Faster on My Own: Chapter 40
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Loyal troops applauded Steven as he shambled out in front of them. He could see himself in their eyes, his indomitable strength and will replacing the empty dread which had hollowed Steven out. His soldiers expected a celebration. They’d destroyed one of the prominent armies in the rebelling nation, and they knew they deserved some applause. So Steven clapped. Before them, he clapped as hard as his broken hands allowed. “You did it. You followed my orders, and your reward was victory. All of you.” Steven held back a sob. “All of you have earned this victory. Send the first hero up.”
A young soldier with peach fuzz on his chin and enormous wet eyes marched up, to cheers from his friends. Grabbing his shoulder, wishing this soldier and all the rest would just crumble to dust and leave their empty uniforms to flutter down the mountainside, Steven said, “What heroism has this man achieved?”
Shouts informed him that the soldier had killed ten rebels. Ten warriors, fighting to save the world, dead at this oaf’s grubby hands. “Ten! I agree, this is a hero in front of you.” Steven turned and kissed the soldier on the lips, then held his hand aloft as everyone hooted and clapped. “Get back to your brothers and sisters and never forget this moment, son.” A few masculine tears slipped loose, and he jogged back into the clamor.
“Who’s next?”
Two more men were sent up for their numerous murders, and received their presidential kisses and cheers. Each kiss made Steven more and more nauseous, but if he shirked his duty as their leader, he might lose their trust. His absence over the course of the war must have tested their faith. He couldn’t push his luck now. So when a man with a confident, scruffy beard and the swagger of a beloved murderer emerged from the crowd, Steven shouted his appreciation along with the soldiers. “What’d he do?”
“Killed their leader!”
So Arnold was dead. Or maybe they meant Ashwin– no, none of them knew who Ashwin was, and certainly he hadn’t been with the ULF. No way Ashwin could have resisted gloating once they captured him. “You killed Arnold Wilson?”
“Got him right in the back of the head when he was trying to capture you.” A cool smile. Nonchalant. Such a fiction: this man thought the world of himself. It was inscribed into every line in his face, the expectant look in his eyes, the relaxed set of his jaw. “This man killed Arnold Wilson, and saved my life! You tell me, does this man deserve tongue?”
At that question, the soldiers went hog wild. Of course they wanted this guy to get tongue. It benefited them, to be in contact with a hero so recognized. But no matter the incentives, it was a clear case. The man had earned tongue. Steven felt the soldier’s stubble scratch against his own patchy beard, chapped and bruised lips brushing against each other. But once he got past the skin, the man’s mouth was just as wet as anyone else’s. None of the damage of the world had reached his lithe tongue, which pressed and squirmed against Steven’s. The soldier’s hand rustled through Steven’s hair, an audacious supposition, that this man was in a position to give sensation to his president. To reassert his authority, Steven placed a gentle hand on the soldier’s neck and ran a tender finger up toward his ear. Already, the crowd had been going wild, but they really lost their shit now. None of them had ever seen a full blown makeout awarded like this.
But, just as the award was winding down, the taste of the soldier’s saliva thoroughly mixed with Steven’s own, someone limped to the front and shouted. “He saved my life!”
“Mine too!”
“Yeah, same!”
Steven tore his mouth away from the other man’s and wiped the saliva from his lips. “All of you? How’d he do that?”
“Shot someone who had me on the ground and was about to knife me.”
“Pulled me out of the way of a burning truck rolling downhill.”
“Killed three commies with one hand, bandaged my stomach wound with the other.”
A hush fell over the crowd. They knew what all of that meant. Steven did too. “And all you saw it? He did all that?”
They cheered assent. With his hand to his forehead in a salute, Steven returned his attention to the soldier. The quiet confidence had eroded in the face of embarrassment and gratitude. “You have earned the highest honor I am capable of bestowing, for your heroism in the field of battle, in slaying the enemy, but more importantly in rescuing your compatriots. I am proud to call you a United States Army Soldier.”
As his right hand traveled down and unzipped the soldier’s fly, his left stayed in a salute. He removed the soldier’s erect cock from his pants, and they each turned to face the crowd, who screamed in frenzy. Steven’s hand traveled up and down the shaft, his thumb delicately tickling the head each time he reached it. Faster and faster, grip tighter and tighter, Steven worked his hand along this hero’s penis.
Under his breath, Steven said, “Remember this isn’t just for you, son. This is for all of their morale. So give ‘em a show.” Before long the soldier’s breath quickened, his face flushed, and his hips started thrusting along with the motions of Steven’s hand. The time upon them, Steven jacked him off even faster, until a quiet moan escaped the soldier’s lips and a jet of semen burst forth and fell upon a soldier at the front of the crowd. The men next to him begged to lick it off while the rest shouted at the top of their lungs, themselves carried to the peak of excitement by the ceremony.
As the hero licked his own cum off of Steven’s hand, the president addressed the crowd. “Take tonight to celebrate! You’ve won an incredible victory, all of you together. Each of you is a hero and each of you deserves recognition. So, recognize each other.” This way, Steven was able to slink away and cry at all the world had lost, while his soldiers sucked and fucked all through the night.
In the morning, Steven got in a humvee and drove straight to the nearest loyal doctor. His left hand, which wasn’t even the one that had done the work, still caused Steven no end of agony. A crumpled ball of flesh and bone which required immediate attention.
The doctor balked when he saw Steven's hand, and called a helicopter to take him to the nearest hospital. After a few X-rays and hours of surgery, Steven emerged with a metal plate in his hand, and the troublesome fingers that Arnold broke the first time, and he the second, amputated. This didn't trouble Steven too much. He would cover it with a glove, once the swelling went down. The post-surgery pain, while substantial, did not compare to the agony he'd felt after each incident, and frequently in-between, and he'd grown tired of looking at the crooked fingers which had healed so poorly. This, while not as good as the five fingers he'd once had, felt like a fresh start. It was much in the same spirit that he watched his troops advance on Washington D.C. After wiping the drones out of the sky, his troops—galvanized by the return of their president—ran over the dregs of Sam's forces.Sam, for all her organizational prowess, could not keep her troops motivated. They clearly suffered from exhaustion, as many fired erratically and more gave up at the first sight of the army. When Steven, behind thousands of troops, stormed the White House, many of the soldiers stationed there simply gave up. Better to hand over your rifle, Steven thought,than die for a woman who probably threatened to kill you if you worked less than sixteen hours. Outside the Oval Office, Steven took a deep breath. He didn't know what to expect. His generals had recommended that he not be present when they seize the White House, as Sam might not go quietly. But Steven needed to see the look on her face when he reclaimed what she'd stolen, and only worried that she might kill herself before he got the chance. She was, however, alive when the soldiers flowed through the door, disarming her personal bodyguards and training ten rifles on her alone.