Hard Corps (5 page)

*   *   *

I thought he would come find me later that night. During free time I waited near the fountain where we sometimes sat and talked, pretending to read my book. No Jacob. I fell asleep that night, the tears I hadn’t allowed him to see staining my pillow.

By the morning I had managed to convert the sadness to anger, a classic trick of mine. Grimly I decided to put the bastard out of my mind. Forget that prick. Who needed him anyway? I was here to become an officer, not have an affair with a control freak.

But it didn’t work. I couldn’t get Jacob or what had happened that last day out of my head. I was numb, still stunned by the whole affair; I had been ‘dumped’ and I didn’t really know what had happened. I alternated between abject hatred and utter misery and confusion. How could he have seemed so involved with me at one moment, and so cold and rejecting the next? What was his deal, anyway, with all this bending-to-his-will crap? Who needed that weirdo?

Then I would remember his kiss, or the thrill when he would fuck me till I cried out for release, and the tears would spill down my cheeks. I drifted through classes and PT, barely noticing when instructors hurled insults at me for not performing up to their standards. I was angry with myself for it, but couldn’t help missing Jacob. I remembered our passionate love-making, and the way he made me feel so completely feminine and vulnerable. I yearned for that kind of release again. But he had told me to go and my pride wouldn’t allow me to return.

Days passed and turned into weeks and still I didn’t seek out Jacob. I saw him now and then: in the mess hall, in the Yard, walking between classes. I avoided him; I hid from him. If he saw me, he gave no indication. Finally one day he was standing with a group of seniors as I passed by on the way to the library. I saluted the group, trying to behave normally though I was afraid my heart would pound right through my shirt.

They all saluted back, casually, indifferently, including Jacob. It was as if I didn’t exist, as if none of it had ever happened. To Jacob I was once again a toad, nothing more.

Once in the library, I signed up for a private cell and, pressing the door shut with a click, I collapsed in the single, straight-backed wooden chair. Laying my head on the table, I sobbed until there were no tears left. I missed Jacob. I missed the sex; I missed the closeness.

Later that evening I took a shower just before lights-out. There was no one else in the shower stalls at that moment and I had a little privacy for a change. As hot water streamed over my upturned face, images flashed in my mind of Jacob, naked and strong, towering over me in the bed. Behind the flimsy screen of the plastic shower curtain, I raised my arms high over my head and clasped my hands together, in my mind’s eye his large hand gripping my wrists. I pretended for a moment to myself that I was just rinsing off the soap, but I knew better.

There alone in that shower stall I could almost feel his hands on my body, his lips crushing mine, his cock forcing its way into my pussy. Listening for a moment, gauging if anyone were nearby, I let my hands fall and then touched my breasts, cupping them gently, letting them fall, rolling the hard, fat little nipples between my own fingers, imagining they were his, wishing they were his. I felt the sweet ache in my pussy and let my fingers find the swollen bud already throbbing between my thighs.

It had been a long time since I’d allowed myself to come. I had been too engaged in mourning, I suppose, in feeling sorry for myself that Jacob had let me go just like that. But now, as need and lust took over any thought of sadness or loss, I let two fingers slide up into my wet entrance. It felt so good. I rubbed and finger-fucked myself as fast as I could, hoping no one was there to hear my barely suppressed sighs and moans.

The words he had used kept whirling through my brain. ‘There is so much more we can experience.’ ‘I want to claim you.’ ‘You are still untapped potential.’ ‘I want to use you, to create you, to control you, to own you.’ They were what I heard as I stole that little orgasm in the shower stall.

As I towelled off, my lust sated for the moment, I thought hard about Mr Stewart. Was he just a pompous, controlling asshole, or was there something to what he was saying? For the first time since he had let me go, I really pondered the question.

After lights-out — well after, when I was sure that all the other girls were asleep — I again dared to slip a hand into my panties. The little episode in the shower had only scratched the surface of my need. As my fingers found their target, I opened myself to the lovely sensations. I was taken back to the last time, when I had been so close to orgasm, and he had slapped me away from the brink. You must learn self-control, he had said. For him. For Jacob. To suffer for him, to yield to him. The words aroused me as much as my fingers rubbing and swirling on my clit. As I remembered his hands on my wrists, his lips taking mine, his cock claiming me with its thrust, I exploded in another silent spasm of release.

Funny how sex, even all by yourself, can make you feel so much better the next morning. Just the physical release of the orgasms must have calmed me down somewhat. Something that had been left wound up tight when Jacob and I had our last fight seemed to be unwinding, unbending, at last. But, even though I was perhaps through the ‘mourning phase’, I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the bastard.

As we were jogging around the perimeter of the Yard, warming up for the obstacle courses that were scheduled for that morning, my thoughts inevitably turned to what was becoming my obsession. Why had I run from him? What was I so afraid of? And why could I now not put him or what he had said out of my mind? Part of me knew, even then, what I was afraid of. I was afraid of my own desire. I wanted to submit, but I didn’t dare. Looking back on it now, I can almost laugh. But back then I was eighteen and considered myself a staunch feminist who didn’t put up with anything from anyone. For me, that manifested itself as physical strength and endurance. Which extended in my mind by definition to the bedroom.

One reason I had chosen a military school was precisely because I knew I could excel in the physical arena. I wouldn’t make it on a pretty face and a nice ass, but on my own grit and determination. What better place to prove my worth — which at that point I still felt I had to prove — than at a military academy where physical prowess and endurance were valued even above academic excellence?

On some level that I couldn’t articulate yet, I think I was terrified that Jacob was trying to take that away from me. That he would strip me of my cover, my tough-girl exterior that no one, not a soul, had ever penetrated before. But he was gone, of his own accord. I kept on with the birth control pills, though. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I was hoping to get lucky.

S
ergeant Ellen Roster was a woman of medium build, about five-six, with dark-auburn hair and squinting, green eyes. Her jaw was heavy, almost masculine. Her skin was pale, with hints of teenage acne still scarring her cheeks. She wasn’t what I would consider a pretty woman, but there were times, like when she smiled, that a sweetness came to her features, belying the ‘tough man’ image she liked to portray. She cut a neat figure in her perfectly starched dress uniform. Her torso was slim but her hips flared out wide and feminine, rounding to an ample bottom.

For the past few months, I had managed to avoid her wrath, and had begun to relax a little around her. That was a mistake. Sometimes she was all sweetness, really acting like the ‘den mother’ she said she was to all of us. But then, without warning, she could turn into a viperous snake, all hiss and fang. If you were her chosen target, watch out: you didn’t stand a chance.

We were already up, preparing quickly for the morning. That day’s uniform was dress: a pale-green blouse tucked into a closely cut skirt that flared slightly just below the knees. It reminded me of the soldier girls in the 1940s. We had just been issued these new uniforms, and the fabric felt stiff and scratchy against my skin. I was buttoning myself in front of the bathroom mirror when I felt her behind me, just before I saw her. She leaned in, startling me, as her reflection suddenly appeared next to mine in the glass.

‘Morning, Harris. Getting all sexy for the upperclassmen?’

I felt a sudden cold finger of fear in my belly. Her voice was low and tight, no trace of the honey overlay that identified the ‘den mother’ persona.

‘Excuse me, ma’am?’ I turned to her, standing at attention, eyes focused in the middle distance, chin jutting, waiting for whatever her latest excuse to torture me would be.

‘Don’t play coy, cadet. Your uniform. It’s a disgrace.’ Sergeant Roster stood at ease, her hands behind her back, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. She held a black, leather-covered baton in her hand. The stick resembled a riding crop, except there was no loop at the end of it. It definitely wasn’t army issue.

As she spoke, she stuck the long, thin stick at my chest in a small gap between the buttons. ‘First your blouse. I can see your tits through that gap. Who are you trying to impress, Harris?’ As she spoke, she let the cane smack down on my left breast. I flinched, more from shock than pain. There was no way this was regulation, but I stood still, not certain if I should try to defend myself. She knew that my uniform blouse had been issued to me based on my measurements. We hadn’t gotten the chance to try them on beforehand.

‘What are you anyway, Harris? A double D? Bet those babies sag without that industrial strength bra. You’ll have to show us next time you shower, cadet.’ Her face was now twisted into a crude leer, her eyes little slits of hatred. Heat flooded my face and unconsciously my hand clenched into a fist at my side. The incongruity of a tomboy with tits had been the focus of taunting in the past, usually by girls with flat chests and slim hips, or skinny boys too afraid of rejection to be polite.

Roster had small, high breasts that she made a point of jutting out as she stood ramrod straight before me. Several girls had gathered to watch the little scene. Suddenly she leaned in, her face close to mine. ‘I asked you a question, Harris.’

‘Ma’am, 36C, ma’am,’ I managed, trying to keep my voice from trembling, whether from fear or rage, I couldn’t tell you. She pulled back, grinning. Then, slowly, she moved the leather baton down my body to the hem of my skirt. I felt the stick slide under a few inches and brush my bare thigh. The girls who had gathered behind us were silent now. I didn’t dare to look at them. I stared straight ahead, lips compressed, hands clenched. I couldn’t have reacted at that moment, even if I had chosen to. I was paralysed with fear and anger. Roster’s back was to the girls, and I don’t think they could see precisely what she was doing. The sergeant had a strangely trancelike look on her face, as if she had forgotten where she was, or who I was. Her long, thin tongue darted out over her lips, licking them shiny with her spittle. Her eyes were still narrowed, as if she were concentrating very hard. A few girls giggled nervously. I remained at attention.

Suddenly, the stick was lifted from my thigh and pressed up firmly against my panty-clad pussy. Forgetting my position, I jumped back, startled. Heat flooded my face and I was close to hitting my commanding officer, very close.

Some movement and murmuring from the girls behind her must have snapped Roster out of her peculiar reverie. Abruptly she withdrew her baton and stepped back, coming to attention in front of me.

‘Fix yourself up, Harris. Your blouse gapes; your skirt is too short. Report to KP this afternoon. There are a few thousand potatoes with your name on them. Maybe that will help you remember not to dress like a slut. If there isn’t improvement by tomorrow, I might have to spank you.’ She laughed then, a light, trilling giggle that seemed incongruous with her threatening, insulting words.

Before I could respond, she had whirled about in her own perfectly fitted, dark-green skirt and marched from the room. The entire event had taken less than a minute, but during that minute, something in me had snapped. As I stood there, deflated and humiliated, I realised with a small shock that I hated this woman. Even though I understood her tactics were designed to break me down and remould me into something useful to the army, I hated the process. I hated her obvious relish in devising plans to humiliate and insult me, and I hated her.

Amelia rushed over to me. ‘Remy, are you okay? You look so pale. Don’t let that bitch get to you. She always picks one, you know. That’s what I’ve heard. You just happen to be the one.’

‘Lucky me,’ I muttered, choking back my rage and humiliation. The knot of nervous cadets had dissolved back into young women preening and rushing about to get ready for their day.

*   *   *

That evening found me out of the barracks on a library pass. I had just spent several hours researching my paper topic for English and was on my way back. The Georgian sky was dark, sprinkled with illuminating silver. The air was moist and cool. I still don’t know what made me do it. Until then I had never broken a single rule as far as I knew. And it was a rule that, if you were out for library after dark, you returned directly to your dorm when you signed out. Theoretically I could get caught, if anyone ever bothered to check the sign-out sheet and compare it with the sign-in sheet at my dorm.

But something about the crisp, November night made me swerve in the direction of the Campanile tower. The campus, built in the late 1800s, boasted a beautiful old bell tower on the southern edge of the campus that they called the Campanile. There was a large, cracked bell in the tower that no longer rang. As far as I knew, the tower wasn’t used at all these days. There was a small copse of trees near its base. This wasn’t my first trip to the tower; I loved the peaceful feeling it gave me to be near it. But this was my first time at night.

Feeling like a little kid sneaking out at Girl Scout camp, I edged my way silently over to the tower. Just as I drew near, something rustled in the trees. I crouched down instinctively, and froze, cursing the bright stars that surely illuminated my huddled form. I stayed still, listening with ears sharpened by fear of discovery. I heard something that sounded like a moan. Startled, I listened harder. It must have been a trick of the wind. But there was no wind that night.