Revenge of the Pothead
Copyright© 2005 by Col. Jack Harrison
Chapter 11
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 11 - A man who spent 5 years in prison for smoking pot is released by the new regime. He must now deal with his restored freedom and decide what to do with his life. The first chapter has no sex, but following chapters will.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Ma/Ma Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Military War Science Fiction Post Apocalypse Sharing Incest Brother Sister BDSM DomSub MaleDom Rough Spanking Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Swinging Interracial Black Female White Male White Female Indian Male Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration Exhibitionism Oral Sex Pregnancy Squirting Voyeurism Doctor/Nurse Nudism Revenge Slow Violence
Our neat little tryst didn’t last as long as we hoped, of course. As the weather cleared, we heard the first barrage of enemy artillery and felt its impact. Those motherfuckers were back at it and they likely wouldn’t stop this time until we (well, collectively speaking) were forced to completely annihilate them. Frankly, I hoped that we did. It was time to clean the genepool, and those scum could be among the first to leave it.
“Don’t worry. Our own guns are giving them far more hell, as you know. Rat bastards don’t fucking know how to use forward observers. They miss more than they hit, though what they hit does harm enough,” I pointed out to Anne.
“Plus, those guns of theirs are rather primitive by comparison,” Anne noticed.
“Yeah, I’d say so. Superior shells, superior rockets. Superior mortars for when they get closer. Claymore mines to really deal them some death and misery. Anti-tank guns, RPGs, you get the idea. And that’s before they encounter our heavy-machine gun nests and our armor. And the gunships. Let’s not forget the gunships,” I reflected.
‘And snipers,” Anne added.
“Yeah, those, too,” I agreed, “though as a nurse, I’m torn. I can’t help but think of all of the pain, all the death, the maimed soldiers who will be lame for life. The rest of me thinks, ‘nah, they’re Kluckers, so fuck ‘em.’ That’s the inner conflict inside me.”
“Still, that’s some mother’s son, some sister’s brother, some daughter’s father, some wife’s husband, some girlfriend’s boyfriend. I know that the women are likely every bit as racist as the menfolk, but still. It does pain me at times to have to sew up men who were wounded in action by our folks and whose future now includes a lengthy stay as a prisoner of war. And they’re the lucky ones, the ones not killed in action.
“On the other hand, you’re right. They’re racist blokes, the lot of them, real pricks that are more bollocks than brains. And their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, etc. are scarcely better to be frank. It goes against my medical training to be too callous about their fates, but I also recall what they probably think of me, which helps,” Anne admitted rather candidly to me.
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