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27 Lies

By:M.J. Fields


I don’t love you. - J. Dietrich


Sleep isn’t always necessary. Hell, I have gone without it for days when out in the field. When I am home, though, in Fayetteville, North Carolina, it’s welcome.

Why can’t I sleep? Because five-foot-nothing; one hundred and ten pounds of curves and ass; long, thick raven hair; and blue eyes pop into my head when I close my eyes. I am a full foot taller and outweigh her by a hundred pounds and yet the sight of her is enough to weaken me and cause blood to pump into my dick, something I have kept in check for years.

Fucking is fucking, and yes, I like that I am fucking something I shouldn’t be. I like that I am breaking unspoken rules. I like that, in fucking her, there is an invisible yet ever present wall separating me and the people back home.

Guilt kicks in when I allow it, so I stop allowing it. She sure as fuck doesn’t want anything more than I do. We are both adults. Well, she can be a little fucking brat at times, but for the most part, she is just as self-serving as I am. And I know damn well she gets off as hard as I do on the fact that we are a taboo...a secret. And that’s all there is.

There is no path to opening up that spicy, little bit of information so that shit’s sealed as tight as her perfectly waxed, tight little twat that strangles my cock every fucking time we are both home.

When I allow myself the time to think about it, which is usually on a plane heading back to Ithaca, NY, or in the hot as hell monthly letters I get from Miss A, I do feel a little guilt. And yes, I intend on ending this fucked up game I am playing in my head, the one where I am in control...until I see her and the desire she has to get fucked wipes my mind of any thought of ending this.

Yeah, we are not in a relationship, but I know that, when I’m around, I’m the one sticking it in her hot box. I’m the one who she cries out to, the one fucking that perfect little pussy, and I don’t have to worry that she’s thinking about anyone else. I know damn well she wants my cock, and my cock fucking loves her pussy.

Five-foot-nothing; one hundred and ten pounds of curves and ass; long, thick raven hair; blue eyes; and a pussy that has become my kryptonite. That is Ava Links, the girl I can’t seem to say no to and never have been able to.

We fuck. We fuck hard, and I have had her at my mercy for over seven fucking years...until now when she told me she loves me, and I told her she didn’t. She told me she knew I loved her, and I told her it wasn’t true. Then, true to Ava’s nature, she pushed. True to mine, I wrecked her.

Do I love her? I love my country.

Do I love to fuck her? Yes. Best piece of ass I ever had.

Did it feel good to hurt her? No, not at all.

Is it cool that some fucking drummer, who clearly needs his ass kicked, is going to be fucking her? No.

Do I hope it fails? Yes. She can do better.

I roll over onto my front and bury my head in the sheets. I think about shit nobody should ever think about because, right now, all the shit I have seen in seven years is more welcomed than the image of her when I left this morning: angry, hurt, and completely confused, all caused by me telling her exactly how it needs to be.


When I wake up in the morning, and seconds after my feet hit the floor of my civilian apartment, I do one hundred crunches. Then, on the bar hanging in my doorway, I do one hundred pull-ups. It gets my blood pumping, and my body awake and alert.

I eat half a dozen eggs, a few slices of bacon, and a bagel. I drink milk, the real shit, and then orange juice. Am I that hungry? Hell no. In order to remain in my top physical shape, though, that amount of food is necessary to fuel the man I have to be, need to be. The man I want to be.

I throw on jeans and a tee-shirt; no government-issued fatigues for me. Then I brush my teeth and consider trimming my six-day growth, but I decide against it. It’s no longer required because I have freedoms in what I wear and how I groom. Obviously it’s so we can decompress and learn to blend, which is important for missions.

When I do wear a uniform, no one is able to classify me. The only people who can are those within the unit. It doesn’t bother me. I sure as hell don’t look like a soldier, and that’s because I’m not.

I grab my gym bag, one of two bags sitting next to my door. The other is for the middle of the night phone call, packed and ready for the next mission.

When I pull up to the gate at Ft. Bragg, I see a new MP. I hand him my ID, and he looks at me skeptically.

“I need to call this in,” he tells me.

Some of us take offense to this, not me. I’m like Batman. Soon, the new MP will have the pleasure of not only knowing I exist, but that he has seen the real fucking deal.

I don’t play by the rules of a soldier anymore. I don’t wear the uniform or worry about rank. As a matter a fact, over the years, I have come to dislike the Army. I have even been reprimanded for questioning authority, though I was right—when you deploy a Ranger battalion who have no fucking clue what they are walking into, lives are lost.