by Demelza Hart
I watched as he coated his cock in lube, covering it so much it gleamed. It was to me the most magnificent thing I’d ever seen and my body responded by writhing in preparation. He then brought the tube to my exposed arse and dribbled it copiously over me. It was cold. I squirmed in shock but he shushed me by spreading it around and into my hole.
Paul tossed the lube aside and manoeuvred himself over me. ‘Now,’ he said, his face harshly beautiful with desire, ‘you’re ready.’
He stroked my thigh and whispered down to me. ‘Callie, do you want this?’
I nodded. ‘You know I do. I want it more than anything.’
‘You’re not afraid?’
I didn’t answer.
He held his cock against my tightly clamped hole, nuzzling it, daring it to let him in.
‘I asked you if you were afraid, Callie.’
‘A little.’ I wouldn’t lie. ‘But …’
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t mind being afraid with you. I think I like it.’
He let a smile play on his mouth. ‘That’s right. Use it. Can you imagine a world where everything goes according to plan? How dull, how fucking mind-numbingly lethal. I’ll ask you again, Callie. Are you afraid of me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you trust me?’
I hesitated but then answered with total honesty. ‘Yes.’
‘Then take me.’
He pushed in slowly. Oh God, that stretched me! My eyes opened and I gasped with sudden sharpness.
‘Use it, use it,’ murmured Paul through gritted teeth. ‘You can take it but your mind’ll play tricks with you. It’ll shut me out, but you can let me in, Cal, only you. Close your mind and just think of me inside you. Picture it. Ready?’
The head was sitting just in the opening. It felt even bigger than it was. I nodded, a furtive little nod. He pressed in again and his Adam’s apple lurched erratically along his neck as he swallowed back his pleasure. ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed. ‘Fucking glory!’
He was opening me, breaching me. I pictured him in my mind’s eye, his cock pushing its way to nestle snug in my warmth. Oh God, big, so incredibly big and full!
Fill me, Paul, fill me. More. I pushed down and drove him further in. He cried out incoherently and suddenly it was easier. He’d gone through that barrier, that last vestige of my resistance. He was in me and the world stilled.
There was intense pressure, stinging, and stretching, but I was glowing. I had him, was full of him. He stopped moving, but I could feel his whole being reined in, primed, straining to let go.
‘You all right?’ he asked through pants.
‘Yes.’ It surprised me to say it, but I was.
He started to pull out. The pressure was eased and I almost missed it. But then he was back, slowly, and I welcomed it. Just then his fingers moved to my clit, which was so alive that it made me buck involuntarily.
‘Easy,’ he soothed.
There started to form inside my brain a strange symbiosis of pleasure and pain, each wrestling with the other for supremacy, but deciding it was better to meld together as one. Paul moved inside me and the pain dulled to a warm fullness. As the sensations from my clit collided with it, the on switch was at last flicked. I loved it. I loved it all. This was as close as two people could be. Him and me.
His breath grew ragged, his rhythm disjointed. I replaced his fingers with my own and worked my clit hard. I was peering further and further over the edge and Paul was holding me, then pushing us both, closer … closer …
As I registered one more full thrust of his cock deep inside my arse, I let go of my grip and brought him with me. Together we fell, tumbling and twisting as our bodies hurtled unstoppably through the oblivion of pleasure. I was vaguely aware of Paul roaring, and I let out my own cry to meet his. He carried on moving, pounding me now, but my orgasm carried me beyond pain. The air was thick with the sound and heat of sex; thick, dirty sex that clings and sticks to you, creating a moment that burns itself onto your body and soul.
I could feel his hot release, creating another layer of sensation that cut through my pleasure only to magnify it.
It took a while for it all to stop. I wasn’t sure it ever would. I wasn’t sure I was even in the bed any more. Eventually, when I thought I could trust my senses again, I looked around me and registered pillows and bedclothes. I was still here. My arse throbbed. Paul was still deep inside me.
For once, I wasn’t sure what to say. Pillow talk had never been a problem for me, but this had robbed me of words. I knew what I wanted to say, there was only one thing, but when I opened my mouth nothing came out. Someone else said it.
‘I love you.’
Was that Paul? It sounded like him, but it was said as if he had let out a thought without realising, as if he had just opened his mouth and it had been breathed out. He wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were closed, his head held up slightly awkwardly, as if he hadn’t quite regained control of his body. I didn’t reply. And, despite all my best intentions, I loved him back.
Twenty-three
Eventually, Paul glanced down and pulled out, slowly and carefully. I pushed a little to help and exhaled as I felt him leave me. I could feel the trickle of him, warm and wet.
Still not looking at me, he pulled himself off the bed and padded to the bathroom. I reached for a tissue, pressed it to the tingling point of our union, and curled myself up.
When he returned he crawled in next to me and lay looking into my eyes, stroking my face. Neither of us mentioned what he had said.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re incredible.’
‘So are you.’
‘That were the best orgasm I can ever remember.’
I smiled and just nodded.
‘Are you sore now?’
‘A little.’
‘You will be. It’ll get better when we, you know, do it again. If you want to.’
‘I do want to. With you.’
‘Aye, well, I’m not giving you to anyone else.’ He turned onto his back and bent his arm behind his head with a sigh. ‘I’m sorry I behaved like a twat. You’re right. It’s better if they think you’re spoken for. I don’t want them knowing about us. I want to keep it just for us, because it’s fucking perfect.’
I stroked his chest, kissing along the hard rise of his muscles. ‘Perfect,’ I repeated.
I was so sated that night that I slept well, even though my mind was fighting with me to stay awake and dwell on all that had been done and said. I couldn’t, and that told me enough. I was happy here.
The next morning was Saturday. We woke late and just lay there – not making love, just cuddling. Cuddles were as good as the best sex, warm and fuzzy.
And then I just said it. It just slipped out as I was lying against him.
‘I knocked over a pile of stuff when I was here the other day. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. No harm done.’
‘My foot just knocked against it and it tumbled over.’
‘It’s OK, Cal.’
‘Some newspaper articles fell out.’
‘Oh right.’ Was that a tightening in his voice?
‘About the army. The SAS.’
He didn’t speak.
‘It was about a soldier being investigated for the killing of Afghan civilians.’
I waited, wondering how he’d react. He didn’t, but his silence made my stomach churn.
‘Did you know that person? Was he in your troop?’
The seconds stretched out unendurably.
‘It was me.’
My mouth ran dry. ‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t see. Nobody sees unless they were there.’ He sat up awkwardly. ‘I was cleared, that’s all there is to it.’ His voice was strangely casual, as if he was trying to downplay it.
‘You never told me,’ I tried.
‘Why should I? It’s in the past. Done.’
‘Is that
why you left the army?’
‘Suppose, aye.’
He moved to stand up but stopped and just stayed sitting on the side of the bed with his back to me, his muscles shifting as he moved, rubbing his hands together in that way he did when he was anxious.
I put a hand on his shoulder and he didn’t immediately move away, but he leaned forward so that it became harder for me to do so without it feeling awkward. I removed my hand and asked in a voice which sounded self-consciously caring, ‘Can you tell me about it?’
‘Can do. Not sure I want to though.’
‘OK. I understand.’
He looked over his shoulder at me, his expression set. ‘I don’t want you to understand, Callie. I don’t want you to know. It’s not something you want to know, believe me.’
‘But it’s you. Perhaps I need to know.’
He leaned ever further down and his muscles strained tight. My heart was beating so hard I could hear it throbbing through my head.
Paul held his head in his hands and shook it. ‘Ah, Jesus. What more do you want, Callie? Am I never fucking going to be enough as I am?’
Panic started to take hold. I’d gone too far. I backtracked quickly. ‘All right, I’m sorry. Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does though, don’t it?’
‘No. Look, Paul, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to mention it, it just slipped out.’ I started to get up and reached for a top, slipping it on, then pulling my knickers up.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Nowhere. Just … a glass of water.’
‘No, stay there. If you really want to know, you should know.’
‘Seriously, please …’
‘No. Stay there and listen.’ I was constrained by his voice.
Paul had pulled on his boxers and came back to sit next to me in bed. My legs were outside the covers and I pulled them in tight to me.
‘It was 2006. Helmand. There’d been problems with insurgents in the villages, rumours of kidnaps and threats and murders of non-conformists. They’d closed a school. They were taking kids as young as ten to train, just humanitarian chaos really. There was one guy in particular, who was the ringleader, called himself Kazal the Reaper. He operated by fear and hatred, pure and simple. There was no empathy in him whatsoever, no concern for fellow humans, and he had the audacity to proclaim he did things in the name of his religion. He was a disgrace to his people, a butcher. We’d been after him for months but he kept evading us. At last we thought we had him.
‘My captain sent in a troop to do a recce of the area. He put me in charge of a small unit. We’d heard they were using a disused cloth store on the outskirts. They must have known we were coming. I heard crying from one of the rooms. There was this young kid, only about eight, little boy, big eyes. Crying his eyes out. He was bleeding, really distressed. I went over to him, forgot my guard for a minute. There was immediately gunfire behind me. They burst in, surrounding us. I saw him, this Kazal guy, he had this distinctive half-moon scar on his face. He got hold of one of my lads in the skirmish – youngest one, just nineteen, barely out of training – Connor Buckley. He used to show us pictures of his dad’s racing pigeons, champions, they were. The bastard got hold of him. We exchanged fire but I couldn’t get a clear shot. He got away with Connor.
‘I blamed myself. It’d been my call. I’d taken my eye off for a moment. The kid got up and ran off laughing, yelling about the filthy English pigs, Kazal had got to him too; he’d been the bait and I’d fallen for it.
‘A week later they sent us a video they’d posted online – maybe you remember. It was Connor. The life had gone out of him. On it he said, in this weird, flat voice that was barely his, that he denounced the British army and the infidel and wanted to personally come and kill us all and all our families. He was clearly under extreme coercion. Right at the end it looked as if he were going to do something. His eyes flicker and he looks like he’s trying to get up, and the video ends.
‘A week later we had another video of him. Hanging upside down from a pole, paraded through the ranks of a training camp. He’d been sliced open and disembowelled. At the end, they showed them doing it. Connor was awake when it happened. His screams … God, his screams.’
I closed my eyes in horror.
‘So … we carried on looking. They’d moved on. We moved on. We had some intelligence about a new place where they were hiding out up in the mountains, a small village. We went at night, quiet as death. Again, I was leading a small unit. There were others, approaching from another angle. I had on my helmet cam. We crept up on this place. I heard a noise – a female in distress, I could tell. Men were laughing, others crying. I looked through a window and a young woman, a girl, was in there – couldn’t have been more than fourteen or so. Two men stood to the side, guns pointing at the heads of an older man and woman, her parents. Meanwhile, right in front of them, their daughter was being raped. It was Kazal. I’d know him anywhere. He’d alternate. First he’d do it with his prick, then his fist, then he’d pull out and stick the barrel of his gun into her. There was a lot of blood, all from her.’
I stifled my sobs.
‘Not only had this man betrayed his people, he’d betrayed his God and his religion. This man wasn’t human. He was the most depraved animal I’d ever seen, worse; animals don’t do that to each other. When her mother cried out and tried to leap up and save her, Kazal shouted something and the man beside her pulled the trigger. She was shot in the arm and lay on the floor howling in agony.
‘Her father was weeping uncontrollably, sobbing, and all the while the rape continued. We didn’t want to risk killing the girl or her parents, so we crept around and into the house. They didn’t see us coming, but it was still difficult. The light wasn’t good and it was confusing.
‘I took out the guard who’d shot the mother but Kazal then leapt up with the girl, holding her before him just like he had with Connor. The other man ran off. There was shouting, madness. The father was going crazy and was holding onto us, yelling something. Kazal looked at me and smirked. I tried to get a shot at him but couldn’t.
‘The mother was on the floor, still writhing in pain. More insurgents rushed in, four, five, summoned by their mate. We took out two, but they were evasive. The room was filling with smoke. The mother grabbed at my leg, howling in pain. I couldn’t move. I tried to shake her off. I had men running at me. I couldn’t bloody move. I yelled for my men to shoot. I wanted them to shoot Kazal because I couldn’t do it from where I was. ‘Shoot, shoot! I can’t move!’ I yelled. They shot, they were panicking, not sure who I meant. The hand gripping onto me went limp. My men had shot the mother dead. I stared in disbelief as blood seeped from her head. But then Kazal dropped the girl and stood up, backing away from me. He stopped and looked right into my eyes. There was so much smoke, but I saw the determination in him. Then he opened his shirt. Underneath he had a bomb strapped to him, a suicide vest. He yelled about detonating it. We’d tried to get him alive but now I had to kill him. There was so much smoke from gun fire and devices. I thought I had a clear shot of Kazal’s head. I could see him even from the other side of the room, I knew I could, but … there was shouting, smoke, so bloody much. I remembered what he’d done to Connor, to the girl. Then I saw this face, his face, I was sure, coming for me, angry, yelling. I took the shot. He fell to the ground. I’d done it. I had this rush of euphoria, elation that I’d taken him out cleanly. But then, when the smoke cleared, he was still standing there – Kazal. He was still standing there, smirking. It made no sense.
‘There was this noise. It was the girl howling, even worse than she had before. I looked down. I’d shot her father. In the smoke and confusion I’d shot the wrong person. He must have come for me when he realised his wife was dead. As I stood there, paralyzed, one of the lads at last took out Kazal. The rest of the insurgents ran off and my men managed to stop them. It was over.
‘We stayed on. I’d killed an innocent civili
an and mistakenly ordered the killing of another.
‘We took the girl for treatment; he’d damaged her so badly we were told she’d never have children. She was grief-stricken over the death of her parents and blamed us totally. That’s what led to the investigation. At the time, I agreed with the girl. I thought I should be locked up; could barely live with myself. That’s not why I joined the SAS, to destroy innocent lives, to end them. But, when they examined it all – over and over again, endless hours studying the video footage, interviews, questioning, and cross-examination – they cleared me. Fully exonerated, they said. I was free to re-join my unit.’
He fell silent but remained sitting on the edge of the bed. I had so much to say yet could find no words for him. My thoughts seemed purposeless and invalid after what had been said.
‘Did you re-join them?’ I asked eventually, my voice feeble.
‘No. Resigned the next day.’
I continued gently. ‘They were right to clear you. There was nothing you could have done. It wasn’t your fault.’
He looked at me with a rueful half smile. ‘That’s what they all say. That don’t make it go away.’
My mind was numb. I sat there, staring blankly ahead.
Paul stood up stiffly, as if he’d been through bone-aching physical exertion. ‘I’ll go and put on some coffee.’
I stared after him and murmured, ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ It was as if I was telling myself as much as him.
At the door, Paul looked back at me. ‘You asked, Callie, and I’ve told you. My dad used to give me some good advice: “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”’ He tapped the door frame distractedly with his hand, then walked off.
I waited before joining him. When he wasn’t there with me, I could only picture images of bodies in the smoke, blood, cries of despair. I shut my eyes to it but they wouldn’t go away.
Sitting alone, my stomach churned, unsettled. Not only was it the shock of discovering what Paul had done – what he’d been through – but under it all I felt grossly inadequate. My own suffering, not counting the crash, was negligible compared to his. How could I begin to understand? I sat in silence, staring out of the window.
