This week's guest post is from the story Special Training by Charlie Forrest
(And no, he's not dead. He just sent his excerpt in late, lol!)
But when her commanding officer decides she needs a bout of 'special training' she's taken out of the secure safety of her tank and thrust into the wilds of the Scottish wilderness to be tracked, hunted, captured, stripped and interrogated in the most intimate fashion.
But, as her CO is about to find out, it's not as simple as taking the girl out of the tank.
"Name, rank, serial number?"
I say nothing. He tucks a finger under my bra strap, and a million miles away there's a part of me that's outraged that I'm going to have to buy a replacement. He cuts the other shoulder strap and, if he wanted he could just unfasten it like any reasonable person. He doesn't have to jam his fingers under it, pulling it and my body uncomfortably forwards so that I feel the touch of his knife against my bare chest as he rips it in two before pulling it away like all the rest. I shiver, futilely trying to squeeze my arms over my exposed breasts and fighting back the teeth chattering tremor that runs through me.
"Name, rank, serial number?"
What's left? I glance down, when he took away my trousers he left my knickers; the pale band around my waist is just about visible in the firelight.
Oh he's good.
I say nothing. This time when he moves for me, I try to relax, letting my clenched body sag. His hand caresses my thigh. I want to move but not yet, not yet.
Just like before he's methodical, clinical in what he does, pulling the cloth away, letting the metal bite through it, dropping the ends to fall back limp, my last tiny covering of cloth held in place by the dampness between my legs and sheer inertia. He cuts the other side. His fingers trace down my belly and I shuffle a little, spreading my knees and looking into the dark place where his eyes should be.
He goes slowly now, fingertips easing beneath the cloth, the back of his hand brushing down between my legs, running through my hair, the cloth falling away forgotten. A knuckle slips against my lips, and for a moment I forget about where I am, lost and naked in the woods. I can't see his smile, but something in the look on my face makes him chuckle and it's all I can do to remember the plan.
To the bit where your limbs start moving.
I move.
I use my legs like a coiled spring. Dropping my shoulder and launching myself into him. Even though I'm expecting the impact it still manages to knock the wind from me. It does the same to him and we lurch together onto the ground. Me on top of him, wriggling my body to get my still booted feet under me, and then away, into the darkness again.
The sensation of plunging into nothingness is worse this time. What little I can see is already upon me, scraping against my exposed skin, and each panic stride is a leap into the darkness, without his hand to guide me. Twigs and branches slap against my breasts, belly, arms. Nettles and brambles whip savage lines of fire over my shins. In the darkness behind me I can hear pounding feet.
Is this the plan?
What is the plan?
Where do I want to be?
A tree smacks into my shoulder, sending me turning, staggering, but not quite falling. The pounding behind me draws closer, and I keep moving.
Where do I want to be?
I can hear his breath, controlled staccato exhalations, practiced and sure, like a hunter.
Where do I want to be?
Fingertips brush against mine in my uneasy run, I can feel how close he is.
Where do I want to be?
I slow, only a little, enough for his hands to reach mine, a fist clenching on my forearm, pulling me back, and down. I lurch into darkness one more time, and he comes with me. He twists us as we fall, he hits the ground first, arms shooting around me, one on my belly, one crammed against my sore breasts. But it's only for a moment, then he moves, and the cold earth and scattered leaves hit me again, cool and hard against my face, knees, breasts.
Where do I want to be?
His hands are on my hips, lifting me up. I manage to get my knees under me. His grip softens a touch, stroking over the small of my back to where my bound hands are. For a moment his fingers interlace with mine.
Right here!
I clench my fingers into his. He doesn't pull away, doesn't let go. I hear him fumbling with his free hand, and then he's there, nestling against me, the heat from his stiff cock singing to my own want.
He pulls me onto him, in a slow, steady movement I feel myself sinking around him, and the conflict and the fear and the night full of darkness all fades a little. His hand in mine pushes me forward, my cheek rubs against the ground as he pulls all the way out of me. A whimper of frustration and emptiness escapes my lips.
When he returns it's with a long, slow stroke, filling me, like a hand in a gauntlet. I squeeze his hand with my fingers and he stops, holding himself inside me for just a few moments, letting me relish the sensation, the closeness, letting go, letting me know he's there, that this is real.
When he moves again it's with gentle, slow, movements, keeping himself deep inside me. He leans forward, pressing his body against mine, warm against the night. His free hand slides around my waist, fingers slipping between my legs to match his thrusts with teasing touches from his fingertips, circling and stroking.
It twists in my mind, intermingling with the cold hard feel of the ground, the soreness and bruises, the scrape of earth against my cheek and the warm gentle touch of his fingers as he strokes and teases my clit, his thrusts building up speed and force. It teases me to a precipice, and I feel as if just one solid touch, one grab, one solid stroke against my clit will be enough. I try to say something but the words just fade together into a whimper; all I want is to tell him how much I want him, and all I can manage is to grasp his fingers in mine. I try to stroke the back of his hand with my free fingers, clumsy, desperate, to signal to him to please, please let me go, let me fall over the edge.
Buy Special Training at Amazon US : Amazon UK
Charlie is a London-based writer of erotica and erotic romance. He specialises in writing stories about BDSM, bondage, humiliation, submission and public sex.He tries to bring a flavour of the British countryside into everything he writes, although any description of sunny weather or functioning public transport are pure works of fiction.
In his free time he pursues the twin impossible goals of the perfect cup of tea and trying to get the cat to stop sitting on his laptop and do something about the mice.
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