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June-July 1981, Mother Russia

"I have read the report", said the kommissar. "May I?" He sat down at the bed.

Vadim, still dizzy from surgery, attempted to nod. The nose. They said something had been broken so badly they needed to operate so he would be able to breathe properly. He had forgotten the terms. It had made sense when the doctor told him.

Everything was bandaged. His hands, his wrists, somebody had cleaned the burn wound on his throat, and his back was heavily padded and bandaged as well. He felt weak, but at least there was no pain.

"You have obviously been tortured." The kommissar didn't smile, didn't scowl, just presented him with the conclusion.

Yes. Massive physical trauma without killing him. He looked beaten up, they could see he had been tied up. Dislocated shoulder. Wrists and ankles raw. Cigarette burn. Knife wounds. Too characteristic. One week out in enemy territory, returned without any of his kit, barely alive. His burnt skin told them of exposure to the sun, and some torture didn't leave marks. Sleep deprivation. Hunger and thirst.

"Now, I wonder, comrade, how could that happen?" The kommissar placed his fingertips together. "Not how you could fall into enemy hands. But how they could take you alive."

"I was knocked out before I could take countermeasures." Like, committing suicide.

"And your unit left you behind. Yes." The kommissar looked at him, glance from his feet to his face. "I assume you resisted torture at first and gave in later?"

Vadim swallowed. "Yes."

The kommissar looked displeased. "Who were they?"

"They spoke English." Vadim pressed his lips together. Being taken by a group of enemies was less humiliating than by one man. SAS. It wasn't worth much, apart from restoring some of his reputation as a tough bastard. Being taken by one man wouldn't do. And they assumed by default it had been a group. "I was blindfolded."

"Did they mention names? Units? Any operational data? Surely, if you were meant to be executed, they would not be as careful."

"They left me just outside camp."

"How many?"

"Best estimate is four or five."

"How many tortured you?"

Vadim shuddered. "I don't know."

The kommissar smiled. "But at least they gave you a shave."

Vadim's hands formed fists. "With a knife. Threatened to cut my throat." He felt the terror well up, despite whatever they had him shot full of. "They spoke English. Maybe Americans. I don't know. I was too busy staying alive."

"You are supposed to stay resourceful under strain." It sounded pretty. Resourceful. Tough, mentally intact, thinking, perceptive. Strain was a prettier word than torture. It sounded like a soft kind of pressure, and not like a competition between the capacity to inflict pain against the capacity to resist it.

"A week is a long time." Everybody would have broken. Absolutely everybody.

The kommissar nodded. "We assume American mercenaries. It is interesting they operate so close to Kabul. It is unfortunate that they captured you of all people, but then, it could have been much worse." After all, you know nothing, he seemed to say. "What did they ask about?"

"Units, deployments, strategic information. Our intentions here."

The kommissar seemed thoughtful, but not surprised. "Do you assume you will be fit for duty in a month?" He paused. "Desk duty, for the moment. We will send you to Moscow for a few weeks to heal the worst, but we are short of manpower, and your skills are valuable in this place. You will do training."

No question at all then. Vadim felt he needed at least six months rest, or maybe a year, but that was really self-pity. Indulging himself. The worst of it all was how much he had wanted that other man. Insanity. Offered himself, offered things he wanted. To test the other's nerve, resolve, prod him into emotions, away from executing him to keeping him alive. It made sense at the time, but now he was ashamed. Ashamed that he could still see the face close beside him, half-hidden by moonlight. Feel the Brit's heat against his hand. "Yes, kommissar."

The man got up, put the cap back on. "Do not worry", he said. Having misread his facial expression, Vadim guessed. "You will have plenty of opportunity to show us you recovered well."

Decreeing his recovery. Planning ahead. Ordering him to recover. Like he was some kind of mechanic that had to meet a target.

"And even more opportunity to go out hunting mercenaries interfering in our brotherly aid to our socialist brothers." The kommissar gave him a curt nod and walked out.

* * * * * * *

Vadim couldn't even carry the suitcase. He stood at the bottom of the staircase and wondered how he could get up there. Felt two hundred years old, nothing in his body that had kept even the slightest amount of strength. Placing a hand on the railing, he pulled himself up. One step. The journey had been bad, waiting for the connection flight in the Urals. There were direct flights, but he couldn't get a place on one of those. It could take more than twenty hours to get from Kabul to Moscow. Tired and in pain. Somebody had run into him in the Metro station, which nearly doubled him over with pain. The bastard had run past, trying to catch the metro, while Vadim stood there, one hand against the wall, and fought the pain.

An old man had watched him, both hands on a cane. Read the full story on the front of his uniform. Paratrooper. Captain. Afghanistan mission. Valour. Vadim looked at the man, impossible to say anything, that man was probably a hero of the Great War for the Motherland. Might have shot Germans in Stalingrad, hungered and frozen in Leningrad. Escaped annihilation at Kursk. The great names of that war. A life and death struggle. A proper war. Vadim had always felt that that war was much better than a long distance war by proxy in a dozen countries. It wasn't face to face. He could be old fashioned like that.

First landing. He rested, standing there, staring at the wall in front of him. Seeing mountains. Moscow was grey and glum, this place smelled of mould. Three more floors.

Another step up the staircase. He could feel his back. Every shift in his body was taken up by the muscles left and right of the spine. Everything. Even completely still, he needed to breathe with the broken ribs. Nothing anybody could do about them, apart from painkillers and rest. Difficult to remember a time without pain. And the man who had done this still in his mind. The man that had nearly taken his life, then handed it back to him. Covered his escape.

Second landing.

They had applied for a bigger flat. Two children. It might take another year or two. No way to bribe an official. No money for it, and Vadim always felt vaguely self-conscious about wrestling for an advantage. Not in the army, but he knew people there. Outside, it seemed more complicated, much more arcane, and his rank counted for nothing. One of many paratroopers. Nobody important. Spies everywhere. Spetsnaz were secret, and certainly didn't get anything resembling a bonus. Like he should be thankful he was something different.

Third landing. He was in pain, his heart thudded, chest burned.

Katya could have made a difference. She still fenced, but she had two small children, and her mother and aunt depended on her. On them. It was always the whole family. Parents, sisters, brothers, children. One struck it rich, they all shared. No nerve to let anybody down.

Fourth landing.

Turn left. Knock. People were talking inside. He felt nauseous, didn't want to hear anybody, see anybody, just wanted to lie down and sleep.

The door opened. Katya. Her eyes widened, she reached for his hand and almost pulled him inside. Yes, her mother. No sign of the kids. Already asleep. Vadim accepted tea, drank it, he was back, in one piece, grateful chatter, nothing important. No questions, only about the flight. He couldn't have told them. He made a point of not telling anybody anything.

Finally, her mother left, pressed his hand, Vadim couldn't lean in to have his cheeks kissed. She noticed when he tried and told him off.

He sat down on the bed, looked around. All the stuff that marked a civilian life. Bookshelves. Pictures on the wall. Decoration. Her epee, wire mesh mask, her kit on coat hangers, drying between the kitchen and the corridor. She'd been fencing. His kit was stored away somewhere - in a carton on one of the bookshelves. He doubted he'd fit in there anyway. Too much weight-lifting. He had actually increased in muscle and strength, a fair sixty pounds. He'd look like a gorilla in the white.

He opened the belt, the coat, the boots. Couldn't quite get them off his feet without bowing down and more pain. Katya leaned in and pulled them off. Her pale golden hair, cut at the chin. Honey. She pulled off his socks, helped to undress him. Realized he really didn't want to wear the uniform now. How tired he was.

Her hands paused on his feet, and he could see she realized what marches and that territory did to his feet. He had written her about the injuries, she must have expected something like that.

She pulled his shirt off, he helped her with the trousers. It was all put over the back of a chair. Too rickety to sit on, that was why it wasn't in the kitchen but served as a nightstand. Needed a paintjob. The whole place did.

He lay back on the mattress, closed his eyes, felt her lift his legs and help him stretch out. The mattress was too soft. And worn through. Springs dug into his back, a woollen blanket kept the worst off, but they needed a new mattress at some point.

"How are the kids?" He asked with eyes closed.

"They wanted to stay up, but it got too late. Fell asleep right at the table", she said.

Nikol'. He was reasonably sure Anoushka was his. Katya had been a few weeks pregnant when she got silver with her epee. Precise like a surgeon, deadly with that thin, flexible piece of steel. If it had ever been real. Two hundred years ago, a woman fencer like her would have caused a sensation. She had beaten him several times, friendly matches, he'd been intrigued by her style. Highly mobile, and cold-blooded like a striking cobra. No, a king cobra. Snake-eater. He'd been drunk, high on freedom. The things he did when drunk.

He'd never found a woman attractive. Some fumbling around because he felt that was expected, that was how things were, but the interest was mostly scientific.

His masseur had started fucking him way before the Olympics, jerked him off when he did that, and had an amount of control that made Vadim dizzy with lust. It always needed to be quick, the old man seemed wary and tense and nervous, but just couldn't resist the temptation. Vadim didn't want him to resist. Vadim wanted to feel the other inside himself, just an extension of the massage, of making him feel special. It never felt filthy. Forbidden, yes, he had understood that from the start. But never bad. A man three times as old as he when they started fucking. He felt the other had held back with that, merely entered him with his fingers, once or twice turned him around and sucked him off. Told him how beautiful he was.

Katya knew. They never talked about it, though. But even a stupid bitch would have realized that there were things missing in their marriage. He assumed she was shagging the occasional guy. Bored wife of a deployed officer.

Seeing her with Sasha had felt right - face flushed, her body radiant, strong, lithe. Sasha probably hadn't known what hit him. She had asked Sasha whether Vadim was welcome, and Sasha was too far gone to care much. Vadim assumed he didn't mind much - maybe had been fucked before, maybe even desired him as well. He'd been careful, and gentle, feeling oddly mellow with the both of them in his bed. He'd had Sasha after that, the next morning. Fucked him nice and slow, with Katya watching. Absolutely screwed Sasha's mind - the woman he wanted, and her husband.

Vadim needed to encourage him. Katya had told him that there had been "one of your people", meaning KGB, "asking whether I was happily married to you." Or, short, whether their marriage was more than a scam. He needed a child to prove it. Used Sasha as a stallion, nothing more.

Did her a favour as well; he would probably have been able to, had been, could bring himself to do it. There were always physiological reactions on which to rely. He was biologically healthy, enough friction, and things went alright. But it felt like fucking a sister. And her knowing that it was willpower, and not lust, made it more difficult.

She deserved better than physiological reactions.

He rested, felt her hands soothing on his neck, turned around and could smell her hair when she placed her head on his good shoulder.

"I'm sorry about Sasha", he murmured into the darkness.

"Yes, he told me … what you said."

Vadim inhaled. I've seen how happy you were. I've seen how you looked at him when he stood there in the doorway, dark hair, freckles, those dark blue eyes. I can still see you sit on him, writhe, ride his cock, glance over your shoulder, hair falling into your face. That smile then. The way you lifted your ass to show me that cock burrowing into you. You snake-eater.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, pulled her a little closer. "We have Nikolai."

"Yes." Her voice strained. "Nikolai." She fought tears. He wondered how she could mourn her husband's 'comrade' without betraying what she had felt. Nobody. As far as Vadim could tell, nobody knew. Even her mother had told Vadim that Nikolai looked absolutely like his father. With only the eyes a darker shade of blue.

She was silent for a long time. "Don't you get killed down there", she said, pleading.

It could have been so much easier without that feeling. He had opened the cage, but she didn't leave. Just another prisoner in a web of lies.

* * * * * * *

Anoushka pulled on his arm like a plough horse, tiny legs pushing against the ground. Beautiful bright day, the sun was out, a mild, forgiving sun that didn't burn his face. Katya had said he looked very tanned. Looked like after their honeymoon in Sochi. A gift from somewhere up, Katya's trainer, probably. A mentor in the vast bureaucracy. Vadim had felt self-conscious then. He was the second-rate pentathlete who had impregnated a first-class fencer. Not bad at all with the blade himself. As if they expected Anoushka to breed true and become a champion in her own right as soon as she had grown up.

Soviet model family, with properly proletarian background. Her ancestors near-starving peasants in the Volga district, his ancestors industrial workers in Moscow. Steel workers. That wasn't the whole story. His father had been an intellectual before he was forced to work with his hands instead, his grandfather had been too close to the Whites during the revolution. But turned himself into a traitor, and was allowed to change sides. Denounce yourself, and the great leader will have mercy. Unless he sends you to a forced labour camp. He shook his head. Dark times. The lesson was clear: Keep your head down. Never become a target.

He followed his daughter, who insisted on heading towards the goats. Plucked some grass and offered it to one of the small pointy snouts, squealing in delight at the rough tongue. "Look! He likes it!"

Vadim smiled and looked at Katya, who had Nikol ride on her hip, handled the heavy toddler with ease. He couldn't even carry him yet. His daughter also had the unfortunate tendency to cling to him, and he had to push her away every time she tried to climb on his lap. That a child could ever inflict pain on him was unspeakably bizarre.

"Look, the goat is from Afghanistan. A present from the government", said Katya, pointing at a plaque.

"That kind doesn't taste so bad", he said.

Anoushka stared at him in horror. "Noooo!"

Katya looked at him, frowning, then went to great lengths to explain that daddy had been joking. Anoushka was not convinced and frowned at him, darkly, and his daughter could look exceptionally dark when displeased.

Vadim laughed and went to make amends with ice cream.

* * * * * * *

"I think we can take the plasters off now", said the doctor and Vadim felt the urge to pull a knife and place it against his femoral artery. The doctor started pulling them off, a line of plasters, one for each letter. The doctor knew the word, he'd checked the wounds, made sure they healed correctly, given him painkillers for his ribs, not nearly enough, but he was talking about "withdrawal" and Vadim understood.

His back felt naked. It felt as if people could see through the uniform. Everybody could read the word. No more cameras. No more swimming. No more sauna. He was determined to keep this hidden forever. Switched off the light before he took the undershirt off. He didn't want Katya to see it. Didn't want her to know he'd been tortured. And that he was only alive because she had given him the strength to ask for mercy. He needed to live to provide. As long as she stayed in her cage. As long as she chose to stay.

And what if Sasha had been alive and she had gone to live with the freckled pilot who was head over heels in love with her? What if there had been no family in his mind when that bastard pointed the gun into his face? He couldn't have said, couldn't have thought, but there was despair at the thought. He pushed it away.

He felt her in the night, long limbs, close, Nikol' mewling in his sleep. The kid was a little ill, nothing serious, but his bed was in their room. This had saved his life, not mercy, not strength. He placed his face on her arm, chin against her elbow, felt her fingers brush his cheek.

In the morning, she brought him tea and buttered, fresh bread. He'd been awake at five, as usual, then forced himself to sleep on. The medics told him to get as much rest as possible. He could stay in bed all week. He reacted too late, too late to cover himself. Her left hand, deadly instrument with a blade, shook as she served him tea.

He couldn't eat, but took the tea. Sat up in bed, leaned against the wall, to hide the healing wounds. Saw shock in her face, speechlessness. She looked at him as if trying to grasp what she had seen, or what it meant. He hoped she hadn't seen the whole word. Hated the SAS bastard in that moment, felt his chest constrict under the weight of her pain. "It's nothing." He winced. "Important."

She accepted the lie like all the other lies. Black is white, and up is down. As long as we both understand the code. "An enemy?"

"I hurt him, too."

She nodded, eyes narrow. "Good."

He could have loved her in those feral moments.

* * * * * * *

He was reading when she came back. Dostoevsky. Crime and Punishment. He would have to fight hard to finish it before going back to Kabul. He didn't take books with him. First, he still couldn't carry much beyond a glass of tea and secondly, he could just see what the others would think of a collection of the classic writers. It was nice, however, to immerse oneself into language that was free of all profanity - beyond the things it described. Poverty, despair, darkness, and humanity. It made him think, and it was as far removed from the war as he could make it. The occupation. Raskolnikov broke over the fact he had killed one old woman - almost insane with guilt. It was nice remembering what that could have felt like.

She vanished in the kitchen, stored away whatever she had bought on the market. "Can you get a conscript out of the worst?"

He glanced up. Now, that was unusual. "In theory."

"A son of a friend was just sent to your place. She is worried."

"What kind of friend?"

Katya stepped into the room, a slight smile on her features. "A useful friend."

Influential. Able to pull strings. Get things done, or get things cheaper. Maybe a new flat. If she felt it was necessary. He did need a new driver. The last one had been transferred to a different barracks. "Can he drive?"

She nodded, the smile grew wider, and she produced a photo. Typical clueless conscript, looking still shell-shocked from the hair-cutting. Dark green eyes. Broad, flat features, lips too pretty, too curved. When he would have filled out that frame, he'd actually turn out good looking.

"Why is she worried about him? Looks alright."

Katya's smile grew a little darker, and she leaned in closer, as if to kiss him. Her lips on his ear. "I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't find something to … not talk about."

And turned around to fix up some blinis in the kitchen.

* * * * * * *

August 1981, Kabul

After a decidedly non-remarkable welcome, Vadim changed. Changed back into his normal gear, weapons everywhere on his body. This was fucking Kabul. Welcome back.

Things hadn't changed much. He sorted his clothes into the locker, took the ring off his finger, returned the dog tags to their place around his neck. Another excellent English word. Dog tags.

Got to work right away, met other officers, had a chat, mentioned Gavriil. Pulled strings. After a signature, the young guy was officially his.

Had him come into the office, to tell him of his good fortune. No mine sweeping. No truck driving. Instead, make sure Vadim and another officer got where they wanted to be.

The door opened, and the boy showed up, saluted. Correct assessment. Dark hair, dark eyes, a mouth that was more girlish than that of Anoushka. Vadim shook his head. Fuck, he needed to get out of daddy-mode.

He stood to circle the kid, assessed that body. Lean, bony, good frame, he had done a lot of running, his knuckles looked a little swollen and red, like he had been plucked fresh from a fight.

Gavriil tried to evade his gaze. Meeting somebody's eyes was asking for a fight. He figured Gavriil had learnt that lesson in the barracks. Not much different from any kind of prison, really.

Vadim stepped in front of him, leaned in closer, until those eyes blinked and focused on him. Could see the kid swallow and begin to sweat, could see tension in that body, and Katya's word made sense. Someone to not talk about things with. Like they never talked about the one thing that could ruin them both.

A friend. She knew that Gavriil liked men. That was why people were worried. A fag in the gigantic prison that was the Red Army. Gavriil would get stuffed so often he wouldn't be able to move. And he could offer protection, pluck the boy from the ranks and keep him as a driver. And a toy. That part of the deal was the reason why Katya had smiled like that.

Gavriil's lips opened, he was nervous, wide-eyed, but Vadim could feel he wasn't repulsed at all.

That fucking cock of yours gets you killed one day, and if not that, then it'll get you into shit so deep, your obligations won't get you out of it.

Vadim breathed. Entirely possible. He placed a hand against the boy's neck, thumb brushing against his jaw line. Good he'd taken off the ring. The boy shuddered. Vadim could see him on his hands and knees.

Too willing. This one didn't have a single fight in him. But it was safe. The safest bet so far. He smiled, let his thumb brush the corner of his mouth. Gavriil stared at him, stared like he could hardly believe it. His luck. The fact Vadim might be interested.

Gavriil closed his eyes, lips moved as if in silent prayer.

"What?"

"Whatever you want, sir."

Officer. Superior. Para. Gavriil was first class bitch material. Suka. He smirked. "Ain't that the truth."

* * * * * * *

And what a slut. At first he'd played innocent, but Vadim could tell Gavriil had had cock in his mouth before. He held him by the collar, not nearly enough hair to grab, but the uniform collar was fine.

It was strangely, darkly amusing, how embarrassed Gavriil was about how horny it made him, but Vadim was in no state to go for the all-out thing.

Blowjobs was the most they could do. Or, Gavriil could do.

The boy's body left him strangely unaffected, just not worth conquering. And his ribs still hurt like a bitch. He hooked a leg under Gavriil's body when the kid was giving head, allowed the bitch to suck him and press against his leg, rubbing against it like a dog to get himself off. Vadim was an officer. And with Gavriil, that gap was wider than ever before. He didn't care whether Gavriil came. Sometimes, he'd been nice to Vanya, but Vanya earned that with a fight.

He did, however, like the way Gavriil flushed, liked the way he was panting for breath, liked the feeling of tongue, sucking and eventually trained him to take him down the throat. That day he decided he'd keep him as a driver. Men with that talent were rare and to be cherished.

During the days, he did his job, inspections, military liaison with the joke that was the Afghan army. Could as well just stay home. A complete waste of time. The Afghans lost a third of their number to desertion, and everybody left who could or wanted to fight, leaving the bastards that were too scared to run. That made for brilliant fighters. Especially since the insurgents were their friends and family. Vadim often had the feeling they only stayed around so they could steal more kit when they finally did leave. He wasn't going out of his way to be pleasant with them. He knew everything would crumble and fall to pieces again the moment he turned his back.

Very difficult to stay out of the bottle after a day like that. Gavriil soothed him. Actively sought to give him a blowjob, like he couldn't wait. Vadim was not going to say no. Six weeks later, his chest was much better, but nowhere near alright, he fucked him up the ass. Gavriil came from fucking alone. Another excellent trait for a bitch. Needy, easily aroused, even easier finished. He came into his trousers when fucked against a wall or across his desk.

Not just a bitch, but a proper whore. Breathlessly pleading with him. Porn material. Harder, deeper, yes sir. It was arousing, but it was too easy. Vadim wasn't even sure if Gavriil could understand what a proper fight was, even if he would try and explain it.

Nothing but a doormat. Useful, in its place.

Fucking boring.

* * * * * * *

July 1981, Old Blighty

Two more weeks of dealing with those goat-fuckers, and Dan was ready for some well-earned R&R back in England. He was damn sure he'd gotten himself a veritable colony of fleas, nits and lice, a self-diagnose that was confirmed by a US medic who'd checked him over in one of the non-existent camps.

There was still no official Western intervention and even less interest. No one was there, no one would stay, and no one left for long.

Dan just about managed to stop those bloody Americans to shave his hair in their stupid crew cut, made them give him a longer version instead, and drowned himself in every bit of parasite poison he got his hands on. The joys. He'd never get used to those little fuckers.

Enjoying the luxury of hot water, he stayed longer in the showers than usual, getting himself back up to his personal grooming level. Consisting of cutting his nails, scraping the half-moons of dirt from under them, getting a real good wet shave and ... that was it. He'd never understood the need for anyone, least of all blokes, to do anymore than that. Wash hair, wash body, take off. Go and find yourself a shag.

Shag. That was it. He couldn't wait to get out of this motherfucking Muslim country where women were swathed in drapery like black crows tumbling with ruffled feathers in the wind. He hadn't seen anything that tickled his fancy for weeks on end, needed a bird with big tits to remind him of what he really wanted, a good, long, hard fuck.

He just needed to burrow his face in ginormous bazookas and he would be alright. Double E cup, at least, and a wide-load arse to grab hold of. Just like he liked them. Not those stick-thin girls who had no curves and no flesh on them. He'd always taken the piss out of anyone who didn't want to suffocate in a nice, big pair of tits. He was just like his mates, he was one of them, when on the prowl and off duty. A lad like any other. Fucking his brains out with a willing bimbo after a night in the pub. Pissed to the gills, getting his leg-over, then fucking off before the morning.

Just like the others. He was one of them. Just like his mates.

He chatted with a couple of US Marines, joking and telling tall tales, watching porn in their hideaway mess, flicking through x-rated mags, making rude gestures, smirking and shouting out his approval at the latest pussy queen while waiting for his flight back to Blighty.

At night, he dreamed. Of hard muscles, angular planes, the smell of fresh sweat and drying blood. Memory of smooth skin beneath his hands, pale blond hairs catching the last sunbeams over the mountains, and a strength that matched if not out-won his own. Barely contained power, but power he'd had in his hands.

He woke up hard. And wanting.

* * * * * * *

"Oy, mate!" Dan raised the pint glass in his hand, laughing. Already pretty drunk, he'd been on the piss every night since he'd returned to Britain a week ago. "I'm off in a sec." He winked at Smudge, who was groping a brunette's tits. The girl was dressed in pink leggings and something that could almost be called a boob tube, if it wasn't more like a strip of fabric, stretched across fucking big pillows.

His mate lifted a thumb, "See ya, mate!" before continuing to slobber the garish lipstick off the giggling girl.

Dan drowned the remaining half pint, turned his head to the blond bimbo in his arm and grinned. "So, you wanna know how Special a Forces guy can be?" Corny, but it usually worked, and she had long proven to be giggly and flushed enough to be flattered by his attention. The fact that his hand was up the minuscule mini skirt, had twisted her thong and his fingers were half-way up her fanny, might have been a clue.

She was ripe, and Dan was looking forward to another round of fucking. He'd done his fair share since his return for R&R and intended to shag his way through as many tits, cunts and arses as he could fit into fourteen days. He wondered if he'd get this one to take it up the backdoor, seemed he had developed from a mere liking to a clear preference to ram them from behind while they were kneeling like dogs.

The things the bloody Afghan mountains did to a man.

"Sure, but we have to be quiet, I'm sharing a flat with a girlfriend. She might be in." She giggled again and Dan smirked. Threesome? Perhaps he got extra lucky.

"Got some booze at home?" Dan stood up, just a minor sway, he was a big bloke, an alpha male, who could handle his pints, no question. She shook her head, that motherfucking stupid giggle again. Dan was drunk enough to ignore it. "Wanna stop over at the off licence before they close, need some whisky, or whatever you Sassenachs call whisky."

She giggled. What else, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, dwarfing the girl. Big tits, bleached blond hair in a Farah Fawcett wannabe-mane, round arse and killer stilettos and nothing in her brain. Just like he liked them. Especially from behind.

A trip to the local corner shop and a bottle of overpriced whisky later, Dan watched the girl fiddle with her keys, somewhat disappointed when she declared after checking the lights were all off, that her flatmate wasn't at home. No threesome, then, but he had another week to go.

"Let's get comfortable", he grinned, walked to her room, the usual girly interior, fairy lights, cushions, throws and all that crap. Paraphernalia of princesses, he'd never gotten his head around the need for frills, doilies and tables full of bottles, pots and brushes. He preferred to focus on the bed, and that's where he sat down. Good. Not too soft, he probably wouldn't have to risk carpet burn.

She giggled. Hell, fuck, heaven and earth, of course she would. "I'll just make myself fresh, I'll be back in a sec." She turned and swung her ass, giggling excitedly all the way to the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.

Dan rolled his eyes, if she continued to giggle like that he'd have to stuff her throat with something to shut her up. He grinned, he knew just the thing for that, sure she would be flattered enough by an extremely fit soldier's attention to suck him off. Maybe this one was better than most others, who didn't have a fucking clue what to do with a cock. Best to get some of the booze down his neck, just in case she was one of the clueless ones. Dan wiggled out of his shirt and pulled shoes and socks off his feet, making himself comfortable on the bed in just his denims. Would leave her something to unwrap. He grinned, uncorked the bottle and took a long swig straight out of it.

Fifteen minutes later she still hadn't returned and the bottle of whisky was half empty.

He was well down the road of piss-fuck drunk, when she finally appeared, wearing her tits hanging half out of a push-up bra and a tiny thong with a glittery kissy mouth. A sight to behold, and Dan grinned from ear to ear, his speech slurred. "Time to have fun, been waiting for you."

"I hope it was worth it." She giggled - hoo-fucking-ray - but at least she climbed onto the bed, eyed the whisky bottle but said nothing, except reaching out for it. Dan handed it over, nothing better than some booze down a bird's neck and her precious ring would hopefully open for some backdoor action. He could feel the need rising, watched her kneel and drink, the smooth neck tipped back, the soft lines, the small sips; the lack of an adam's apple.

"You on the pill?" He was fumbling with his belt, ready for action, could hardly wait to get down and dirty. She nodded, but pointed to her nightstand. "Don't you think we should use condoms?"

He laughed, popping the buttons of his jeans, "Bollocks, I'm clean. Much better without a rubber."

She nodded and … yeah, right, giggled. He was ready to grab her hair and push that lipsticked mouth down his cock. Kept himself in check, couldn't do that with girls. Bad move, had to woo them. Had to be careful. He tried to remember what the next step in the well rehearsed manual was? Right. Compliments, while he pushed his trousers down and watched her avert her eyes in a ridiculous sudden bashfulness. What the fuck. He didn't get that bullshit either. Nothing wrong with being a slut, why the fuck did they have to come over halfway through like a miniature Madonna, when they'd been down your trousers and up your body for hours in the pub. Free drinks, yeah, that's why, and attention. Always fucking attention.

"You're one of the prettiest girls I've ever met." He kicked the jeans down, wore no underwear, always went commando when he wasn't in uniform and off duty. Cock greeting her sight, or simply just greeting. Anything. A hole to stuff, preferably the tightest one.

"Really?" She flushed, leaned forward, tits bouncing into Dan's face.

"Sure, I wouldn't lie. You're fucking gorgeous." Sure. Blah blah, the whole shebang, the usual shit - and I'm off in the morning. "Come on, now, I'm desperate for your body, you drive me wild, I really wanna shag you."

Thank fuck, she reached to undo her bra, tits falling out and his hands were ready to grip the firm flesh. Pulled himself up, burrowed his face in the warm, sweetly scented flesh, powdered and soft, round and silky, giving way to his hands, fingers and face, not offering any resistance.

Thought of a heavily muscled chest.

"Fuck!" Dan recoiled, wiped his brow, she almost jumped back and squeaked. "What? What did I do?" He laughed it off, the booze, too much fucking whisky. "Nothing, just caught my nuts." Drunken laughter, she seemed happy with the answer, snuggled back up his body, her breasts brushing his chest, her skin freshly showered, powdered, deodorised and perfumed. Smelling nothing. Nothing but fake sweetness and lack of anything. No sweat. No blood. No heat.

"Come here." He grinned, grabbed her hips, fought and conquered the thong, made her straddle his abs, his cock stabbing with every movement against the voluptuous rounds of her arse cheeks. "You ready?" He grabbed her breasts again, did the nipple roll-tug-etc thing, the usual shit that counted as 'foreplay' in his books, then dipped a hand to rub her clit, ready for his fingers to find their way inside the wet heat of her body.

Everything hidden, all of it out of sight and out of mind, but ready to service his lust.

She writhed and moaned, looked ecstatic before he had even started. He was drunk and horny, couldn't give a flying fuck if she faked it. Didn't matter to him if she came, just needed a hole, would do the rigmarole beforehand, but never after, to shoot his load and get a proper leg-over.

"I want to fuck you on your knees." He groaned, worked-up while working her tits and cunt, "you got such a perfect arse!"

She hesitated, but he pulled his last joker out of the packet of fucked-up cards, and pulled her down to him, to start snogging her like he figured she wanted. Tongue play, nibbling, show of greed, and intimacy. Gave her what she wanted to get in return what he craved.

Power. Hard body. Strength and defiance. Muscles coiling beneath his hands.

Dan shook his head, broke the kiss, she mewled, he resumed, grabbed her arse so hard she winced but he never relented. Girl. Woman. Soft body. Tits. Arse. That's what he wanted! That's what he needed! That's who he was!

"Come on …" he cajoled, she still stalled, he pushed his fingers up her cunt, never quite got into the habit of enjoying the slippery wetness. Useful, but somewhat off-putting, didn't like the smell, but hell, liked how a versatile pussy could eat his cock. She squealed, wiggled, tits slapping his chest, and he knew he'd won. "You'll like it."

I don't give a shit. I just want to come.

She nodded and he took hold of her, lifted the girl like nothing, just soft tissue and a few bones, nothing to hold onto, nothing to fight with. She knelt on all fours, compliant, willing, waiting for him to take and do. 'Do'. To be active, and he peered down her back, too drunk to focus.

"Wanna fuck your arse." Still-coated fingers sought the puckered hole, tried to stab more than push, too pissed to aim.

"No!" She shook her head, tried to turn around, get away. "No, I'm not that sort of girl, I don't do that. That's disgusting!" She struggled, complained, Dan's prize win was threatened.

"OK." He frowned, but what the fuck, any hole would do. "Is OK, you're lovely. Really, I like you, whatever you want. Sorry for that." Lie, lie, get what you want. Fuck and shag, then be on your way. "I understand, you're a special one, you're a classy girl, sorry love, we can always meet again, get to know each other while I'm on leave. Just have a good shag now, we can meet tomorrow, I'll leave you my phone number in camp."

Yadda yadda words, no meaning, just get what you want.

She giggled. Fuck! Again! Giggled and calmed, then pushed back and started gyrating her hips once more. Good. Better. Much better. Dan circled her waist, focussed on her shoulders, the smooth line of fragile bones, then went forward like every man had done for thousands of years.

Cunt. Cock. Sheath. Fuck. That's how it was meant to be.

She moaned, he groaned; she pulled, he pushed; she panted, he fucked. Rammed his cock into her as if he were trying to prove a point. Fucked her body with narrowed eyes, and ragged breath, felt sweat bead, then trickle down his neck and chest. Watched her round arse, then flickered away, still not coming, not yet. Eyes on the narrow waist, then up to the thin neck, couldn't get to the point that tipped him over. Shut his mind off to her high pitched squeals and girly noises, finally shut his eyes, grabbed her hips. Too drunk to guard his thoughts, too pissed to reject the images, memories, scents and sights.

Fucked a hard body in his mind; fought muscled strength, gripped steel and power, tasted sweat and blood, sun-burnt flesh; watched rope-like neck moving and turning, shaved blond hair, thickly defined arms and shoulders; wrestled and punched, kicked and battled a body like his own. A body unlike the one he was shooting his load into, unseeing, unhearing, shouting to the memory of a hard cock, ropey abs and dog tags jarring on a pronounced chest. "Fuck!"

Dan came. Collapsed. Discarded the girl's unwanted body.

"Where the fuck is the whisky."

* * * * * * *

She'd thrown him out, crying, complaining, accusing, her mascara turning her eyes into black-smudged pandas, and he had fled the flat, couldn't get the fuck out of there quickly enough.

He swayed while walking, had downed another good measure of the booze, but she'd kept it, demanded the remainder for her heartbreak and trouble. He was a liar, a thief, a bastard and all the other wonderful terms he'd probably been called more times than he could count. Whatever.

Dan had no idea where he was, didn't care. Some part of London, they'd taken a taxi from the off license. He'd paid the fare but hadn't bothered to check where they were heading. Didn't matter jack shit. Just the cool night air in his face and the freedom to be out of the confinement of her cute little bedroom. Cute. Fuck. Stupid cunt.

Cunt.

Dan growled and spit on the ground, wiping his fingers once more on his thighs. He could still smell her. Stupid bitch. Damned girls and all the shit he had to do to get them. Why not just walk up, decide to fuck and get on with it. Presents, teddies, flowers and compliments if he wanted a regular shag. Sluts and fishy pussies if he couldn't be arsed and just got too drunk and nothing else mattered but a hole. Whores that sucked you off for a tenner or let you fuck their loosened arseholes for a fiver more. Stupid fucking girls. Not worth the hassle. This one definitely hadn't been. Sweet innocent girl, yeah, and his name was Abdullah.

Walking aimlessly along the streets, drunk or not, Dan trusted his senses to take him back into the centre of the city. Blurred vision, but the cool air was sobering him some. Enough to stagger on.

Fucking cunt.

Had already forgotten the girl, her tears and accusations, eyes fixed on the pavement in front of his feet, wandered without a plan, his thoughts returned to places he'd refused to visit before.

Waking. Night after night. Hard. Wanting.

Dan snorted, staggered to the side, almost lost his balance, time to stop. Patted the black leather jacket down to find the packet of fags and leaned with his back against the wall of the nearest building.

Fag.

Fucking joke, that word. No way to get away from it, unless he stopped smoking. Inhaled the first drag as deeply as he could, stared into the sky while exhaling. Murky stars, the night was nothing like the sky in the mountains. The moloch of the city managed to tame even the planets and stars. He laughed. Dry, without a hint of humour, while disregarding the noise from across the street. Another seedy nightclub, haunts for cheap sex and drugs in a run-down neighbourhood of a run-down Thatcherite country. Another drag, listening to the sizzle of the glowing cigarette instead, and staring at the patch of sky.

Tame.

Unlike the other. The enemy. That goddamnedmotherfucking Russian who had crawled into his brain, hooked poisoned barbs into his mind, had changed everything. Everything. Unlike he had been. Unlike he'd ever been before.

He was normal. He shagged girls. Not guys.

Dan pulled up his shoulders, took another drag from the cigarette. He'd never had those thoughts before. Couldn't remember the waking, night after night after …

He was a bloody bad liar.

Dan laughed, much like he had, back in the mountains, confronted with the simplest and most truthful of answers. 'I want you.' 'I'd take you again.' And fucking hell, how he had wanted the bastard.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." Muttered. This time it hurt and it wasn't the booze that did it. Thirty-two years. Thirty-two goddamned years and it took one enemy to break through the mask he hadn't known he was wearing and the lie he had believed himself.

"What a fucking mess." Words escaping through puffs of smoke. He was a soldier, a squaddie. He had to be what he'd always thought he was, or he'd be busted. He had to be like all the others, just like them - to belong. 'Them', since when had he started to think in the manner of them and I and they and us. Had to be the booze.

He flicked the butt onto the pavement, stubbed it out and lifted his eyes across the road while doing so. Froze. Stared. Mesmerized by a sight in the sickly yellow glow of a street lamp. Two men. Kissing. No, bullshit. Devouring. Eating each other.

He'd never been so envious in his life before.

Dan couldn't take his eyes off, was staring with the intensity of a drunken guy, transfixed at the sight of those two men. He had to be watching for minutes, standing in the shadows against the walls, before the two guys finally noticed him, one prodding the other, pointing to the Peeping Tom across the street who was gawping at them.

"Oy, you!" One of the called, gesturing over to him, but it took Dan a moment to register. "What the fuck are you staring at, arsehole." Both of the guys now glaring at him. They were tall, broad, muscled. Shit, they weren't anything at all like Dan, the gay bashing bastard, had told himself a faggot would be. They were like the Russian. No. Not quite. Nobody was like that Russian cunt. At least no one he'd met before. Not even his SAS mates.

"You got a problem with us?" They shouted while Dan watched with detached amusement how their fists clenched, their leather vests and studded straps-wearing chests puffed up, and their bodies straightened to full height. Funny. He could kill them without effort, no matter how hard they thought they were. The guys were taking a step or two towards him, but he relieved them of their trouble, making his way across the street with the deliberate steps and the slight sway of a fairly pissed bloke.

"No." Dan grinned, suddenly realising that yeah, fucking hell, it was nothing but the goddamned truth. "I haven't got a problem with you." Holy shit, if only they knew, that before he'd gone to that shithole Kabul and its hellish mountains, he would have kicked their heads in. Just for the fun of it, just because they were fucking fags, shit-stabbers, queer cunts.

Dan laughed, shaking his head as he passed the flummoxed blokes, who stared at this idiot who was laughing his head off for no reason.

He passed the open door of the club, peered inside and caught a glimpse of men, bodies, leather, smell of beer and smoke and a motherlode of testosterone. And he laughed, laughed so hard in his drunken wisdom and the revelation of thirty-two years, that he forgot that fucking revelation of the biggest lie of his life was going to hurt like a motherfucker. Laughed because of the insanity of it all, and the intensity of relief. Tonight, it was just hilarious. He didn't care what it would be like tomorrow.

My cunt, eh? Just like him.