Gage:A Bad Boy Military Romance(3)

By: Cordelia Blanc

“You mean, to be fucked by some active-duty marines,” Private Miller added. A torrent of laughter followed.

Private Miller was one of the smallest and weakest soldiers at our outpost, the worst shot of our whole platoon, and just generally one of the more useless soldiers at our outpost. But no one cared because he had a quick-wit and he knew the best and dirtiest jokes. In a way, seeing as two years of our tour had gone by and none of us had seen any action, Private Miller was the most valuable soldier in our squad, keeping us all entertained and distracted from the fact we were essentially on Death Row.

“Sorry, but you can’t touch these girls—and this time, I really mean it. They’re here to lift your spirits, promote the new brand, and nothing else. And I really mean it—there’s an embed en-route to cover their visit. He’ll be here tomorrow.” Embed was slang for ‘reporter.’

Everyone booed. It was no secret that embeds were the worst, a bunch of pansies and whiners. We took our last embed on patrol with us one day, and the bastard got so scared, we had to drag him back to the outpost. He thought every kid with a soccer ball was a terrorist in disguise.

“If they’re the 2016 Playmates, then why are there so many of ‘em? I thought there was only a Playmate for each month of the year.”

“Because they sent the runner-ups, too.”

“He’s fuckin’ with us. Don’t listen to him,” someone called out.

“No—he’s not lying!” Private Hastings came running out from the bunkhouse with a tattered-looking copy of Playboy’s January edition. Everyone crowded around while Hastings flipped through the pages. Sure enough, Ms January was the drugged-up floozy who called me a queer.

“I’m gonna fuck her first!” someone called out.

“There will be no fucking!” Major Richards yelled out. “That’s an order.” He switched to his serious voice—the voice we were trained to respect, to keep a straight face and say “Yes, sir,” when we heard it.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Did Major Richards seriously think he could bring in two dozen Playboy Bunnies and expect the twenty-four horniest men in the Middle East to keep their dicks in their pants?

“Gage Daniels. What’s so funny, Corporal?” he asked, using my full name the same way my mother would when she caught me eating all the cookie dough.

“Nothing, sir,” I said, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

“I strongly recommend you stop laughing right now, Corporal.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Why not, Corporal?”

“Because you’re one dumb bastard,” I said. He didn’t have a rebuttal because he knew I was right. He knew damn-well that his men were going to be all over those Playmates the moment they stepped out onto that makeshift stage and grabbed onto that glorified stripping pole.

And they were.


“You have nothing to worry about, Ms King. These men are some of the most respectful gentlemen I’ve ever met, and they’ll treat you like royalty,” Nancy Goodwin, our chaperone said to me once we were all inside of the big trailer they called the Guest Facility.

I smiled but I didn’t believe her. I wanted it to be true. Hopeless optimism—of course it was too good to be true.

Five measly days in Iraq for the priceless nationwide exposure. How could I say no?

Why didn’t I say no?

Brit, my agent, assured me that, between my upcoming April Playboy cover and the Iraq promo tour, acting roles would start pouring in. Real acting gigs; no more squishing my tits into skimpy outfits for some low-budget crap TV show that no one watched.

“I don’t have to sleep with anyone, do I?” I asked Brit before agreeing.

“No one’s making you do anything.”

How did I not read between those lines? Half of those soldiers already had hard-ons, the moment we stepped out from those helicopters. They didn’t want to see us pose or take pictures with us. Those men didn’t care about getting to know us. They just wanted to see our tits shake and stick their cocks in our snatches and call it a day.

They called our living quarters the “guest facility,” but it looked more like a whore house. The “rooms” were divided by curtains, and the light above my bed was tinted red. “Sorry about that, Ms King. We meant to change that before y’all arrived. We generally use this room to develop important photographs taken by Intel,” the major said to me. His face was as red as the light.

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