tagMatureThe Hooker and the Marine

The Hooker and the Marine

byandtheend©

Highly trained, elite recon Marine cleans up his neighborhood and finds love along the way.

*

Another hot one, 3 in a row, it was an official summer heat wave, after just having had one last week and the week before. Judging by the extended weather forecast, next week didn't offer much relief from the 90 plus degree, high humidity weather. The kind of day that Frank could fry an egg on the sidewalk, he'd be too hot to eat it.

He was looking forward to seeing snow; it had been a while since he saw any. Yet, he should have a problem. He was alive, when so many of his best buddies were dead. Compared to what he endured during his 4 tours of desert duty in Afghanistan and Iraq and before that, during the Gulf War, in Kuwait, and special op missions in between, this weather was a relief.

Now that he was finally home, the chow he had here was better than eating baby food, mushy ready-to-eat meals, MRE's. Still coughing up and spitting out sand, he was looking forward to grilling out later. A linguist with an expert ear for dialects, fluent in 10 languages, he could curse in Pashto, Dari, Arabic, Kurdish, Urdu, French, Italian, Spanish, German, and English. Even at his age, with his skills, he was still highly regarded by the CIA and a dozen private, mercenary outfits, that pay by body count, dead or alive. They all enticed him with money to return to active duty.

This hot summer weather was nothing like the deadly weather Frank endured, when wearing a vest and a helmet, carrying a weapon, and shouldering a full backpack of gear when in country, all while watching his ass and protecting the backs of his buddies. Relaxing, but never fully relaxed, always on edge, he remained vigilant. Continually on and never off, he couldn't help himself, that's how he was trained to be.

With his back to the wall, much in the way how Wild Bill Hickok sat when playing poker in the saloon, so that no one could surprise him from behind and shoot him in the back, he sat on his stoop having a beer in his shorts and tee shirt, while wearing his ever present unlaced combat boots. Sitting in this way from his perch on the top step, with a commanding view of the street, his back was one side he didn't have to watch. Normal men hate it when their backs are up against the wall but Frank preferred it. Besides, there was nothing normal about Frank. He was a trained killer, an assassin.

Already in a foul mood, he hated how his old neighborhood had deteriorated in his absence. Hoping to improve his mood, he listened to his favorite team lose a ballgame on the radio. His team losing another game, when in a pennant race, always put him in a lousy mood. Bored and antsy, bouncing off the wall, he was thinking about re-upping. He rubbed the sweat from his crew cut and spat his indecision on the sidewalk.

"Marine Corps! OORAH!"

Programmed to die for his country and for his buddies, removing him from combat was akin to bringing a cage fighter to a formal dance. Out of his element, he didn't belong here. He more belonged in the desert with his buddies, the guys who understood what they needed to do and did it to survive. The conscience that never came into play then, reared its ugly head now. He was having the headaches and the bad dreams again. He couldn't sleep.

He took a good look at his street. Foreclosures had taken their toll and every other house on the street was boarded up or had a for sale sign in front. With transients replacing familiar faces, now a stranger in his own neighborhood, he didn't recognize anyone. Not hard to find, the gutter collected needles and spent condoms; there was litter everywhere. The trees that lined his street were dead or dying. Pit bulls walked wanna-be tough guys and, in a four-on-one confrontation, he convinced the gang members that sold drugs on his street to find another corner in a different neighborhood to do their dirty business. With him home now and on duty 24/7, the Marine has landed, this neighborhood was on its way to being secured.

He grew up here and this used to be a beautiful street with kids playing and families gathering. Now, look at it. Symbolic of the state of the economy and the empty political rhetoric on the war on drugs and on gun control, his old neighborhood was no different than any other slum anywhere in America. A war zone and an unsafe place where residents had to watch their backs, this street could have been a street in Bagdad. What happened to his country?

Frank watched a woman walking on the other side of the street. He didn't recognize her and even though he never saw her before, he knew what she was. She was a young, pretty thing, petite but with big tits. She was a prostitute. He's been with enough of them all over the world to recognize their gait and their stare. They all had the same walk and look about them, especially when approaching a potential customer.

"Hi ya, baby," she said with a wave and a smile, as she neared. "Wanna date?"

There was always a man behind the woman and when he woke up from his drunkenness and put his pants and shoes on to leave, he felt bad about taking advantage of these women. Impossible to overcome what they had endured, he felt bad about leaving them behind to fend for themselves. Yet, if he let his guard down, they'd slit his throat. Had he been somewhere else, anywhere else, he'd take care of their man and set them free. Yet, where would they go and what would they do? Akin to indentured servitude, some women were born into that lifestyle and it was the only life they knew.

Suddenly, his mind morphed into a stew of naked body parts, tits, asses, and pussies. When not on duty, when not in combat, drunk out of his mind, he just wanted to forget and how better to chill than to be with a woman. Faceless women, as foreign to him as he was to them, they all looked alike. Yet, when with him, they all had one thing in common. No matter what language they spoke, he taught them all to say God bless America.

"Say it now, say it. Say God bless America," he'd tell them, just before he was about to cum.

"God bless America."

Some said it better than others, but it was the sentiment that counted. Most times, most women, didn't even understand what they were saying. Repeating his words phonetically, they smiled their cooperation for the money he gave them.

"Louder. Say it louder."

"God bless America!"

Appropriately, his way of indelibly stamping their brains with those words, after he fucked their bodies, maybe they'd make the connection in their minds. Certainly, if they repeated those words to the wrong person, they'd be targets themselves. He fucked them, just as his country fucked him with non-existent help from the Veterans' Administration for the emotional wreck that he was now. How could some Army doctor, who had never been in combat and who had never taken a life, help him? He was too far gone. Keeping him out there too long, his country fucked him up real good.

"God bless America," he said softly.

Needing to chill not to lose his mind, needing some sense of comfort from someone, he had been with so many women in so many countries, he lost count. More dangerous for the women than it was for him, in the part of the world where he was, stoning was the sentence for adultery and worse for prostitution. Yet, no matter, where he went, there were always women willing to do anything for money and anything to survive.

"Don't tell me your name. I don't want to know," he'd say to them. Not knowing their names was his way of staying disconnected from them and from the real world. Caring for someone other than himself and his buddies' backs would slow his reactions. He didn't have time to think and knowing their names would clutter his mind with all the women he's fucked and with emotions he couldn't afford to have. "I'll call you Robin."

His favorite bird, he called every woman of the street Robin and no matter if they understood him or not, they'd just smile. Then, when he was done with them, in his mind's eye, he'd watched them fly away.

"Fly. Fly. Fly away little birdie, my beautiful robin. You're free. Bye, bye."

Unfocused thinking, fantasizing about pumping her pussy or her sucking his cock, daydreaming about some woman, while pumping rounds in the enemy, would get him killed. He needed to stay focused. He needed to stay in the zone, the war zone.

He was the sweeper, the cleaner, and they called him in as a last resort. He cleaned up the political messes that the Generals made. There was no place for love in the Hell where he was stationed and where he was going, when he died. He only had room for hate.

He had the instincts of a veteran street cop, but one without the attitude, the backup, and the badge. He didn't have time for attitude. When in country, it's that cockiness that will get you killed. Besides, already the best of the best, better than all the rest, he was a Marine.

"Oorah," he mumbled under his breath, now that he wasn't alone and now that he had an audience of one watching him.

Wrapped too tight, he was having difficulty loosening up without unraveling. He's seen some stuff, too much stuff, and he's done some stuff he's not proud of doing. Yet, when it was him against the enemy, either he did what he had to do to survive or die trying.

He watched her walk closer and it was obvious that she was inexperienced. He wondered if this was her first time and if he was her first, potential customer. She looked that raw. She had to start somewhere, why not with him?

He could tell from her body language that she was nervous. Was she wondering if he was a cop? He certainly looked like one. All he needed was the uniform and patrol car. Too dumb to know any better or maybe she was too desperate to care, he knew she was going to solicit him anyway.

His neighborhood had gone to shit, since he left. After an IED nearly killed him, he was home for good or so he thought. Even after he got his hearing back, he still had the headaches. Tortured with physical pain and mental anguish, even when he didn't have the headaches, the bad dreams kept him awake.

After he was released from the hospital and home for only a couple of months, his Colonel called him wanting to know if he'd accept a special op mission, going deep undercover, and kidnapping a bad guy from Pakistan. It was suicide, but it sounded like fun. It sounded like something he'd do and had done, so many times before. Suddenly, pumped with adrenaline and feeling like Rambo again, he slept like a baby.

"Oorah!"

Now with a mission on the horizon and real purpose to his life again, he felt alive. He felt needed. A key player, he was part of a team.

"God bless America."

Just like Rambo, his motto was they drew first blood, not me. The same as Rambo, that was always his justification to kill, not that he needed any. Pulling the trigger was easy. It was the consequences of his decision to kill or to set his adversary free that he had to live with later. The judge, the jury, and the executioner, he was God when out there. He was okay with those roles, that is, until he was home alone with his bad self and all those he killed returned as ghosts to haunt him.

Assembling a team of the best of the best, he was first on the list. Only, if they were captured in Pakistan, they'd be on their own; the United States couldn't help them. He didn't even have to think about it; he said yes. After just two months home, with nothing to hold him here, he was already stir crazy and ready to re-enlist.

"Semper Fidelis."

Trying to make herself appear sexy, he watched her walk her walk. Strutting her stuff, she was laughable. He's had plenty pay-as-you go pussy the world over and she had much to learn. Yet, there was something about her that he liked, a veiled innocence that made him feel protective of her, as a father would lookout for his innocent daughter, only he could see that she wasn't so innocent.

"Either you have money in the bank or you're crazy," she said crossing the street and walking closer. "You talk to yourself more than I ever talked to my dog," she said with a laugh.

"You have a dog?"

"I did, but he died."

"I don't have any money in the bank," he said with a laugh.

She was so young, younger than his youngest daughter. She was just a kid. Figuring she was older, guessing she was in her early twenties, she looked 18-years-old. He wondered how life could get so bad so quickly for someone so young? Two of a kind, a paradox and a quagmire with both selling themselves short, the parallel of her selling herself for money and him selling himself for his country wasn't lost on him.

Judging by her complexion and her hair, she looked like a natural blonde and after spending so much time with women who had dark hair, dark skin, and brown eyes, he was attracted to her blue eyes. Nearly as tall as he was, she wasn't a bad looking woman. With a bit of makeup, her hair done, and some nice clothes, she'd be pretty.

He had been with worse, only, even when he was in Bangkok and offered supposed Thai virgins, he had never been with anyone as young as he imagined she was. Maybe he felt bad for them, but he preferred the older whores to the younger ones, and he always chose the ones that the others didn't want. They were the ones more appreciated of him selecting them and they always showed him a better time.

It had been a while, since he had been with a woman, one who could speak English, that is, and he was already thinking about accepting her proposition, before she even asked. How old was she, he wondered? Eighteen? Nineteen? He'd be surprised to learn, later, that she was twenty-five.

"Twenty bucks for a blowjob, Mister," she said stopping in front of him.

She had a lot to learn. If he was a cop, he could have arrested her. Maybe he was underestimating her. Maybe she knew he wasn't a cop. Maybe she didn't care, if he was.

For some reason, he could see his cock in her mouth, while fondling her enormous tits. It's been a while, since he's seen, felt, and sucked a rack like hers. Feeling a bit tense, he could use a blowjob right about now. She looked hot and tired and he thought about inviting her upstairs to his air conditioned apartment for a cool drink and some hot sex. Yet, if he was going to make the effort to take the time to be with her, he'd want more than a blowjob.

Tired of paying for sex, he wanted a commitment. He needed a girlfriend, someone to love him for who he was. If he had a girlfriend, a woman to come home to, he wouldn't even think about re-upping. Suddenly, he felt as tired as he was old. His mind wasn't right. A suicide mission, he knew if he went back in county this time, he wouldn't return.

"That's pretty cheap," he said giving her the look over.

"It's a tough economy and I go with the flow to make a living," she said.

"Are you any good at sucking cock?"

"I've sucked my share without complaints. Put it this way, no one has asked for a refund," she said with a laugh that made him laugh with her.

She was cute and he liked her. Only, instead of feeling excited to have his cock sucked by her, he felt sad. She made him feel bad. This is America, the land of the free and the home of the brave. It saddened him that his buddies, better men than even him, better men than she'd ever meet, died for her right to walk the street to solicit him.

With three daughters of his own, he wished he could help her. As his way of continuing to give back in hopes of fixing all that is so wrong with his country and his neighborhood, he had a sudden need to help her. His ex, after she remarried, wanting to get as far away from him, as she could, took his daughters and moved to California, when they were still young.

Perhaps, his need to help her was a manifestation of a need he had to still be in the lives of his daughters. Out of control with Post Traumatic Stress, something he didn't even know he had, until he was diagnosed with it and given therapy for it, his ex-wife, his daughters, and their marriage were all victims of his rage.

Now, when he wasn't filled with adrenaline with the thoughts of re-upping for the sake of a mission, he had nothing but headaches, heartaches, and bad dreams. It hurt his head and pained his heart to think of all that he sacrificed for his country for the likes of this streetwalker and everyone else who now plagued his neighborhood. Forsaking ballgames, barbeques, and long drives through the country on a nice sunny day, ever since 9/11 and Pappa Bush before that, he hasn't been around much. Always gone and landing on some makeshift runway in a God forsaken place, there was always some fire, somewhere in the world, that needed to be extinguished. He hadn't been much of a Dad, and he wondered if his daughters even remembered who he was, but he loved his girls.

With all the death and misery he saw and had an active role in creating, he had a difficult time trying to live a normal life and feel real emotions. Standing on a tightrope of indecision, if he felt anything, if he waivered while walking the line of his call to duty to God and to his country, he'd die. If he needed to feel, then he needed to stay home. If he could still sever his emotions, then he was fit for duty and could return.

With his head turned around by all that he's been through, he had a hard time severing his feelings. Returning home and returning to everything familiar made him feel and made him realize all he had done in the name of his country. When he was 6,000 miles from home, in a foreign land so far from home that it was surreal, he didn't have time to feel. He didn't have time to think. He only had time to react or die. Now he needed to make a choice. Either he was a Marine or a civilian.

"Oorah."

Everything he felt was gag reflex. He didn't even have to think about his next move. He was trained not to think, just to do. With a flick of his hand, a kick of his boot, or a butt of his head, he just reacted. He was trained to get his opponents down on the ground, where he could control them and put real hurt to them. Don't let them get up, never give them an inch. No mercy. Stand tall. Be brave. You're a Marine.

He wasn't a regular Marine. Most times, when working for the CIA, he didn't even wear a uniform. Able to mingle with the locals, he was invisible. He was a ghost. He was a specialist. He was a killer. He was the one they called when they needed someone to be found or someone to disappear. The only fear he felt was failing his mission. He couldn't die. They couldn't kill him. He was dead already.

"No, I don't think so, but thank you anyway for offering to blow me," he said with a little laugh, while giving her a smile and studying her. She walked away looking rejected, as if just having interviewed for a job she didn't get, and he felt bad.

She had a nice ass and he'd do her, just to spend some quality time with those big melons. Maybe some alone time with a woman was just what he needed to quell his headaches and stop the bad dreams. For sure, he'd never call her Robin and with that, he wondered what her name was.

He had the urge to give her the twenty bucks. She looked like she could use it. Except for her big tits, she was so gangly thin. She looked like she could use some grub and he suddenly had the need to feed her, to take her under his wing, and to take care of her. Maybe he was reading her all wrong, but she looked just as broken, as he was.

Whether putting his adversaries at ease with conversation and a kind word or beating them senseless in hand-to-hand combat, he always engaged the enemy. It's funny how he perceived her as much an enemy to his neighborhood, as was her pimp and as were those drug dealers he relocated. He loved to meet up with that guy. Just as he did with those four gang members selling drugs at the corner, he'd make it so that he'd never run another hooker on his street again.

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