2 comments/ 12388 views/ 1 favorites Captain Alfred's Affair By: Eli is Coming Drey Alfred and his wife Lucy crossed their home's threshold with relief. Shoulders heavy with exhaustion, they slouched as they removed their coats. Lucy's thin, almost superfluous coat was selected because it was necessitated by genteel society and not by the frigid weather. All she had wrapped around her smooth plump shoulders was a modest shawl half covering her beautifully sequined blue dress whose weight billowed beneath her as her legs kicked her shoes off. Drey, in his officer's dress uniform complete with a greatcoat, labored out of his wool and pinched off Lucy's shawl as she walked to the den, hoping to find their accustomed babysitter. She was usually found there whenever they came home at two o'clock in the morning. The TV's volume was less intrusive than the flashing blue glow of the kitchen appliance informercial that replaced original programming probably sometime after the teenager passed out on the couch. Lucy studied the screen, briefly taken in by the allure until she realized the chattel was far too specialized and would overcome any reasonably sized kitchen. And besides, what did she need time savers for? They had cooks who worried about that. She knelt in front of the sitter, gently nudging her arm until she awoke. The teenaged girl's eyes blinked hard, a single tear streaking down her chubby cheek. It was a long night and so she made sure to tip the young girl twice as much. Her eyes glowed excitedly at seeing such an amount. Though the Alfred's were the only family she baby-sat for who reported her income to the Internal Revenue Service, their generosity made up for that three fold. After all, Lucy remembered being in High School once herself and always paid enough to delight them—but she was not about to bilk the IRS. She showed the neighborhood babysitter out and, careful not to step on her dress and fall up the stairs, she pulled the mid-thigh portion up to her waist and stepped to the second floor. She found Drey peeking into the dark room of their eldest daughter Maria. Though only 12 she had developed a furious snore that would have to be surgically corrected when she got a suitor. Lucy stood and watched as he stepped opposite and cracked open the bedroom door of their youngest daughter Laura. "Mommy?" Lucy vaguely heard a soft voice ask from the other side of the door. Drey walked inside his youngest's bedroom, followed shortly by Lucy. "Yeah, we're home. You should be in bed..." he whispered as he nervously examined the dark floor, careful not to step on her toys and dolls. "I am in bed." "I meant to say 'asleep', and you know it," he smiled at his baby daughter's clever back talk. "But Daddy, you said you'd be back sooner," she said with a yawn that made her high delicate child's voice all the more incomprehensible. "I know but we had to stay longer and, even if we didn't, it would still be past your bedtime," he reasoned with her. "Do you forgive us?" he asked as he kneeled to the side of her bed. The moon glinted in her moist eyes ready for tears of exhaustion but not of abandonment. Lucy looked on from he doorway and leaned her head against the doorjamb as Laura's adoring father kissed her small forehead. "Yes..." she dozed. They ascended the staircase to their third floor bedroom. With the lights on they swiftly stripped to beat their weariness that nearly made them collapse onto the floor. Lucy's dress was complicated and once it was off, her soft white skin and long hair ached with relief. As she walked to the bathroom and flicked on the light, Drey swore he could already recognize a low hanging paunch. Since she did not brush her teeth in preparation for any sex they were too tired for, she tickled the porcelain and exited the bathroom, giving the eager Drey a chance at the door. After passing her, he turned, catching her from behind. He wrapped his arm around her belly and embraced the nook of her neck with loving kiss. "I honestly think you're showing more now than you did when you rode me this morning," he mused with his eyes half closed. She laughed to herself knowing full well that was impossible; she was barely three months pregnant. Earlier that morning Drey had raved and raved about her bulging belly as they made enough love to, as he claimed, "knock [her] up again." Taking it as a sign of manhood, something any good military officer appreciates, he relished her pregnancies as she became more docile and her skin and hair radiated. He loved seeing people's eyes look to her portly stomach, allowing the composed artillery officer to, however vicariously, experience exhibitionism. She patted his head that had long since lost most of its hair. Turning around in his embrace, she kissed him on his thin lips and they turned the last light out before hopping into bed and spooning like a pair of teenagers. Drey was awakened by the gentle rocking of his youngest. "Daddy," she whispered, "there are some men downstairs who want to talk to you." Drey groaned at the interruption of sleep but thanked his pajamaed daughter and reminded her not to answer the door herself but to get Maria or himself first. This was more for appearances sake because their home was near an officer's camp and plenty safe. "I tried Maria but she was snoring so loud I couldn't!" she laughed quietly, conscientious of her blissfully sleeping mother. He climbed out of bed and put his robe on, binding it to his wiry frame as he descended the stairs. "Go to bed sweetie, I'll talk with these men," he pointed to her room. Like all good little girls before they became teenagers, she nodded once but dragged her feet to her bedroom. As an officer it was not uncommon to be paid late night visits but whatever they needed to see him about must have been brand new as well as important. Anyone with enough pull to wake him at this hour would have been at the ball he left not two hours ago. But when he saw them, he knew these men were not the typical callers. Captain Reich, known to everyone as "Captain Henry," stood with his hat clutched and broad chest bearing the innumerable medals that thankfully distracted eyes from his jowls which spilled over his high tight collar. Next was Colonel Peter D. Clam, a competent officer in the Secretary of War's office. And next to him was—Drey had to shake his head and squint harder to be certain—the Secretary of War himself, August Mercier! With the exception of Captain Henry whom Drey rightfully outranked with seniority and class, his visitors were the cream of the crop in the army. "What's wrong, sirs?" he asked with mounting concern. Captain Henry raised a questioning eyebrow as if wishing to note his implicit exclusion from the question. "Why, IS something wrong, Captain Alfred?" he asked ambiguously. As a professional courtesy, Drey was not willing to remind Henry, amidst such distinguished officers at least, that they were in his home at four in the morning, so he held his tongue and waited for them to speak. "I have here," he said reaching for papers inside his thick coat, "a warrant to search your premises and place you, Drey F.S. Alfred, under arrest under charges for conspiring with the enemies of the United States." Henry handed the paper to Drey who quickly looked it over. "This is a joke, right?" he looked up from the paper and laughed nervously. "Spying is no joke, Captain Alfred," the Secretary of War replied. "Captain Henry will escort you and give you a few moments to gather some clothes. Leave your uniform, you won't be needing it until the trial." "You're serious about this, aren't you?" "Very." Drey shrugged his shoulders and walked up to his bedroom with Henry behind him. His cool facade almost broke when he actually had to argue that Henry not enter the bedroom where his wife slept blissfully unaware. Closing the door behind him, he stepped cautiously to her side and stroked her soft skin to wake her. "There's been a misunderstanding, I need you to get dressed. They're going to search the house and take me to the barracks." She nodded dreamily. Both knew these types of searches were common for officers like himself and in the back of their minds knew it would come eventually. But of course like all inevitable tragedies, it still came as a surprise. They dressed but decided not to wake the kids until the officers needed to look in those rooms too. In the street outside were a half dozen Military Police vehicles filled with officers awaiting orders to search for sensitive materials. Between Colonel Clam and Secretary Mercier, he was escorted to a running Roles Royce, probably the Secretary's private conveyance, and driven to the barracks at the nearby base. He covered a yawn, confident the matter would be settled in a few days time when they found he had nothing to hide. Even as he sat in his cell he kept his faith. The so called evidence, at least from what he was told, was as accurate and specific as a horoscope in the daily paper at best, circumstantial at worst. They could just as easily apply to anybody, therefore applying to no one. The situation worsened when the President whom Drey had voted for) citing Jefferson as precedence, the first and only US president to do this, wrote a proclamation of guilt. Despite that his family lawyer, who voted for the other guy last election, agreed to take the case and competently dismantled the prosecution. A note, supposedly written by Drey, implicated him with spying through a foreign attaché. The prosecution supplied a hand writing analyst who confirmed it was Drey's but this was refuted by three more, two of which testified to the tribunal that the prosecution had approached them first but rejected their analysis. In defense of his profession, the prosecution's analyst claimed handwriting can be changed deliberately. "So now you're saying my client changed his handwriting?" "Correct." "Earlier you said that, with some minor discrepancies, that it wholly matched," he went on with a superior smirk. "It sounds to me that your belief my client wrote the note is sending the prosecution's principle, that is to say, ONLY reputable evidence into the realm of second guessing. What is it? Did he, knowing there was risk of capture, change his handwriting enough to disguise it but not enough to look like someone else's or does it match? You can't have it both ways." Lucy smiled to her adoring husband each time their lawyer struck a blow. The press, not privied to the minutes from military courts, could only speculate regarding what happened within the court room's oak walls. In the month he was in jail awaiting the tribunal, the nation had divided on his guilt or innocence. The newspapers that declared his guilt with total conviction, roughly 80 percent, were filled propaganda lifted straight from The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Granted a few of such papers in his cell, Drey dismissed the talk as meaningless since he was only half Jewish and non-practicing at that. After just nine days of the actual proceedings, Drey and Lucy were confident of his acquittal and even made dinner plans. "Guilty on all counts, life on the Isle of Hades," said the first judge. The north half of the courtroom, filled with military officers and politicians, thundered with elation and rose several feet as the old men stood and jumped like a 40 year olds. The south side meanwhile, filled with Drey and Lucy's relatives, sat hunched, their mouths aghast. A few murmurs emerged but André, Lucy's second cousin phrased it the loudest and the best. "Were they at the same trial?" This sparked a powder keg and just as excitedly as the north side, but with malice to all, his supporters stood and protested to the judges in great shouts. Lucy ran to husband, tears streaming down her face, but the bailiffs restrained her. Drey merely sat, back perfectly straight, and eyes staring unblinkingly ahead even as the bailiffs lifted him and escorted him out. Lucy's horrible cries were but a distant echo amidst a revel of inarticulate others. In the grassy common of Veterans' Square stood a parade of officers in dress blues under the warm afternoon sun. Their pants were pressed to a crease that could cut one's flesh better than the ceremonial swords in their belted holsters. Their coats, bearing their medals for bravery amidst three columns of gold buttons that would never be used unless the solders were disgraced and fell upon hard times, were cinched at their waists and resembled a plumed mini skirt. Weapons aimed to the sky, they fired shots to signify Drey's death before the eyes of his countrymen. An older officer, his mouth obscured by a bushy walrus mustache, walked up to Drey, also in dress blues, and withdrew the disgraced officer's sword. Grabbing opposite ends of the sword with each virginal white gloved hand, he smashed the broad end against his thigh, shattering it, and threw it upon the soft grass. Drey proudly kept a calm face and did not shed a single tear. His treatment after this was horrendous—they stripped him naked and gave him a plain cotton shirt and sturdy hemp slacks, shackled him, and loaded him onto an airplane—and it was the exact treatment Drey hoped all traitors received. During the 22 hour flight, he racked his brain, reviewing every minute of the trial, searching for any missed evidence of treason. His record in serving his nation was flawless. He saw combat at three of the United States' brush fire wars and, when not doing those, been a devoted desk officer often punching in six day weeks. He loved his country and had gone above and beyond the call of duty enough times to warrant every medal the US army had to offer save the Congressional Medal and, thankfully for him, the Purple Heart. The plane landed on a modest runway presumably in American Somoa, the closest significant naval base near Hades' Island. The air was humid and weighed upon his shamefully heavy shoulders. A car awaited them, took him to a speedboat, and after one hour ensconced in the sparkling blue water of the South Pacific, he saw the hunk of rock that was to be his home. Hades' Island, known as the "Isle of Hades" according to its stationery, was a federal wall-less prison for those convicted of high treason. To keep prisoners from hiding, all trees were culled but one solitary palm every fifty feet in the cardinal directions, giving the island the appearance of a grid if flown over. The boat came to the narrow plank dock and officers lifted his weary bound body to a ramshackle hut whose stucco, ill suited for the climate, was rotting and chipping away onto the white sand beaches at the feet of a small spectacled officer awaiting them They plopped him onto an army issue cot and unchained him as the smallish man read the rules of the island. "1. Don't talk to or touch the guards. 2. Don't come to the guards' barracks. 3. Don't escape." The rest read like an itinerary for Summer Camp. Meal times, lights out, exercise, etc. This itinerary however would not change from day to day and included nothing about archery or arts and crafts. He laid on his side as the guard's exited and slammed the ill fitted and rotten wooden door behind them. His body curled into the fetal position, he finally lost his composure and cried, his tears soaking the dirty cot until he fell asleep. For the first weeks of his stay, he rarely left his shack even for meals. They tasted like ash in his mouth anyhow, but he still needed food to survive and await the inevitable redemption. Occupying himself with the collection of 50 battered books they supplied, he started reading those great classics he had never quite gotten around to in the course of his officer's training and career. After a month, he took to small ventures into the culled forest and the small island's white sand. Like looking down a long corridor of trees, he could see to the other end of the island just three kilometers away. He discovered that, for as much as the island was played up in the media and how many people were supposedly sent there, it was astonishingly empty. The barracks, coated in chipped white paint, stood like a sentinel with binoculared guards atop the roof monitoring his every move. One, he noticed, looked to the opposite end of the island to another shack like his own. Rather than risk their vengeance, he did not walk to it. Most of the time however it was far too sunny and hot to walk barefoot (he had no shoes) so he merely rested himself on the floor against the doorway as the Sun was above or behind his ramshackle. With the shutters and door wide open, the warm gentle wind circulated and cooled the sweaty beads from his brow as the steady splashes of the ocean tide seemed to rock him gently while he dozed or read. Often he would pace the planked floor. Daily he would write a letter to Lucy, professing his innocence and his faith in the American system that did not prosecute innocents. On one cool day, he ventured to the center of the island, careful to keep a reasonable distance from himself and the barracks on the East coast. Hearing a rustling in the bush, he ran to investigate hoping to find the first sign of terran wild life in his months of residence. But instead of finding a quadruped, he found a kneeling woman on the ground collecting red berries from a small bush. Startled by his footsteps, she rose to her feet and turned to face him, her long skirt twirling to catch up. She was well tanned and had the accustomed paunch and love handles of a woman in her forties but her eyes, a glowing blue, looked like those of an innocent teenager. "Oh, you must be the new guy," she said relievedly as she placed her hands upon her wide hips. "I thought you were a guard and I did something wrong!" she laughed with a hoarse voice probably crafted from decades of cigarettes. These were the first words anyone had spoke to him since he arrived. But just as he opened his mouth to reply, he stopped upon recognizing her. That voluptuous figure, those sultry eyes, and that massive freckled bosom were common in many American women but also of a particular one who would inhabit this particular island. "You're Kitty Keeler!" he pointed. Her smile faded and her shoulders slouched in disappointment. "I was hoping you wouldn't recognize me. It'd be nice to make a friend," she said with deserving self pity. "Of course I'd remember you! Little kids hope to find you on the street just so they can spit on you! Kitty Keeler, 'the traitorous spy'!" "I wasn't spying!" she shouted to the sky, arms outstretched. Catherine "Kitty" Keeler had made quite a scene eight years ago when a commission investigating a terrorist act discovered she had slept with one of the accused plotters and a leading colonel in charge of city defense. Since them, her name, or nickname rather, had become synonymous with promiscuity and treachery. Some historians claimed her unabashed sexuality had set the sexual revolution back fifty years since hem lines lowered and courtship, thought buried with Queen Victoria, hit a resurgence of popularity after the media blitz. The nation had not seen anything like that since President Clinton but unlike the woman he slept with, this one was a spy. "The thought that my countrymen would place me with the likes of you is appalling!" he shouted as he doubled backed away from her, kicking up sand as he stomped off. "Please don't go!" she cried and ran after him, dropping her berries. "I haven't talked to anyone but the wall for seven years! Talk to me, speak to me, anything please! Don't go! I'm innocent!" she tried catching up but her thicker legs could not keep pace with the spry officer. He escaped to his shack, closed the shutters, and cowered onto his bed, expecting her knock upon his door, but it never came. "I'm not like her. I'm innocent. They'll see that soon..." he repeated as he rocked his body in place. Captain Alfred's Affair His consciousness floated face down as he drifted in time's black ocean. Islands came and went until he arrived at the shores of his beloved United States. Their high mountains, low deserts, deep lakes, and shallow streams long ago etched into his memories came back to him as he existed in a dream rudely awoken each time the guards delivered the simple meals that made his old army rations seem sumptuous by comparison. When he arrived he hoped he could grow accustomed to the soldier's contemptuous stares and un-hushed insults while his back turned. Each bite was carefully sniffed from the safety of his utensils. After a few chews, he would gently inhale the air from his mouth to his more sensitive nose and rapidly breathe it back and forth to saturate his senses and more thoroughly grasp its flavor. The food was lousy but he overcame the foul taste to search for taints not indicative to the slop. Always suspecting but never determining it to contain the unknown taste of fresh urine or the taste he imagined for feces, it took him nearly two hours to finish one meal and it kept his appetite perpetually unsatisfied. "They get enough satisfaction with feeding me this crap as it is," he thought to himself each time but kept eating in the same fashion. "This is truly worthy of a traitor..." When not meticulously smelling what the guards called food, he wrote his dear wife and children, slept erratically, or read in his hut. For years he promised his wife a vacation to a tropical place like this but the constant exposure turned him a painful pink and turned his increasingly receded hair line dry and flakey. Too much of paradise it would seem. Occasionally he began talking to himself for conversation but chastised himself, hoping to maintain sanity. The rules said the guards were not instructed to converse with him beyond rudimentary instruction, thus leaving him socially starved as well. The traitorous slut Keeler was all whom he knew he could speak with but his patriotism kept him far from her side of the island. When the sun came down he wandered the beach alone and found no other shacks but Kitty's. At first he wondered where all the other traitors went but the exile induced apathy won out. A supply ship arrived once a month, bringing him his beloved Lucy's correspondence. It came once after two months but of course he was given no explanation nor did he ask for one. He read the back-log as always in order of post-mark. The papers were wrinkled in the spots her tears fell upon it, smearing the ink of her handwritten letters. Most of the them vaguely described efforts to appeal his case; it pained him to speak of their children but he knew his sanity could not be maintained without reports of their growth. He opened the last, most recently stamped letter and burst into sobs upon his particle board desk. She had given birth to their third child—a boy whom she named Junior. Had she consulted with him, he would have told her not to give their child his name or else he would suffer a horrible stigma as not only the seed of a traitor but his name sake as well. Such was too much for a child to bear. The son he'd never met was, from looking at the post mark, already two months old. Delicate knocking startled him from his grief but he had enough presence of mind to realize it was different than the guards' typically shuddering smacks. He stepped to and opened the door, beholding the traitorous Keeler dressed warmly for the chilly night. "What do you want?" he pleaded, his eyes red with sadness. Her eyebrows rose at the center and she reached to him. "Oh my God, what's wrong? What happened?" she begged him to answer. "My son is born yet here I am. It's something you wouldn't understand," he insulted her but she ignored it. "You'd be surprised. I have family I'll never see either," she looked sadly at the sandy floor. "I've been here so long and they never send me anything." "I think because you deserve what you got," a single tear leaked from his dry sockets. "You deserve everything you get for what you did." "Just like you?" "No!" he shouted indignantly. "I mean, yes!" he backtracked and slammed his fist futiley against the door frame. "My sentence befits conspiracy charges! I just didn't do them!" "I was sentenced for falling in love too easily and with the wrong kind of men," she nodded softly. "I didn't know how much the feds were looking into it." "But their pillow talk," he started to recount her crimes but she stopped him. "They taped them all, they knew I didn't ask anything from either man. I just wanted their love," she started crying herself. "The press loves sex and national security was the perfect vehicle for it." His defense eroded slightly upon hearing this but his posture remained stiff and unforgiving. "Once the media said I was guilty, the courts had to follow up," she shrugged her shoulders. "The same happened to me I suppose," he remembered the dreadful imprisonment many, many months ago. "I didn't say goodbye to my daughters when they took me away and they didn't let them in the court room," he laughed hopelessly. "They reluctantly let my lawyer visit me in prison, barely let my wife, and never my kids. But sure enough, everyday, I got five or six of the day's newspapers and every one proclaimed my guilt." They shared a solemn silence, the full moon above them slammed the ocean against the shore like a metronome with no accompaniment. "It makes you feel impotent, ya know? You know you're innocent but everyone sees it through such a distorted filter that they become just as convinced to the contrary." "May I come in, please?" He looked into her hopeful eyes, the same eyes that graced every newspaper in the nation. He remembered the day off the government, military, and most businesses gave their employees to celebrate the inevitable verdict with columns of smoke from countless backyard barbecues and grills. Back then, Kitty Keeler's tears were mocked with patriotic satisfaction as they streaked the carefully applied make up down her face and dribbled from her chin when they dragged her out of the jubilant courtroom. "Sure, c'mon in," he unblocked the doorway and stretched out his arm to the nearby chair. She daintily entered and sat down as he shut the door and did likewise on his cot. At last he had someone to talk with. Another soul who suffered as much as him. At first he entertained her grief as that of a remorseful harlot but as the months turned to another year, he came to see her as a kindred spirit. The pleasant surprise that, for someone whose expertise was assumed to lie solely with other men, she was an avid reader who had a full library like his own; this essentially doubled his collection and pleased him greatly. They spent more and more time in the other person's shack in comfortable silence when they read or in the other's arms as they cried. One night, after one particularly thorough and enlightening conversation people seldom have and rarely acknowledge, they held each other for over an hour, whispering their mutual thanks. Under normal social conditions, they could freely associate with literally thousands of potential persons, sharing their thoughts and attentions with each one. In the busy American lifestyle, it was often an honor to receive any uninterrupted time from loved ones. On the island however, with no one else to share, and no one to interrupt, they each received undivided attention that, while an assumption of their new life, was by no means taken for granted. News of Drey's appeal grew dimmer with every letter until Lucy stopped writing about it altogether. He saved every letter of course but more and more his hands shook and body quivered when he opened new ones. He no longer expected good news and resigned himself to his new life but without escaping into fantasy. The most enlightening letter contained the first mention of their young son since his birth. Overcome by excitement, Lucy, who perhaps avoided mentioning Junior for fear of Drey's regret for having never met him, revealed he spoke his first word. "Duck?" Katie repeated. "Duck!" he laughed excitedly from his desk as he handed the letter to her. She grabbed it and found the passage. "How wonderful! I never had the chance for children," she added with a touch of self pity. "It's ironic. The more marriable I become, the older I get on this island," she ended and quickly glanced at Drey but he did not notice her ambiguous statement. "I've always wanted children, you know. The press of course wouldn't have you believe that!" "Yeah you're right!" he laughed. "I can remember reading a story about myself that speculated I fed my daughters human flesh, or ate them, or some such nonsense!" he laughed again, this time Katie joined him. Like caged animals, they adapted to each other and so, as his hope for redemption became a trickle, he succumbed to her and spent entire nights in the other's tender arms. Without even so much as a kiss Drey experienced unparalleled intimacy rivaled only perhaps by the distant memory of his wife. One night, some months after they began cuddling, she opened her mouth during their otherwise quiet time. "Why won't you make love to me?" she asked with finality, sounding as if coming to the end of an argument. For some time a silent exchange brewed in her mind and showed through twitches on her face, unbeknownst to Drey whose head nestled against the back of her neck. Drey blinked and shot his head back confused. "Well?" She expected him to reply thoroughly enough to satisfy the amount of time she already put in. "I have a wife and children," he said drearily. "I couldn't do that to them." "But you've been here years already, and there's no hope to be released. Why not settle down here—maybe we can make it work—it's been so long since I've been with a man let alone one as kind as you," she added completely disregarding their first meeting in the fruit bushes. He knew she was right but he refused to admit it to himself so he looked at the matter practically. "The guards wouldn't let us, you know..." he muttered into her ear. "But they know we spend time with each other," she began like running off a check list long since prepared for the question, "they know we have urges, and they haven't done anything yet. I think I heard a few laugh but as long as we stay on the island, they don't care. They probably prefer this since they only have to watch one hut at a time now." "But what if you get in a family way?" he argued again, using a phrase almost as old as pregnancy itself. She threw his arm off her, left the bed, and stepped beyond the pale moonlight seeping through the closed shutters into the room's darkness at the other side. "And so what if I did?!" she asked, her voice quivering in pain. "Would that be such a bad thing?" "Raising a child here would be dreadful! They'd take it away from us!" "But wouldn't that be better than not having one? That a part of our love escaped this wretched place and got someplace else?" she gestured to the ocean and beyond. In all their time together, love had never come up. Did he love her? He was certainly as familiar with her real persona as he was with his own wife's. Two decades of hard work and schedules gave him but two hours a day at best to even sit in comfortable silence with Lucy and so the few years with Katie, spending almost every moment with her, gave him a unique insight into her mind and likewise her with him. He stood up from the bed and approached her furious dark silhouette. Taking her chin into his hand, he kissed her rough lips. Shortly his simple kiss turned to voracious sexual hunger as their years of involuntary celibacy came to head and his cock-head as well. Heavy with blood, it chafed against his simple trousers and he swiftly dropped them onto the floor, exploring every curve of her supple body and licking her cooling sweat and rolling heat along the way. She pressed his head harder against her body and slowly closed her eyes as his mouth reached her skirt and carefully pulled it down with his teeth to reveal her thick untamed bush and the wet musky pussy underneath. He stood up to face her again, his fingers dancing along her body as their mouths met yet again. Pressing his palm against her sex, he felt the lewd heat pulsing within and filling his shack with the sweet smell of pussy. It had been a long time since he smelled that wonderful aroma. His memory flooded with thoughts of Lucy, but as he inserted his finger into Katie's loose cunt, drawing a passive whimper to match, she melted away and all that remained was Katie. Hurriedly she threw off her top, then his, and all but threw him onto the cot that rocked with his landing. Her full figure strutted to him, the vague moonlight casting a white glow to pasty white flesh unused to the sun. She bent down, running her palms along the sheets until they came to his body and resumed from there until they came to his throbbing member. She grasped it with both hands and delicately squeezed it, a drop of pre-cum pouring out. She licked her lips hungrily and stared at it. "Normally I would love to blow you but I need you inside," she said now looking hungrily at his eyes. He gave her permission, desperately seeking satisfaction regardless of the method. Though since his time on the island he did indulge himself to masturbation periodically, he longed to feel the warm envelope of womanhood surround his cock and accept his seed. A hand and a square of rough toilet paper hardly compared the glories one can find with simply a man and a woman. Her ample legs straddled his body and sidled up until her coarse hair rubbed his stomach and her ass pressed his erection into her wide crack. She winked as she raised her hips and guided his cock into her aching, hungry pussy that all but inhaled the firm and welcomed intruder. Lowering her torso until her tits pressed again his chest, she raised her hips, letting his cock escape the agony of ecstasy inside, and rammed it back inside, shooting pleasure up his spine and into his brain. She whispered words he did not hear or understand as his mind flooded with his own ecstasy in anticipation of the orgasm to come and the seed to fill her belly and make her large with child. Yes, their child probably would be taken away but at least some of them would escape. So their affair began. Many months passed and naturally they spent their nights together. During the day they would simply read books, occasionally catching the other staring delightfully at the other. Even in his middle age, this often sparked a sensuous and steamy roll in the hay and hours long naps only to do it again when they awoke. Routinely barefoot and seldom wearing clothing inside their hut, she would amble about the room, her swelling stomach leading the way. In the beginning she would crash it into objects, claiming she forgot she nourished their rustling child inside though Drey suspected otherwise. After routinely admiring her gravid body, Katie knew perfectly well that any reminder of her pregnancy was arousing and accidents were both a funny and practical means to make the slightly older man amorous. As predicted, the guards took the sight of her pregnancy without concern. They gave her more food, more helpings if she vomited it, and when the next boat arrived, even vitamin supplements. She greeted them with a smile and displayed her belly proudly for the men each time they came by with food. "We really must put in a request for more books," she said one morning as they lay reading in bed. "I've read this Dickens twice already and I'm nearly finished with the third," she slammed it shut, purposely neglecting to mark her place. "Maybe you should just erase your memory since you first read it?" Drey offered jokingly. "Nah, it was one of the first books I read here and that would mean I'd have to forget all about you," she smiled and rubbed her hand on the naked body behind her. Putting her head in the nook of his arm, she held him tightly as she continued to read. He kissed her in silent reply, wishing to escape the line of discussion. Whatever he felt for Katie, he still did not wish he ever came to this blasted island and the hope of vindication occasionally reared its head. He never told Lucy about Katie. Resenting the implications of sharing an island with such a traitorous woman, he refused. Then, when their relationship became intimate, it was in bad taste to tell his wife whom he could not divorce from halfway across the globe; or this would be the reason he would give Katie if she ever asked. Just like other times, her massage became deeper and extended, venturing beyond his chest and stomach to his neck, face, and his cock, all while reaching behind her. A younger man might still have had an erection or, at worst, recovered from an protracted one, but Drey's required more stimulation. Katie turned her head to face his side and took deep breaths as her fingers extended and grasped his package. Inserting his blood weighted dick between two fingers, she squeezed it and cupped the rest with a firm grip. Her fingers played it like a simple tune on a piano, squeezed delicately one moment but firmly the next instant, and even tugged them slightly from side to side until his cock grew too big for her grasp and stood proudly into the open air. She sat up and delicately slid her pregnant body down the bed to straddle his knees. Swelled with child, she weighed on his body. She smiled like an angel though the sight of her filled his mind with the most Devilish thoughts imaginable. Her large hanging breasts rested against her belly but still swayed as she adjusted her position upon him and displayed her pregnant form in its entirety. Her palms slid up his thighs until wrapping them hand over hand around his pulsing member, inciting pre-cum with delicate squeezes as the tip of her tongue jutted from her hungry mouth. Drey nearly closed his eyes but her eager single minded staring at his engorged head was far too delectable and endearing to turn away from. Dipping herself slowly downward, she removed the hand on top and consumed the length down to her remaining hand. Holding it there for a moment, she ran her tongue along the underside and erratically pushed the skin about as she quietly sucked. Her remaining hand pumped as best it could without slamming into his crotch. As a sign of her expertise, the pumping hand never touched her mouth, an action that would otherwise cause her bite down into the tender meat. She hummed joyfully, almost involuntarily making Drey clench the sheets with hands and groan delightedly at her method. Whenever she pleasured him so skillfully, he ceased to remember her history and how this prowess was acquired and then revealed to the world via Court TV. She was not the whore the media made her out to be—she was his beautiful love who carried his child, and as she took his cock from her mouth, stuck her tongue out, and ran it up and down the length before sucking the whole of it to the back of her throat, he thought her one of the best lovers and partners a man could have. She was so much an expert that he occasionally felt guilty that he despised oral reciprocation. Though he had tried several times, he found the experience a bitter one and her pregnancy only served to make her pussy glow more along with the rest of her skin. And at five months pregnant, the angles were so difficult he could barely even make love in the missionary position. Katie was gracious and claimed sex was always about the man and she could always get pleasure with her hands so long as he was there to experience it with her. He readily agreed to this and, to his surprise, revealed a voyeuristic side of him he never knew. The whole throbbed underneath her probing tongue, welcomed her dripping saliva, and thanked God when engulfed in her warm hungry mouth as it noisily slurped and sucked to siphon his seed straight from his balls and into her stomach. But she did not want it in her stomach. As his soft moans became hard grunts, she withdrew the head from her mouth with a loud kissing smack sound and smiled licentiously. He sighed and moaned in reply as he sidled over and let her lie in his place. She lowered herself onto her back, accommodating the weight of her belly. She grunted satisfactorily when she finally landed but cooed gently when his hands ran along her curve and rubbed circles around her (now outie) belly button. There was but a faint whisper of a smile and an endearing glint of love and hope in his eyes as he outlined their yet to be born love child. Aside from letters, he had long since stopped thinking about his former wife and family, spending the whole of his thoughts on his blooming relationship with his blushing lover and their budding offspring. She giggled when he kissed her stomach. Captain Alfred's Affair "Why do you think you're so ticklish?" he asked playfully as he looked into her eyes. "I don't know," she replied, her hands rubbing her breasts and tweaking her hard nipples. He gave her lips a tender kiss before straddling his arms around her and hovering over. He bent his neck down, continuing to kiss her face and neck as his cock probed her aching cum demanding vulva. "Gawwd, put it in!" she shouted into his ear, abandoning the sexual patience that often let them protract love making throughout a whole day. He swiftly used his hips to place his cock at her hole, thrusting it inside so quickly as to catch her totally by surprise. He slowly withdrew, leaving just the tip, but immediately pushed it back to the hilt. Slick with her copious juices, he slid effortlessly as he hovered as best her could above her belly and kissed her mouth and neck hungrily. Her arms grasped his shoulders, trying to pull his warm naked body atop hers. When she first started showing, he refused to lie on top of her as if his weight would force their baby out prematurely. Then, with steady assurances, he could lie on top and better please her mouth as his hips forced the cock into the slickened hole that gave them both so much pleasure. Closing his eyes, he kissed the corners of her mouth and traveled slowly down her neck, frequently pausing to give special attention to whatever place he saw fit as one hand tenderly massaged her swollen and sensitive breasts. Her hot breath shot past his ear the lower he got as his own left misty deposits along a trail of his attentions. He bit her neck gently, not caring if he left a mark, and gyrated his hips clockwise to run his tingling head in circles from within her velvety walls. "Gawwww!" she growled, demanding all of his love as her hands moved to his lower back and squeezed the little flesh there. "Ow!" he complained. "I wouldn't do that if you hopped to it and stopped dicking me around!" "I thought I was doing that before, too?" he quipped. She pulled his head to her mouth again and wrapped her legs, as best she could at least, around his thighs to force him back inside. This time she took it slower, concentrating on every millimeter of his cock's friction. Before she was pregnant, when only her fleshy build came in the way, she could see his glistening cock exit her pussy only to return eagerly back inside and do it again. Had something else other than their child's impression blocked such an erotic sight, she would have gone psychotic from deprivation. The heat from the outside and between their lovemaking flushed them red with effort as beads of sweat, particularly from Drey, squeezed from their pores and ran down their bare bodies onto the cot or each other in a warm moist conjunction of loving passion. In their intimacy, not once did he recall how many other mouths had kissed those same sweet lips or how many other cocks came inside her all too willing pussy. As far as he cared to think, she was only his. And because of his country's betrayal of him, he was hers as well. His pace quickened and kisses became more furious. Recognizing this as a sign orgasm, she also wrapped her arms around his frame and pressed him closer still as he impaled her eager hole. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Keep! Go! Ing!" she sputtered with each rapid thrust, her amply soft tits striking her doubling chin and bulging stomach. Joyfully he shot his plentiful cum against the walls of her already slick pussy. Spent, he stayed atop her for a moment before collapsing to one side. She turned to face him, dollops of seed peeking out, and caressed his sweaty body for several minutes. "I should get back to my hut," she said softly. Hurt, Drey faced her. "Why?" "This is a small bed and my back starts killing me. The guards won't let us put ours together so..." she trailed off before she swiftly kissed him and sat up. "I suppose. If it hurts that much." She kissed his fingers and placed them upon his mouth. She dressed into her skirt and blouse in no time before exiting the front door and entering the brilliantly starlit night sky and its sliver of a quarter moon. More seed spilled out and onto her inner thigh as she stepped lightly in the sand. With her hands cradling her abdomen, she smiled broadly, satisfied that she would have to wash that particular spot on her skirt yet again. As soon as she awoke the next morning, she washed up and headed for Drey's hut to find a swarm of guards and a docked boat nearby. This boat was smaller than the monthly supply one. Concern for her lover suppressed her fear of guards and she ran in a labored shuffle to investigate—guards be damned. One looked and saw her but paid no mind before looking back inside the hut. She noticed that unlike other times, no guards stood at ready in their standard precaution. A moment later she arrived, strands of hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, and forced her way through the crowd to the inside. There stood her virile lover in full military dress before a full length mirror. He was ensconced with high polished boots, acute cuts, shoulder pads, and his medals proudly displayed. "What's all that for?" she asked queerly both at his outfit and the out of place mirror. He turned to her and smiled joyfully. "This is my old uniform. The guards were kind enough to bring their mirror to me since technically I'm not allowed to go in the barracks yet." He looked up at her with the mirror. "'Technically'?" she asked still confused. "Yes. I've been pronounced innocent. It turns out some officers felt that after such a media explosion condemning me they couldn't cut me loose without the army losing prestige. They've all been stripped of rank or killed themselves now like Captain Henry—confessing to the whole thing. I'm just technically in exile until the President rescinds his proclamation," he dug his thumbs proudly into his collar, keeping his back turned to her. "So you'll be leaving here?" she asked dimly. He laughed of course. "Most certainly! I intend to leave at this very moment." "But...but...what about us? Our child?" The soldiers looked to one another and quietly stepped away from the scene but kept an ear to them. She stepped inside and sat upon the bed, her shirt tucked to accentuate her belly. He glanced at it—briefly—but looked frankly into her watering eyes as he adjusted his cuffs. "Why I certainly can't stay here," he laughed again. "I have a career—a family." "I'M your family!" "No, my dear woman, you're a component to an event I no longer have to think about," he shook his head as he smiled gratefully. "So you're not taking me with you?" she cried, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Of course not! You're Kitty Keeler! And even if I could, I couldn't very well bring you to my home to meet Lucy and our three children. Oh it will be so wonderful to finally meet Junior now. He'll be four this year!" he said tangentially as he looked back into the mirror. "Perfect fit!" Naturally it did not fit. Somehow Kitty maintained a higher than average weight during her stay on the island, but Drey was quite the opposite. Poor food rations, even when she shared, left his ribs showing. His thin shoulders made the uniform look like it hung from wire hangers, and the cuffs were buttoned to their smallest size. But regardless of how well it was fitted to his body, he knew it belonged there. He walked to the door without saying goodbye, but Katie had too much composure to let him get away easily. She lunged recklessly to his knees as he grasped the opened door, and sobbed into the finely pressed pants and leather boots. "No please! I love you! Don't go, our child!" she shouted into his clothes. "Again, accessories to a time I don't have to think about any longer," he tried to kick her from his legs without regard for her condition. "Guards! Help get her off me!" he commanded out of annoyance. They burst inside and pried her from his knees and onto the cot where they held her down so he could leave unharassed, displaying loyalty befitting a request from any officer. "What about our baby?" she bellowed. "Come back and take it with you at least!" she begged. Pausing at the doorway, Drey turned his neck and looked at her. The Sun was high and through her still adjusting eyes, his sharp cornered body appeared but a silhouette with only his eyes showing through the blackness. A slate gray, they looked her up and down, devoid of love, compassion, sympathy, or even pity. He wordlessly exited the hut with his Lucy correspondence already safe on the boat and the guards following behind him; such a punishment was exactly as a traitor like she deserved. He heard her resonant bawling through the hut's stucco frame and across the water until the deafening boat engine kicked in and streaked the vessel across the placid ocean and to military base in American Samoa. A day later he was in the arms of his wife. The years had been kind to her and she looked as beautiful as the day he was sentenced. His daughters, one now a young woman, ignored social norms and leapt into his open armed embrace while Junior, probably told this was the father whom he never met, stood hand in hand with the composed Lucy and looked at this old man as a curiosity rather than a dad; Drey knew all the child needed was time. The now apologetic press took picture after picture and promised favorable stories (as if there was any reasonable way spin this tale negatively) as payback for their libel. His rank was restored and all was well once again with the world. Only twice in the long and prosperous remainder of Drey F.S. Alfred's life did he remember his time on the Isle of Hades as anything more than intangible, a period worth forgetting. The two occasions were when he socially joked that it was a stroke of luck he was sent to the island rather than the North Alaskan gulags. Never once did he tell his wife about Kitty Keeler or their child nor did he bother to remember it himself. Before his flight home, as the island faded into the horizon behind him, a guard handed him a letter. It was written by the President himself—the former one's Secretary of State—and it assured him the child nor Keeler, in non-specific words of course, would ever be allowed out. He understood and smiled pleasantly as he folded the letter into quarters, ripped it into several pieces, and threw them into the ocean for safekeeping. At that moment he never felt prouder to be an American. Alfred, Drey F.S. [[Don't forget to vote and honest and/or constructive criticism is appreciated.]]