despite the fact that women out-numbered men in America. The Army was very much a man’s world—there were very few Army women. My detachment had women as nearly 13% of its strength until Erin volunteered for conversion. The fourth woman was Sergeant Zinderman.
“We’re closing down operations in two months,” First Sergeant Davis said. “I’m retiring shortly after that. Sergeant Zinderman will transfer to Arizona.”
“That’s going to be quite a challenge,” Sergeant Zinderman commented. “Going from Washington to Arizona. Leaving the beach and mountains for flat, hot desert. I understand that you came from Arizona.”
“I don’t remember much outside of a jail cell, Sergeant,” I fought to keep my voice level. “When I was eleven I was taken from a hospital bed and sent to a boys military school run by my uncle. Actually, he was dad’s step-brother. Dad was an orphan and Uncle John’s family adopted him. I don’t remember anything about my first eleven years.”
I entered the Army on my 17th birthday and went directly to Fort Leonard Wood for training as an infantryman. I did very well, and I spoke German and Russian, thanks to Uncle John—so I wound up a member of the Berlin Brigade. After a couple of years of training I was selected for the military academy at West Point and was to report that summer—but a Red Cross message arrived for me.
“Staff Sergeant Thistle had to go home to deal with a family emergency,” First Sergeant Davis explained. “When he arrived at the airport he was arrested for the murder of his mother and father. Later, his sister died in the hospital, too.”
“I didn’t find out what happened for years,” I said, “but I spent almost three months in pre-trial confinement before the Army got me out. I missed West Point because of that. Then I had to face court martial for being AWOL—charges were dismissed, of course, but I wound up in Korea.”
Berlin was a primo assignment. Korea on the DMZ was even worse than the DMZ in Vietnam. North Korea was a hollow shell, but duty on the DMZ was cold and dangerous, except when the weather warmed. Then DMZ duty was sweltering and dangerous.
“That’s in the past, First Sergeant,” I stated. “My career is over. I retire Friday and leave for my vacation Saturday. After my vacation I have a new career.”
“That would be working for your Uncle Bob,” First Sergeant Davis said. “He was your Uncle John’s spouse, the first gay legally married couple in Arkansas.”
I reflected that she hadn’t mentioned Uncle Bob’s brilliant legal career, just his choice of sexual partners. Oh, well! I live in a sex-obsessed culture. I was feeling horny myself, but it was the wrong time and place for sex. Besides, prostitutes didn’t do much for me. There was no connection. It was like masturbation, only with a warm, wet, smelly body. That was going to change in a few days.
“Have you moved out of the BEQ?” First Sergeant Davis asked.
“Yes, First Sergeant,” I replied. “I am all set to finish out-processing tomorrow. I just have to clear quarters and finance. Once I get my NCO-ER, that’s all I have to do.”
“That, and visit the range after chow,” the first sergeant remarked. “Sergeant Zinderman and I are going to the pistol range, too. How about we do lunch together and then go to the range?”
So we did. Lunch was nothing special. We walked into one of the old World War Two ‘temporary building’ dining facilities that served our small part of Fort Lewis and visiting Army Reserve and Army National Guard units, ate the industrial-strength institutional food served by Military Persons of Limited Rights in their lime green uniforms and white plastic aprons, and then we went to the range. I drove my RV and got into a borrowed helmet and body armor to fire an official pistol qualification course. I missed Pistol Expert by one damned point! It took 50 rounds to complete the table. The only preparation I had was a few minutes in my motorized cottage cleaning, inspecting and lubing my new Sig Sauer pistol. The M-11 is a compact Sig Sauer P228 built for the Army. Mine had the tritium night sights. I snapped the trigger a few times, then put it in a holster—the wrong holster, the M12 for the Beretta. All lifers have excess field gear because we need it. I didn’t have the latest and greatest drop holster that cleared body armor, but even though it was made for the larger M9 pistol, the M11 pistol fit well enough for safe carry on the range.
Zinderman and the first sergeant qualified with the M9. I didn’t ask what their scores were. I admit it—I was afraid that they had out-scored me. They cleaned their weapons and turned them in at the armory—mine stayed in my motorized cottage. Our day was done. First I went to a commercial indoor range and gun shop. I wanted different ammunition, some other gun items, and I needed to kill time until six in the evening. Then I drove my RV to my first sergeant’s off-post town house.
The door was opened by a man who looked like my first sergeant would if First Sergeant Dorothy Davis had been a man. I guessed that Mr. Davis was my first sergeant’s twin—but it is hard to tell today. Age is a flexible concept with all the drugs, cosmetic surgery, beauty aids and perhaps a touch of genetic mutations from the 1918 Spanish Influenza Epidemic. Or it could be all the hormones in meat and milk—or chemicals in the cabbages. All I know is that half a century ago men over forty were ‘over the hill’ and that women over forty were old hags. Now forty is still young. Forty still LOOKS young. I was only a few years older, a few pounds heavier and nearly half a foot taller than the man in front of me. Out of habit I scanned him for hidden weapons and kept his hands in my peripheral vision.
“I’m Staff Sergeant Scott Thistle,” I introduced myself—and winced. In a few days I’d be retired and need to introduce myself as Scott or Mr. Thistle or something else. I’d no longer be in the Army. “My first sergeant gave me this address. Are you Mr. Davis?”
“Yes,” the man grinned and extended his hand. “I’m Daniel Davis. I’ve been expecting you. Linzi is in the kitchen.”
We shook hands. He had a firm, dry grip.
“Dorothy told me about you,” Daniel Davis said. “I’ve got to catch a plane for Eastlake. Business trip. Happy to have you here for the weekend. I’ll be back Monday.”
Daniel burst out laughing.
“The expression on your face,” He leaned against the door jamb when he caught his breath. “Classic ‘deer in the headlights.’ Dorothy said that you’d stay the weekend. I’d appreciate it if you would. It isn’t safe to leave women on their own. Slaves have no right of self-defense, and even though my niece is a Person of Limited Rights, I still consider her my daughter. Dorothy may be a soldier, but she’s still my sister—still a woman. If a gang invaded our home, I am afraid that Dorothy would fall apart under pressure. It’s nice to have a man around the house while I’m gone.”
I made non-committal noises. Was Daniel Davis for real? I had been isolated from Mainstream America almost my entire life—and I didn’t recall what happened before age eleven. The official crime rate was low. Armed robbery was all but zero. There was burglary, and the War on Drugs that President Nixon initiated—that war was still going strong and most convictions were for illegal drugs. Rape—according to the few ‘feminists’ still active rape was under-reported. I had no clue. I may have been a swell analyst, but I was out of touch with the reality most people faced. On the other hand, most people didn’t know my world existed. Strike that—the world I used to live in—I would be retired in two days.
Rape. With the White Slave Act in force and cheap brothels, there were plenty of sex outlets. The ‘feminists’ say rape is not about sex, but about power. Being able to own a woman—or even rent one for a few hours—and she cannot deny any demand you make of her. That should have satisfied power trips, too. A Person of Limited Rights could be killed by her owner—legally. Torture, if I believed the pay-per-view adult channels, was routine. The military reality shows were so out-in-left-field that I had no confidence in the adult channels. Porn is fantasy.
“Look at the time!” Daniel said. “I have to go. Take good care of my daughter.”
Being left alone in someone else’s home was a new experience for me. Even in the brothels someone was there to watch over the assets, the slave prostitutes. I didn’t think I’d be alone for long. I walked inside and watched as Daniel left in his red sports car. It occurred to me that I was bashful, that I was procrastinating. I never did this on the operations that merely involved bullets and bombs! Hesitation killed the wrong people on those ops. On the other hand…
I closed and locked the front door and tried to find my way to the kitchen. It should have been easy. As I entered there was a staircase in front of me leading to the second floor. To the right was a short hallway, but I chose to walk straight ahead into the living room. It had a fire place. A patio was visible through the sliding glass walls in front of me. I made a spiral turn through what had to be a dining room and saw a nude woman standing in the kitchen. She was wearing a black collar and her wrists were chained behind her. A ball gag filled her wide mouth. Brown eyes and brown hair that fell below her shoulder blades hid some of her charms. Her feet were captive in some sort of spike heel shoes that were securely strapped to her feet.
“Linzi, I presume?” I quipped. Yes, I was nervous! “How do I unlock you? Sorry about forgetting. Let me see the gag.”
It took a few minutes for me get her gag undone and get the bondage gear off. Linzi stopped me from removing her collar.
“My mistress told me to never take it off,” Linzi explained.
“I prefer my women in bare feet,” I said. Linzi giggled. “Those spike heels are dangerous!”
“I am in the kitchen,” Linzi said. “Barefoot? Okay, I hope to be pregnant, too.”
“Do you have any assignments?” I asked. “Dinner or something? I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account.”
“Mistress is hosting a pot luck tonight,” Linzi explained. “The dress code for all the women attending is skin, and if you want a piece of them, just tell them. Mistress will explain later, sir. Will you have your way with me?”
“You are beautiful,” I told her. “Is there a bed we can use?”
“Mistress told me to use her bed,” Linzi replied demurely. “Follow me.”
Upstairs were three bedrooms. All three doors were open. The first bedroom looked like a cell. The door was bars covered in plexiglass—it was both secure and soundproof, but offered no privacy. The next bedroom looked like it wasn’t lived in much. It was too neat. The big bedroom had a canopied water bed with sheer pastel green curtains. The quilt was something green, as were the satin sheets and pillow cases. Linzi turned down the bed clothes and turned to me. I was all thumbs. Linzi had to help me get my fatigues off. I found it impossible to untie my boots.
“Relax, sir,” Linzi breathed in my ear. Her breath was minty, her hair smelled of strawberries. “Let Slave Linzi take care of you.”
I thought that Linzi’s large, perfect cones were artificial, but I wasn’t able to tell. That’s the mark of excellent cosmetic surgery. Her wide areolae spanned the tips of her perky breasts and her nipples were erect and the size of her little finger’s tip. She had a bald crotch, of course, and her inner labia were symmetrical. Her clitoris peeked out from beneath her hood and she was moist. After I was nude Linzi got on top and kissed my oozing glans. She straddled my body and slipped me inside her warm, wet cavern with a sigh. I think I sighed, too—or groaned.
Time is experienced subjectively. I may have lasted only seconds. It may have been two or three minutes. For me, it was an eternal now while Linzi engulfed me fully, then raised and lowered herself. Her inner muscles milked me. When I ejaculated, I saw stars.
The next thing I knew someone was shaking me awake.
“Sleepy head,” the naked woman said, ”Grab a shower and join us downstairs for dinner.”
That naked woman was my first sergeant.