Gage:A Bad Boy Military Romance(9)

By: Cordelia Blanc

She held that same sorrowful expression as I stepped out onto the floor where the other girls were already mingling with the soldiers.

The men and women had yet to pair off, for the most part. A few of the drunker soldiers had already paired up with the sluttier Playmates, and moved to back corners to fool around.

I envied Miss December and her red and white winter-themed outfit. It covered everything and then some. The 2016 December issue was going to be a longer issue, which meant Miss December had more to shed than the rest of us. Unbeknownst to the men chatting her up, under that fuzzy Christmas sweater was some of the most scandalous red lingerie I’ve ever seen.

I didn’t envy Miss August, whose outfit was nothing more than a bikini bottom and black electrical-tape exes over her nipples. Luckily for Miss August, she adored the drooling attention.

As I stepped into the room, all eyes turned to me. I held my shawl carefully over my chest as I scanned the faces, looking for the most harmless among them. But it was hopeless. They all had the same hungry, wild-animal look in their eyes.

I scanned the faces a second time, hoping to see the asshole from out back—Gage, he said his name was. Gage didn’t have that look in his eyes. Sure, he stared at my chest like a slob, but he didn’t have the hunger.

Everyone in that room had the hunger, but Gage wasn’t among them.


The biggest perk that came with first day of each month was the privacy. It was the one night where the bunkhouse was quiet and empty. The occasional Joe would bring a date back to the bunkhouse, but not usually until later in the night, when the soldiers got too drunk to care if the whole squadron saw them fucking a BC—usually a few hours at least. Otherwise, everyone just fucked in the Guest Hall.

The bunkhouse was split into four rooms, each with six beds and a bathroom. My bed was a bottom bunk, under Brigadier Darby.

Darby was a the only non-American stationed at our base. He was a Brit, and the only other guy stationed at COIQ-UA-14 that I liked. He wasn’t a horny fuckhead like the rest of them. He didn’t chase pussy on all fours like some brainless mutt. He didn’t have to; pussy threw itself at him. The very moment he opened that British mouth of his, a pair of BC lips would be wrapped around his cock.

Next to me was Private Hastings, and I could think of no one worse to be stuck beside. The horny piece of shit was always jerking off, and after two years stationed in the middle of nowhere, he’d stopped caring about decency. Most guys took their business to the bathroom.

Not Hastings.

Hastings just used his knees as tent poles to hold up his blanket and he’d go to town with his porn-ridden laptop on his chest. His bunk would glow a pale, disturbing light for three minutes before a handful of tissue paper was tossed aside on the ground, and everyone could finally go to sleep.

That night, Hastings left his laptop out and open on his bed. Normally I would have closed the festering device, but that night I didn’t. On the screen was a familiar face—Miss April’s—and a headline that read:

LEAKED! The 2016 Playboy Playmates!

The girls on the page were familiar. I was surprised to see a total lack of nudity on the website. The website’s comment section was just as surprised. “What is this this shit? Came for tits. Was disappointed,” one user wrote. “Playboy stopped putting nudes in the magazine. Save your time and move on to Hustler,” another user replied. Upon second glance, I noticed a comment made by a user named HastingsLockedAndLoaded. “Great set. April’s going to win Playmate of the Year, no question. I’d love to cum on those tits.”

I laughed. Scrawny Hastings didn’t have a chance with Miss April.

Other comments agreed with Hastings. Everyone loved Miss April.

In Ashley’s photos, she was wearing nothing but a fur shawl and black pantyhose. Every photo in her set came slightly closer to showing everything off than the one before it. In her final picture, her shawl was down at her feet, and only her golden, bling-covered forearm covered her nipples.

But seeing her next to the other Playmates—there was no question about it—she was the finest one of the lot. Too fine to be here, in the middle of nowhere, on a barrel cleaning mission. Though, I still couldn’t put my finger on what made her seem so much better.

One of the photos was a close-up of her face, cutting off just above her assumedly exposed nipples. That’s when I noticed what made her different than the other girls. Her eyes. They were deep, hypnotizing, complex things. They somehow managed to say, “Go fuck yourself. You’ll never have this,” “Well? What are you waiting for? Fuck me, I’m wet and horny,” and “I’d rather be anywhere else,” all in the same look.

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