There were these big blue butterflies in the jungle, as big as your head. My mate Cuddles would try to shoot them, but you can’t shoot butterflies, its the air pressure the round creates, it just sends them into a spin. Cuddles used to wonder if you could take one out with a grenade but that seemed like overkill to me, to grenade a butterfly.
The corporal was pissed with me because I hadn’t taken a dump that morning and said if I stopped now then I would just have to catch up with them. I hated shitting in the jungle, the smell would attract all kinds of creepy crawlies, scorpions and big hairy spiders and the like. I felt vulnerable squatting with my pants down, afraid of getting my butt or nuts bitten. I jogged to catch up with them and realised I was lost when the trail faded out. It is not smart to get lost in the jungle, and I was relived to hear the gunfire, I assumed it was Cuddles having another pop at a butterfly, I didn’t realise that they were under attack.
You can stand very close to someone in the jungle and not be seen, and I was only a few feet from him. I could make out the shouts of the boys off to my left, in between the bursts of his automatic. He couldn’t see them and was firing wildly, spraying rounds in their general direction. If he had turned his head to the left he would have seen me.
I fired three rounds into his arm and chest. Those ArmaLites were puny, we used them because they could handle the high humidity, his body barely rocked. He stopped firing and looked down at his boots, puzzled by the blood dripping onto them and then he collapsed.
His name was Paulo. He was 17. In one of his pockets was a picture of his sweetheart, she was absolutely gorgeous. Cuddles wanted the picture to jack off to. I told him he was sick but it didn’t stop him.
She watches the smoking enemy plane as it is shot down in the skies over her farmhouse, watches the distant figure of the enemy pilot float down under his parachute and land softly at the end of her little orchard.
She approaches the scene gingerly, the old service pistol wobbling in her hand as she points it at him. Everyone says terrible things about the enemy, that they are all merciless killers and torturers, raping everyone they capture, male as well as female, young and old alike. He does not look like a rapist she thinks, or a killer, as she holds up the lantern to get a better look at him. He looks rather sweet, has curly blonde hair and sparkling brown eyes. He is younger too than she had imagined, and is clearly quite scared of her and her revolver.
She doesn’t care what the enemy are like, she will show him that she is from a civilised race; he has cuts that need attending to and he is clearly in need of food and a bath. She gestures with the gun, towards the house.
After devouring the ham and cheese and bread she gives him, he lets her dress his wounds, and watches, less afraid, as she fills the tin bath with steaming hot kettles of water. He undresses timidly, with his broad, powerful, back to her, but must turn to face her when he steps into the bath, and she sneaks glances at his member. It has been two-and-a-half years since her husband had been killed in the war, three years since she last saw him, and felt him. She had not even pleasured herself in that time, in memory of him, but now, the sight of this naked, stunning, young man, stirs something really deep and hot within her.
She toys with the idea of making him masturbate, at gun point, in front of her and the thought thrills her and makes her wetter than she can remember being, but she restrains herself. Before throwing his uniform on the fireplace, she checks the pockets: an empty tobacco tin, a half eaten packet of sweets and a purse containing a lock of hair and a photo she reckons must be of his sweetheart, although it is so fingered and worn that she can barely make out a face.
Exhausted, he sleeps deeply, she has decided to watch guard over him, in case he tries to escape. She sits in the chair at the end of the bed watching him breathe and fantasises about him wrestling the gun from her and overpowering her, having his evil, enemy way with her. Ashamed at her own imagination, her grip tightens around the revolver and she tries not to stare at the twitching of his nocturnal erection under the blanket.
He is out cold and would be quite hard to wake, but the feel of her cold little fingers round his engorged prick cause him to gasp lightly in his sleep, and she stares at his face as she strokes gently up and down his length, watching smiles and dirty little foreign words flicker across his sleeping lips. He is magnificent, reaching right up to his own belly button, her thumb and middle finger barely meeting around him.
She tries, as best she can, to undress herself as she watches him stir, and is as good as naked by the time he opens his eyes. The expression of surprise and pleasure in him, as he looks down at what she is doing, sends long guttural throbs of pleasure shooting through her from her loins outwards.
She kisses it, gently, briefly, on the tip and looks up at him. She kisses again, for a little longer, opening her lips a little, taking a little more of him into her mouth, drinking in the sounds he makes, not understanding his words but knowing their meaning inside-out.
She has no way of knowing that he has been almost as long without the touch of another as she has, but she feels it, instinctively, and watches him cum with delight, watches as months and months of pent up frustration burst as freely from his cock as they do, from his lips and lungs.
He is stiff again within seconds and she climbs thirstily onto him, riding him like a circus rodeo, their eyes locking, their fingers digging into each other’s flesh, their mouths entwined, their screams of joy united. He is insatiable, they both are, and when he is not stiff he goes down on her, caressing her clit with the tip of his tongue, with his lips, at times with his fingers too. Bringing her to the brink, over and over again, he then leaves her for sheer infinite moments, hanging, teetering on the chasm of her orgasm, then releasing her like burst dam, in such a cascade of coming that all before it is smashed, her orgasms washing and thrusting all else from her brain, her body, her very being. Leaving her shipwrecked on the rocky shorelines of her mind.
She loses count of how many orgasms she has had at around eight.
It is getting light when they take their first break. She makes tea and brings it to bed. They try to drink their tea and try to communicate, through a series of gestures, learning little more than each other’s names and smiles. He has a hard on throughout and she can’t help herself playing with it as they attempt to chat. She grabs at it, he pulls away, giggling. She flicks it, gently, he pretends to be shocked.
She forgets that she had left the gun in the room when she went to make tea.
He pushes her down onto the bed, smiling, slips himself into her, filling her and making her squeal with the fun of it. He fucks her so hard the bed shakes, the floorboards shake. They lie there after, panting, him still inside her, throbbing and still good to go. They fuck to their own physical limits, and they finally collapse in a heap around noon the next day.
She is making them both something to eat, bacon, eggs, toast, when she is suddenly brought to, by the realisation that she has left the gun in the room with him. When she gets back, she treads cautiously into the room. He has the pistol in his hand, he is emptying the barrel, chucking the bullets to one side of the bed and the revolver to the other, he is wearing a huge smile and an erection that makes her want to cry with joy.
The following day the military police arrive, and she has to tell them that she saw nothing, she’d heard the crash but had been too scared to investigate. The MPs understand and promise to return in a day or two and check on her. She thanks them and they assure her that the war will be over by Xmas. She thinks of him upstairs, all naked and stiff and grinning and hopes that the war will go on for ever.