Beholding a gift, wondering what’s inside and then finally
peeling away the paper should be almost as much fun as enjoying its contents…
almost.
The lacy red bra and matching thong
are my favorites and season-appropriate. I’ll top them with a military uniform
so I can deliver a ho-ho-ho and not look like one, not at first anyway.
“Lt. David Ramsey, prepare for the petit
mort this Christmas.” The little death, the French call it and rightfully
so.
With a snap of my fingers, I am at
Station Zebra, at the Zozobra Atoll in the South Pacific, population two plus
one.
“Halt! Identify yourself!”
A male voice from the forest to my
left emanates with menace. I can’t get a lock on his position but I think he’s
in a tree.
I still all movements and raise my
hands into the air. “Lt. Christina Ferris from Alpha base in Tahiti. I’m here
to do an audit.”
“An audit? Of what?” he asks.
“Of the supplies, sir,” I say.
“Who sent you, Lt. Ferris?”
“Sir, might I confirm whom I am
addressing? I cannot share any further intelligence until you identify yourself
as a friendly.” Ha! That sounded pretty good.
The trees rustle and the dull thud and
vibration of a pair of boots striking the earth alert me to his presence at the
three o’clock position. He circles round to stand in front of me.
“Lt. Ramsey, Station Zebra, mission
classified.” He looks me up and down, his eyes narrowed. The nametag on his
uniform confirms his identity as Lt. Ramsey.
“Ah, yes, Lt. Ramsey. Your commanding
officer is Capt. Torino.”
I give him a similar assessment—dark
haired with dark brown eyes. His skin is sun-kissed and he needs a shave. I
guess certain military protocols can be cast aside when only two men are around
to care. Lt. Ramsey is tall and broad-shouldered, his shirt a snug fit. He
fills it and the space he occupies without apology, but despite his size, he
moves like a much smaller, more agile man.
“Capt. Torino is indeed my CO. If
you’ll come this way, I’ll take you to the office to meet him.” Ramsey brushes
past me without so much as a cock of his head to follow. Friendly guy. Not.
We enter a small cabin. A generator
chugs away in the background providing precious power to the equipment. The
temperature hovers between comfortable and stuffy.
He motions me to halt. “Please remain
here while I inform the captain of your arrival.” The door to an office opens
and he slips inside. I briefly hear a second male’s voice before the door shuts
and locks.
To my left is a tiny kitchenette area
with an anemic oven, range and refrigerator. I wonder how often the Navy
replenishes their food stocks. The voices within the office rise and fall,
their conversation animated, though I can’t make out their words.
To my right is another room. I stroll
over and peer inside. Two twin beds are pushed against opposite walls. Hopefully
the men work alternate shifts or Capt. Torino is a heavy sleeper. That or I’ll
need to lure Lt. Ramsey outside to deliver his Christmas present. I’m not a fan
of sex in the sand. Too much grit in the crevasses kills the mood.
In the great room are a sofa, chair
and end table. One wall is lined in books. An ancient stereo system occupies a
small table in the corner. Quite the social mecca they’ve got here. To my
surprise, the CDs include a wide range of musical styles—jazz, classical, rock,
hip-hop, even techno. I wonder who listens to which.
The makeshift coffee table is littered
with magazines; most outdated by at least a year. These cover a range of
hobbies—photography, shooting, off-roading. I find the odd girly magazine
slipped between the stacks but I suspect the majority live in the one room
where privacy is a given. That room is to the left of the bedroom.
A loud mechanical click precedes the
flung open door. A sandy-haired man of about twenty-five strolls forward, his
steps crisp and precise. I salute him since he’s the superior officer.
“Capt.
peeling away the paper should be almost as much fun as enjoying its contents…
almost.
The lacy red bra and matching thong
are my favorites and season-appropriate. I’ll top them with a military uniform
so I can deliver a ho-ho-ho and not look like one, not at first anyway.
“Lt. David Ramsey, prepare for the petit
mort this Christmas.” The little death, the French call it and rightfully
so.
With a snap of my fingers, I am at
Station Zebra, at the Zozobra Atoll in the South Pacific, population two plus
one.
“Halt! Identify yourself!”
A male voice from the forest to my
left emanates with menace. I can’t get a lock on his position but I think he’s
in a tree.
I still all movements and raise my
hands into the air. “Lt. Christina Ferris from Alpha base in Tahiti. I’m here
to do an audit.”
“An audit? Of what?” he asks.
“Of the supplies, sir,” I say.
“Who sent you, Lt. Ferris?”
“Sir, might I confirm whom I am
addressing? I cannot share any further intelligence until you identify yourself
as a friendly.” Ha! That sounded pretty good.
The trees rustle and the dull thud and
vibration of a pair of boots striking the earth alert me to his presence at the
three o’clock position. He circles round to stand in front of me.
“Lt. Ramsey, Station Zebra, mission
classified.” He looks me up and down, his eyes narrowed. The nametag on his
uniform confirms his identity as Lt. Ramsey.
“Ah, yes, Lt. Ramsey. Your commanding
officer is Capt. Torino.”
I give him a similar assessment—dark
haired with dark brown eyes. His skin is sun-kissed and he needs a shave. I
guess certain military protocols can be cast aside when only two men are around
to care. Lt. Ramsey is tall and broad-shouldered, his shirt a snug fit. He
fills it and the space he occupies without apology, but despite his size, he
moves like a much smaller, more agile man.
“Capt. Torino is indeed my CO. If
you’ll come this way, I’ll take you to the office to meet him.” Ramsey brushes
past me without so much as a cock of his head to follow. Friendly guy. Not.
We enter a small cabin. A generator
chugs away in the background providing precious power to the equipment. The
temperature hovers between comfortable and stuffy.
He motions me to halt. “Please remain
here while I inform the captain of your arrival.” The door to an office opens
and he slips inside. I briefly hear a second male’s voice before the door shuts
and locks.
To my left is a tiny kitchenette area
with an anemic oven, range and refrigerator. I wonder how often the Navy
replenishes their food stocks. The voices within the office rise and fall,
their conversation animated, though I can’t make out their words.
To my right is another room. I stroll
over and peer inside. Two twin beds are pushed against opposite walls. Hopefully
the men work alternate shifts or Capt. Torino is a heavy sleeper. That or I’ll
need to lure Lt. Ramsey outside to deliver his Christmas present. I’m not a fan
of sex in the sand. Too much grit in the crevasses kills the mood.
In the great room are a sofa, chair
and end table. One wall is lined in books. An ancient stereo system occupies a
small table in the corner. Quite the social mecca they’ve got here. To my
surprise, the CDs include a wide range of musical styles—jazz, classical, rock,
hip-hop, even techno. I wonder who listens to which.
The makeshift coffee table is littered
with magazines; most outdated by at least a year. These cover a range of
hobbies—photography, shooting, off-roading. I find the odd girly magazine
slipped between the stacks but I suspect the majority live in the one room
where privacy is a given. That room is to the left of the bedroom.
A loud mechanical click precedes the
flung open door. A sandy-haired man of about twenty-five strolls forward, his
steps crisp and precise. I salute him since he’s the superior officer.
“Capt.
Similar Books
