Military Maledom: An Officer And A Dom

MILITARY MALEDOM: AN OFFICER
AND A DOM

by

Erika Masten

SMASHWORDS
EDITION

Copyright © 2012 Erika
Masten.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Erika Masten

[email protected]

http://erikamasten.com

Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This
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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

Room Service: Dominated
#3

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
.

Abby clasps her hands together in
front of her and beams. “You’ll see.”

“Oh, shit,” I sigh. “You really have
planned something. Please tell me you didn’t set me up on a blind
date with the brother or best friend of another one of your weird
crushes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She
puts her hands on her curvy hips, a bit more voluptuous than mine,
and frowns. “Oh, never mind. I see someone we should say hello
to.”

And she proceeds to lead me across the
teal and terracotta orange tiles, around the small dance floor, to
a table near the back of the cantina.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as
soon as I see them. Tucked into a booth behind a row of beer
bottles and shooters are Hank Grey, the SEAL Abby has been mooning
over, and Logan West. “Abby, I’m going to get you for
this.”

She shoots me a bright grin over her
shoulder. “You can thank me after the great sex.”

“Welcome, ladies,” Hank greets us as
we arrive at the blue vinyl booth. Both the cut, raven-haired SEAL
and West stand to meet us. I notice Hank’s hand sliding along
Abby’s bare arm as he steps aside so she can slide into the
booth.