MILITARY MALEDOM: AN OFFICER AND A DOM
by
Erika Masten
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2012 Erika Masten.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Erika Masten
Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.
Warning: Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
This is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your lover by always practicing safe sex.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Military Maledom: An Officer And A Dom
Excerpt From
Domination Sex: Conditioned Response
Excerpt From
MILITARY MALEDOM: AN OFFICER AND A DOM
I am convinced that the majority of people who make their careers in the Navy Supply Corps are hoarders who’ve avoided cluttering their homes by bringing their pack rat habits to work. Of course, today it just might save my ass.
We have everything on this base from paper clips to helicopter parts, bandages to bolts bigger than my head. I sigh at the enormity of the task I’ve set myself and stand with my hands on the curve of my hips, in a cramped back room where supply staff has stuffed unused remnants of this and that on metal shelves stretching floor to ceiling.
It’s the same quality of items you’d find at a bad yard sale: lengths of marine rope too short to be useful, office machines you can’t get supplies for anymore, tires for vehicles we’re phasing out of use, parts of desk sets and random computer leads. Stuff that probably should have been recycled or thrown away. Except now and then, just often enough, an essential piece of equipment breaks down, and something out of this room saves the day.
I look down at my summer whites—which, of course, don’t do much for my tits or my hips, I must say—and realize I’m not really dressed for rummaging through all this musty, dusty salvage, but sometimes delegation just doesn’t cut it. Word got handed down, officer to officer, that some overeager assistant straightened Captain Starr’s office and packed up old items she thought were just cluttering a side table, including a mug from the first ship he ever served on. Starr drinks coffee out of that mug every day. How could she not know that? I don’t even work in the same office, and I know that. God willing, that box of miscellany ended up here and not in the dump.
Without pride of rank, I tear through boxes, crawl halfway onto wide shelves, and hang precariously from ladders, meticulously searching inch by inch. My frustration is already getting the better of me when I rise up too quickly under a shelf and thump myself on the back of the head, right on the sharp edges of the barrettes clipping up my long black hair. I yelp and straighten just in time for a coil of heavy rope to fall on me from an upper shelf, pulling my hair loose. When I try to untangle myself, I trip, pulling down a couple of boxes I catch as I flail for a handhold.
And this—on my hands and knees under a tangle of rope, dead center in a blast radius of office debris, with my tousled hair hanging over my eyes and down my back—is how he finds me. There’s something about Commander Logan West. Over the last three months, ever since the naval intelligence officer pulled shore duty with one of our SEAL teams, the handsome, dark blond, thirty-something commander is always there to witness my most embarrassing moments.
When I jokingly wondered aloud to my best friend, Abby, whether the SEALs fucked as hard as they trained, guess who was standing behind me in the doorway? Not putting much effort into hiding his smirk, I might add.
When I unwittingly sat on a broken red ink pen—again, in summer whites—and walked around for at least a half hour looking like it was that time of the month, it was West who came up behind me, wrapped a jacket around my waist, and quietly suggested I check myself out in the bathroom mirror. I still shiver thinking about how soft and intimate he sounds when he whispers.
When I was sprinting across the base to catch the last mail run and darted right in front of the captain’s car, it was West who caught me by the waist and hoisted me out of harm’s way. Don’t think that wasn’t a wet pussy moment—panting and hopped up on adrenaline, pulled tight against West’s long, firm body, staring up into those pale eyes that aren’t quite blue, aren’t quite gray.
Bless the man for being my impromptu guardian angel, but fuck him for being one of those guys. You know, the SEAL’s, the NIO’s, the special missions units. They’re always sexy as hell, flirt like mad, and end up with women with long acrylic nails, pierced navels, blond extensions, and an extensive collection of stripper heels. It’s such a cliché. When Abby and I got plastered last summer, we both got our navels pierced as an inside joke. At least, that was my motivation. I think Abby might actually have her eye on one of the guys from the SEAL team West is attached to. I’ll smack her if she even considers bleaching her gorgeous dark brown hair.
“Are you alright, Lieutenant Crosby?” West drawls from his spot leaning in the doorway, summer cap tucked under his crossed arms. Whenever that little half-smirk he’s wearing appears, the sexy cleft in his chin gets deeper.
I try to smile and laugh off my predicament and my reaction to the sight of the lithe but muscular commander. We meet this way so often, I have the urge to tell him to call me Eva. Flushing, I push away the thought. No use cultivating the illusion of intimacy or indulging the crush I have on the man.
“Just fine, Commander, thank you,” I lie, trying not to look distressed at my inability to find my way out of the coils of rope draped over me. At least I’m in slacks today and not a skirt.
West amuses himself for a moment watching me wriggle, before he saunters over to stand directly over me. I grow still when he’s right beside me, gazing down at me. Fuck if Navy uniforms don’t look better on men, with maybe the exception of the aviator suits. A handsome man in summer whites has the same effect on me as one in dress whites. I feel my cheeks heat, and I look away, my gaze skimming down his body as I do. Is it my imagination, or is that a slight bulge in his crisp, creased trousers? Just a matter of angle? My face is right at crotch level to him, the perfect position for unzipping his pants and sucking his cock, which I’m sure I’ll be doing later tonight in my bedtime fantasies. One where I get rescued by the intelligence officer who then cannot help ravaging me himself.
West tosses his cap down on a sorting table in the middle of the room and crouches to help me out of the ropes. His warm, firm hands guide me from the tangle, fingertips brushing my shoulder and my bare arm under my short sleeve. I’m surprised at the intensity of the shiver this sends through me, and I bite back a gasp. When I’ve straightened up onto my feet, he leans over me, making my heartbeat skip at the smell of soap and marine air coming off him and at the silly thought that he’s about to kiss me. I can’t keep my anxious lips from parting just slightly.
Instead, his hands slip into my long hair, and he tilts his sandy head to watch what he’s doing as he pulls my barrettes out of tangled strands. “Turn around,” he mutters, with just a hint of a southern accent slipping into his deep voice. When I do, he gently combs out the snarls with his fingers and binds my hair back up, not perfectly, but well enough.
His warm breath swirls against the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine, when he tells me, “You’re going to have to find a way to thank me one of these days for looking after you.”
I clench my teeth and hold my breath to keep from sighing out girlishly, foolishly. What was it I said about these guys being shameless flirts? I’ve been here before, though, getting all knotted up over an alpha male who winked and hovered over me. It didn’t take me long to find out he was still running after the on-again, off-again stripper girlfriend, heavy on the borderline personality disorder. These guys will put up with a lot for raunchy stripper sex. Us mere mortal girls make due with desk jockeys—accountants and MBA’s, maybe a lawyer if we’re lucky.
Stepping away from the tall, tempting commander, I turn and flash a broad girl-next-door smile. “Right. I’ll send you a fruit basket.”
I’m a little surprised when I see his tanned lips twitch with the suggestion of a grin, then break for a deep, warm chuckle. He tilts his head and shrugs. “I like fruit.”
Hands down, best reaction I’ve ever seen from a man to getting shut down. It’s hard not to like Logan West…but I’m certainly trying.
***
Celaya's is a nice little bar with cheery Mexican tile, fresh tortilla chips and salsa, and cheap beer. It also lacks two things I avoid when I’m off duty: tourists and sailors. Still, Abby seems a little too eager to get to Celaya’s tonight. She’s tugging nervously at her unusually short skirt and wiggling her ample curves as soon as we slip through the door into the air conditioning.
I lean in to mutter, “What’s up with you and the micro-mini and fuck-me heels? And why did I have to stuff myself into this dress for a couple of weeknight drinks at Celaya’s?” I do look good, though, I must admit. My long hair loose and tousled from the wind coming off the ocean tonight, eyes lined, deep red lipstick, simple gold hoop earrings that wouldn’t pass muster on base, and a little black dress, emphasis on little.