November 12, 2006

Draft One

By May B. Yesno © 2006

A truth that holds for all does not exist, not in the world, nor in the stars, nor on the surface of the land, nor beneath the waves of the ocean. That which is exists, but those who search for truth that applies to all seek what never was and never will be. That is because truth is an image of what is, and that image is painted in the colors of the seeker's beliefs. [ . . ]

From the Basis of Order


It started, for me, on the Christmas Eve Night. And certainly it started before I came on duty; but it was not known to me, all of those beginnings. I became aware of this beginning "in the middle of the movie" one might say.

We worked rather odd rotations at that time and on this particular day. I was on duty from three-thirty through the mid-night hour as the cantonment area mobile patrol. As the various clubs on the military base were having Christmas Party's it was no great surprise I was very busy that evening being a designated driver. Though we didn't have that distinction in those days - and carried a number of tipsy folks, of both sexes, to billets. So, it was not an alarming experience when I received a trouble radio call to the NCO Club. Just one more turn at the game.

I had become very tired of party goers and all they stood for, and was looking forward to getting off duty. Tired also, having been held over because the on duty married personnel had been released for the remaining hours of this holiday. The singles had been promised the next holiday off duty - New Years Eve. Both schedule changes equaling short man power and extra activity for those of us on duty. Because of the unexpected release of the married I was being held an additional four hours on this duty day. Anyway, the call came and I responded.

It was sufficiently past the witching hour when I made contact with the NCO Club manager. He stated he was trying to close the club so that he and his men could go home. He appeared a bit up-tight. Then he showed me a single customer; a blonde female. For all the world prim and pristine, hands lightly locked atop her purse; which was placed crosswise her lap, and no hair out of place. Dead drunk and passed out.

The manager seemed to know her, though not her name, which he could not or would not give me, but added that no one would claim her. So, he said, all his patrons were gone and he didn't want her either. The manager refused to assist me in physically removing the woman from the club. And also refused to allow any employees to do so. I suppose I could have invoked authority, but of what use? So I loaded her into the back of the WWII Jeep, my patrol vehicle.

Drunks are a pain in the ass for the most part. But a dead drunk human is a short way to a hernia if you must carry one any distance by yourself, and the closest I could park was thirty yards or so. The task was eventually accomplished, with me dropping her once on the rough grasses. Because of the limber nature of the body I had difficulty getting her over the side of the vehicle and dumped her on her head in the rear seat area. From there it was a simple matter to grab her ankles and twist her around until her legs and feet extended over the back of the rear seat outside the tail end. That meant that her skirt was hiked above her panties, which fact I was in no mood to be concerned about. The panties were white and I was vaguely surprised she was wearing any.

I stuck her in the single holding cell at HQ and the desk told me to take off. My duty day was done.


Because of the nature of authority and the nature of folks subject to authority, I found myself working the modified mid-night shift over the New Years holiday, previous promises not withstanding. Worse, I was coming to work early on the eve before and scheduled to work twelve hours, carrying into nine or ten o'clock the morning of New Years Day.

I was scheduled to work the installations Main Gate. The man I was to relieve was one of the men on the desk the night I brought in the drunk blonde. As the gate was not far from HQ, I walked to my duty post.

The night was clear, crispy, calm, and as most of the parties were far from the gate, quiet. So it wasn't surprising that I could hear voices from the gate. Among them a female voice. Peeking into the gate house when I arrived, I saw the blonde from the Christmas incident. It was obvious that she was not entirely sober this time either.

The blonde recognized me, called me by name and offered her hand to shake. Reflex caused me to take the handshake and her off hand wrapped itself around my wrist, her head lowered to kiss the back of my hand.

I did not know this woman. Hell, I didn't even know her name. But the feel of her warm soft lips moving on my flesh was a delightful surprise. I was slow in attempting to withdraw my hand from her grasp though and as I tried the off hand grip on my wrist tightened. The fingers of her other hand slide smoothly around palm to palm and began to withdraw, the pads of her fingers moving slowly and caressingly across my palm. Then the nails lightly, ever so lightly teasing the palm; together, then singly; her hand moved upward, finger nails, finger pads, palm; downward, palm, finger pads, finger nails...

With head still lowered over my hand she rocked her body forward a bit; lips questing, her tongue began tracing patterns on the back of my hand. Her lips teasing the flesh there and tongue gliding over the knuckles there, circling, back across, pausing occasionally while the tongue crept between my fingers following so lightly the arc of the webs. All the while the warm moisture left by the tongue cooled in the winter air, providing rich contrast to the experience.

She rolled her hand under and twisted a bit so that my hand was palm to her palm, my fingers resting on her inner wrist and her lips described a line to my finger tips - which she nibbled a bit. Then the lips and tongue moved ever so wet and softly, gently up the fore finger, the tongue tracing the large web and then down the thumb.

The lips searching, the tongue tracing, her off hand fingers grazing my inner wrist, until her lips found the tip of my thumb; and slowly ingested it. First a nibble and lip on the extreme tip. A movement, a nibble and circle of the nail by her tongue, a pressure, an inhalation, a sucking of muscle; repeated, repeated. Repeated.

And the thumb was possessed. And the nerves tightened in my belly. Lower, the tingle and burn spread; my thighs; my knees...

And the man I was to relieve of duty called her name; and again; and again reminded her that he and she had a party to go to and he was now off duty. He refused to look at us.

She sighed, released me, and they were gone.


Soon after the turn of the month following I was told they had married.


[ . . ] Each seeks a different truth, and each claims that his is the only truth. In that the seeker is surely correct...

The Basis of Order

May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

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