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“Very nice,” he told her.

“I like feeling muscles move under skin and
there’s beauty in the sight.”

He took the hint and moved his leg toward
her, her hand firmly holding the inner muscles of his thigh.

“Mmmm…now that’s what I call sexy,” Lauren
murmured as she stirred beside him.

“There’s another set of muscles down there
you might want to put your hand on,” he told her, his voice deepening as desire
took over.

“What? This?” She trailed her fingers up
his leg to cup his balls. “These aren’t muscles,” she teased.

He growled and shifted to move his cock
into contact with her skin.

“Ah, this!” Lauren’s fingers gripped him
tightly. “Yes, these muscles are wonderful to feel. With my hand, with my
throat, with my pussy.” She shifted and slid under him as he rolled over.

“You are a tease, Lauren Carr.”

“Yes, I am, John McAllen. Now come here
where you belong.”

She spread her legs beneath him, beckoning
him in. But he was in charge here and he would enter, not at her bidding, but
when he was good and ready.

Problem was, his cock had a mind of its own
and was ready now. Unzipping and shoving the sleeping bag off the two of them,
he rolled onto his back. He held his cock upright, pointing at the tent peak
like the mast of a sailing ship waiting for a sail.

“Mount.”

A simple command, meant to put her in her
place. Or him in his place. He couldn’t see if she liked his tone or not, but
she got up and stood over him, straddling one foot on either side of his hips.
Coming down, she spread her pussy lips wide and his cock met her warmth.

She rested a hand on his chest as she
carefully lowered herself onto him. He thought she might tease and raise and
lower herself, but apparently her need had grown with his command. A smooth,
warm wetness enveloped his cock from tip to base.

“Ride me.”

He reached up and found her nipples. Taking
each one between his fingers, he squeezed as she began a gentle rocking motion,
her knees squeezing against his rib cage before she finally knelt on the
sleeping bags to get a better angle. He let go of her nipples, mauling her
breasts with his big hands and listening to her quiet whimpers.

Those whimpers got to him every time. Her
tempo increased and he knew their meaning. Dropping her breasts, he grabbed her
ass and made her ride to his beat.

Lauren’s breasts ached for his touch. They
bounced her chest every time she rose and fell, pushing her need higher. His
hands on her ass wouldn’t let her go faster and she was afraid she’d plateau
and the tension in her pussy would fade.

But then she realized it didn’t matter. She
was here for him.
Jill is a slave
, she thought.
So is Sarah.
That
means putting him before her. She moaned as she considered the implications.

Faster now. She heard him groan in the
darkness. Clenching her muscles around him, she squeezed as hard as she could
even as she rode him. A grunt, another and then an explosive groan as he filled
her pussy. Their tempo slowing, she squeezed him again, getting another groan
out of him. Could she get a third?

She waited until his movements stopped,
then gave him another squeeze. Sure enough, he gasped and his body jerked
upward.

“No more,” he told her, his voice still
deep. “Just stay there a bit.”

She did, her hands resting on his chest and
feeling his heart slowing a little with each breath. Finally, a good strong
deep breath, let out with another explosive sigh and his cock slipped from her
pussy.

Quickly dismounting, she found the
discarded sleeping bag and covered them both with it. Cupping his cock with her
hand, she endeavored to keep him warm as he drifted off to sleep.

“You are incredible,” he whispered in the
darkness.

“And so are you,” she whispered back.

“I love you.”

A thrill went though her and she placed a
kiss on the muscles of his chest before whispering back, “I love you too. Good
night, my love.”

He didn’t answer and Lauren smiled. She
hadn’t come but she’d given pleasure. There just might be something to this
Dominance and submission thing. She certainly would have fun finding out.

Chapter Seventeen

Night still filled the tent when John shook
her awake. “C’mon, sleepyhead. No rest for the Union Army. Or the Confederates,
for that matter.”

Blinking rapidly, Lauren took stock.
Stretching her muscles showed only a little soreness from sleeping on the hard
ground after the air mattress sprang a leak. John was already halfway into his
uniform and Lauren watched him in the light of the small, battery-operated
lantern he’d turned on. The play of his muscles never failed to fascinate her,
but there was something oddly sexy about watching a man put on light wool pants
then stand with his back to her as he buttoned the fly.

Dimly she remembered finally bringing in
her knapsack the night before and now she rooted around until she found the
small bag that held her toiletries. Throwing on her T-shirt and jeans from the
day before, she quickly set out fresh clothes for the day.

“Nineteenth century today or not, I’m
headed to the showers first.” Giving him a quick kiss, she headed out of the
tent.

Fog had come up during the night. Or was
that come down? The white wisps drifted between the trees and the campers like
the ghosts of those who’d died here a hundred fifty years earlier. Shaking her
head at such a thought, Lauren quickly walked to the community bathrooms,
grateful for the electric light that banished both fog and ghosts.

* * * * *

John finished dressing, checking his supply
of gunpowder packets before slinging the leather case over his shoulder and
settling the strap across his chest. His rifle, a defarbed Springfield, lay in
its protective sheath. It had cost him a pretty penny to have it restored to
its original workings, but the money was secondary.

He slid it out, unwrapping it from the
cloth that kept it looking like new, and inspected it in the light of the
lantern. The rifle was just over four-and-a-half-feet long. The wood gleamed as
if the weapon were brand-new and the metal shone brightly. The rifle was a work
of deadly art and he would treasure it for both the sleek beauty of its
appearance and for what it could do. This weapon deserved to be treated with
respect.

A trumpet sounded somewhere and John
quickly packed up the rest of what he’d need for the day. The real battle had
begun at daybreak all those years ago. Today’s battle would do the same.

He stepped out of the tent, noting the fog
with irony. Hadn’t that been part of the problem a hundred fifty years ago? The
morning fog had been so dense soldiers could pass within ten feet of each other
and not know their enemy was so close to hand.

The view coming out of this morning fog,
however, held much more pleasure than concern. Fresh from her quick shower,
Lauren came hurrying down the dirt path to their campsite.

“I was thinking I would miss you. The
gathering call’s been put out. I have to go.”

Lauren reached up to kiss him. “I’ll look
for you on the battlefield, but in this fog, I doubt I’ll be able to tell which
one is you.”

“Got a token for me to wear?”

Her eyes went serious. “I should’ve thought
of that earlier.” Pulling out her T-shirt, she offered it to him. “I wore it
all day yesterday. Maybe I should get you something nicer.”

John took the T-shirt. It smelled of her
perfume. “This is perfect.” He tucked it into his shirt and leaned forward to
kiss her again.

“Okay, enough already, you two.”

Will came out of the fog and slapped John
on the back. “We need to get into position.”

“I know. Let’s go.”

“Lauren, Jill’s packing a lunch for us. The
hamper she has would hold a five-course dinner if you want to put yours and
John’s lunch in with ours.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Soldiers of every rank with uniforms
reflecting both sides streamed past their site on their way to the battlefield
just over the ridge. The eastern sky had grown lighter as they talked and
Lauren now gave John a last kiss before he turned and headed off to war.

Lauren’s breath caught in her throat as she
watched the two of them fade into the fog. Closing her eyes, she remembered too
many other farewells of that sort and hated herself for equating this goodbye
with those. Yet it felt the same. Pretend war or not, he was still in uniform,
he still carried a gun and there would still be shooting and yelling and all
the other stuff that went with battle.

At least there wouldn’t be wounded.
Stepping in a gopher hole couldn’t be considered a war wound. That was just
clumsy. And that guy had done it after the battle was finished, so it didn’t
count. Would someone trip, fall and need stitches today? Probably. People fell
down in marathon runs and broke bones.

But no bullet holes, no deep gashes where
shrapnel had lacerated a leg. Lauren opened her eyes with determination shining
from them. She had a lunch to pack.

* * * * *

“This looks like a good spot.”

Twenty minutes after leaving John, Lauren
stopped beside Jill as the latter dropped the lunch hamper and squinted down
the hill. The fog had thinned and the half light of the approaching dawn made
it difficult to see too far yet.

Spectators were being kept well behind the
battle. Lauren wondered if that should really be the case. If they wanted to
know what it was like during the war, shouldn’t they be right down there in the
middle of it instead of on the hill just behind a row of cannon? She’d never
been to the real battlefield just a few miles away. Today’s reenactment would
be held on a field in remembrance. The actual field, according to John, was too
precious a treasure to sully with the damage their reenactment would do to the
national park.

They stood about thirty feet back and a
little above a line of men manning the several dozen Union cannon and getting
them ready to fire. Unlike the mock battle at the museum a few weeks ago, no
announcer came out to narrate this battle. No civilities, no acknowledgement of
the spectators as audience.

The sun hadn’t yet made an appearance,
although the heralds were all there. Between tufts of lifting fog, the last few
stars winked one last time and disappeared as the birds began their morning
songs. A faint breeze stirred the cornstalks in the field below her, their
rustle soft in the early morning light.

Off to her left, a cannon roared and Lauren
jumped, her fists balling and her eyes raking the cornfield beyond. A puff of
tell-tale smoke came from the center on the other side. Had the Confederates
been the ones to start the action? Suddenly Lauren couldn’t remember anything
she’d read about this blasted battle except that the cornfield had been a place
of death and destruction. Between the multiple charges between the cornstalks
and the constant cannon fire, both the men in the corn and the crop itself had
been leveled by the end.

How many men had gathered to re-create this
fight today? Lauren swallowed hard as voices in front of her called out
commands, “Ram!” “Sight the piece!” “Clear!” The gunner’s orders mingled and
Lauren wondered how they knew which voice belonged to their crew.

“Ready!” “Fire!” A cannon burst forth with
noise and white smoke. And then, with no further ado, another, and another and
another. The Union cannon answered the Confederate guns, volley for volley, and
the battle had begun. She put her hands over her ears and Jill was beside her,
not saying anything since there was nothing one could say in the face of such
fury.

But Jill stood there and Lauren nodded,
taking deep breaths tainted with the taste of gunpowder. Bitter was the taste
in her mouth and in her nose, and Lauren took another deep breath, the scent
doing more to chase away her demons than anything else. Modern warfare smelled
different than this.

She could just make out a group of men
picking their way between the rows of tall corn. Part of her wanted to shout,
to warn them away from what she knew would happen. Clenching her fists, she
watched as another cannon volley went off and scores of the foot soldiers fell
to the ground.

The sun rose to her left, illuminating a
scene straight from Hieronymus Bosch. As the last tendrils of fog lifted, the
sun shone on a peaceful summer morning. Stray wisps ascended to the heavens,
slowly disappearing into the sky. Men screamed and fell to the earth as smoke from
the cannon mingled with the dissipating fog.

The cannon fired constantly. Lauren had
prepared for the barrage and although her chest felt tight, no sign of panic
reared its ugly head. Maybe Dr. Butters was right. PTSD wasn’t something that
could be cured but it could be managed.

And still the cannon rumbled. During the
actual battle, it was said the thunder of the cannon could be heard nearly
fifty miles away at Harper’s Ferry. Would they hear it there today? The hills
took every bellow and amplified it, turning it back on itself to echo again and
again and again.