The Dorm Went Dark - I Got Lucky!

Author's Note: This story contains erotic descriptions between consenting adults. It includes oral and heterosexual descriptions. The characters are fictional although elements of this story are factual. The details are realistic and of someone who experienced strife as a POW in turbulent times during the Vietnam Conflict.

The drive out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina was a turbulent mixture of emotions. I made a last stop to see the Major before I left. He is my anchor to sanity. We spoke for nearly an hour. He offered words of encouragement and noted signs to look out for as the structured military grip loosened around my airborne boots. Four years of service, trauma in the jungles, reoccurring nightmares, counseling, and time to heal brought some relief; but it hadn't prepared me for the future and the newness of post-service acclimation; especially with women. As I walked to my Chevy Silverado pickup for that last drive off post, I felt the pressure beginning to thump in my chest. The sensations of another surfacing panic attack crept over me. It was damn hard to fight it down.The bite mark on my wrist wouldn't take long to turn purple — no blood this time. Progress, maybe.

I felt my ghosts sliding into the seat next to me — those of my buddies and those we had slain. The sweltering drive out into the land of the free didn't seem any different than an everyday drive out of Bragg as I passed inbound traffic. Except this was my last exit from the home of the brave. I was headed to civilian life, again. Some of those remaining on post would continue to ride with their own ghosts as they did this daily commute. Thoughts of them weighed on my mind as I pulled away.

"Lord, watch over them," I whispered, as I glanced up in my rearview mirror at the shrinking 'Now Entering Fort Bragg' sign. Beside me, I heard the praying ghosts echo my words as the winds pulled the sounds out of the open windows like dust devils swirling behind us. "Bless, Jimenez, Bless Vanghen, Bless Honig, Bless Lee Chu ..." their words intoned a litany of names as I drove westward.

The interstate highway map lay open next to me; although I wouldn't need it. I had memorized the 937 miles of mountains to cross, the plains, and eventually the rolling terrain that lay ahead. The map—was just in case my head clouded over. That happens. With God's speed in about fifteen to sixteen hours I would cover the 937 miles to a small university town —Macomb, Illinois. A place where war seemed so foreign and surreal amidst the corn and wheat fields. The Major had recommended it in one of my earlier sessions with him.

"It's a small, isolated, fortress of solitude, SSG Rawlings. A place you can learn to rejoin the civilian world under a new identity as a graduate student. Be Clark Kent while you recover. Stop taking bullets, start taking the MBA courses! You're good at that accounting stuff you took before you were drafted," he smiled as he spoke. It was a forlorn one, as he tried to joke about it at the same time.

At 65 miles per hour, the wind, blowing through the rolled down windows, was blistering hot. It reminded me of the jungles and gave me time to think over the Major's comments; particularly his last one.

"They're not likely to spit on you at Western Illinois University, Staff Sergeant Rawlings," the Major remarked with a slight smirk as we shook hands; I saluted, and walked out of his office and into civilian life again.

+++++

Plowing through the last fifty miles of cornfields to WIU, I drove my Silverado pickup out of the slow-moving traffic and parked just at the ridge of the dorm parking lot, surveilling the scene below. First, because I felt the onset of another panic attack, being pinned in between snail crawling bumper-to-bumper traffic. Secondly, because the military has ingrained in me the need for surveillance before getting boxed into a situation in which you didn't have an exit strategy.

I waited on the ridge for two hours—until traffic lightened and the sun was on the way down. Then I drove up to the dorm entrance, next to a long row of carts. Kids were like squirrels bounding in and out of the doors, grabbing stuff from cars and U-hauls. Parents were crying; yells of 'keggers on my floor at nine;' and other shit like that rang out among the beehive of activity as students returned from home.

As I stopped and opened the door to get out, one of those blond swirly-haired squirrels, wearing a name tag, grabbed my OD green duffle bag from the back of my truck. 'No man touches another's gear without asking,' I thought. My first impulse was to deck the reed-thin munchkin, but I fought it down.

"Hey dude, welcome back!"

He was just a kid with a welcoming smile and greeted me as if he knew me. But he sure as hell didn't.

"What's your floor number?" he asked, "I'll get it up there while you park. Packing light, I see—smart; got your other stuff in a rental storage, yeah?"

I took in the mechanics of what was going on as the squirrels helped to wheel in the carts so that vehicles could clear the unloading area.

"16th floor—thanks," I replied.

'No storage kid, just one bag and a hard-shell typewriter case.' I thought. Just an unshackled Airborne Ranger on a solo recon mission, traveling light through a new unknown territory.

Blondie Squirrel turned and rolled the commercial canvass laundry cart away. Watching him disappear into the beehive of activity, I realized that I just let go of everything I owned to a total stranger. I didn't know him, he didn't know my name, but it seemed to be the system at work. It just matched the scenario being played out by dozens of other squirrels. A point of mutual trust in the system. Somewhere, in the back recesses of my mind, I felt he must have my back.

'Progress,' the Major would say.

Elevators aren't my thing—too confining. I took the stairs to the 16th level graduate floor, just as Gennie, the RA; that's resident assistant, finished an ice-breaker conversation by asking everyone to tell a little bit about their backgrounds.

I pushed through the stairway entrance and into the crowded foyer, not straying from the safety of that exit door. Gennie spotted me quietly slipping in, and kept them all seated. She explained what they had just ended, then asked me speak. It sounded like one of my group therapy sessions. The Major said that I needed to climb out of my shell and start speaking to people, or I would end up locked in a room with a bottle of booze, like SFC Wilson, or worse—like Dunnigan, hanging ... So, I spoke.

"I'm ... Jim Rawlings. It's been almost five years since I've been back at college. I got drafted two days before I was graduated. Then four years, three months and three days later I ETS'd out of the 82nd Airborne, that's at Fort Bragg by Fayetteville, North Carolina..."

"Fuck the Army!"

The words spat from some shithead's lips as he yelled out at that point. It garnered him a lot of laughter. I remained silent. Just staring; thinking maybe the Major was wrong. I had my sights on him; it was a cold stare. He grew quiet, as did the others. Guess it was my stare, or maybe they saw my mangled hands about that time as I gave him a slow mock lefthanded salute.

"That's uncalled for!" Gennie chastised him in the hushed silence, "Read the handbook or suffer the consequences!" Her tone and comments seemed to ice things down a bit. The cute, red-head had quite a fiery bark. She would have made a good DI. That's drill instructor in case you are wondering.

In the quiet that followed. I kept my cool and continued, "I served with a lot of guys who used those words," I told him, "but they fought and died side by side all the same, with others that had more respect for the uniform. Everybody over there had each other's back. I took some pain myself."

I held up my hands again, this time over my head. Everyone could see them at that point; that killed the rest of the noise. You could have heard a pin drop."You might as well know about these now instead of staring when you think I'm not watching you."

"We were taking heavy fire and I followed orders from a green second lieutenant screaming at the top of his lungs to take the ridge. In the mayhem, while rushing up the ridge, a bullet smashed into my helmet — spun me around. It felt like I got hit with a sledge. That fucking helmet saved my life and gave me bad luck at the same time. Everything went black for — what seemed hours — I came to dazed, started to stand, and caught a bullet in the shoulder ...

"I spent four months and three days being move from camps by night then chained and beaten senseless for entertainment nearly every day -- they didn't want information, just loved showing one another how manly-sadistic they could be. Their leader cut off three of my fingers one drunken evening, for entertainment. From what little English he spoke, I gathered it was retribution for some GI that collected ears. Got my jaw broken, and had my gun hand smashed with a rifle butt.

"My handwriting was bad before that, but now I can't write shit legibly. I learned to type during rehab."

"What?" I asked. There wasn't a question spoken or sound made—just my mind wandering back to that time.

"Fuck! Sorry, sometimes my mind still gets twisted and I have trouble tracking. Anyway, their luck ran out and mine returned when they stumbled into a Recon Ranger platoon. God, I loved those guys! The worst of the Cong beaters was captured — well he was for a few minutes. Shot while trying to escape is what the NCOIC wrote later, I found out."

I was rattling -- not making much sense. I could feel the sweat dripping from my underarms. My ears were ringing. The adrenaline build up had the hairs on my arms and neck standing up. I guess I said too much as I saw jaws drop and eyes turn into saucers.

"Sorry." Is all I could muster up as I breathed a deep sigh, when I realized the room was deadly quiet. I looked around the faces staring at me. They were graduate level students like me; most looked to be in their early twenties. I was old, at thirty-three by those faces assigned to rooms on the sixteenth floor. The foyer area couldn't empty out fast enough. That just left twenty-two-year-old Gennie and me, looking at one another.

"Your ... Your room is the last one on the left, by the north fire exit, Mr. Rawlings," she stammered, "if you need anything ..." I read the body tension in her jawline, the raised breathing rate that went along with it.

I'd heard enough at, "... last one on the left ..." and hoisted my duffle bag out of the cart by the elevator. Inside was what little I had in this world, then picked up my portable electric typewriter. Before she could finish, I walked away.

Guess I should have stayed at Bragg for a while longer.

In two minutes, my new world knew enough about me — I hadn't meant to invoke fear, but it happened. Well at least they knew not to try and give me any college prank shit. I trudged to my room and surveyed the stairwell. It looked like the other one I climbed adjacent to the elevators, but I went down and back up the sixteen flights of stairs again; to make sure it was a secure exit before going to my room.

Shortly after I settled in, I heard a soft knock. Opening the door, I faced the 'Fuck The Army' guy. He stood quietly, his eyes focused on the floor, not really knowing what to say. I had learned to read confrontational situations in my last two years in the Army; much better than during my first two years. I could sense this wasn't one of those situations. There was more than unease in his demeanor. It registered a sense of guilt—the way his eyes refused to look up into mine. He was brave enough to face me though; my five-foot ten-inch airborne-built frame was more than enough to have turned him into a pretzel; clearly, he knew that.

He found his voice and spoke contritely, "My Dad was in the 23rd Infantry Division. He died over there, in Nam. I'm sorry about what I said to you out there. I didn't realize what you went through."

There wasn't much to say as we stood eyeing one another. I nodded, recognizing his grief at the loss of his father. Grief can make you say stupid things. I had a lot of experience with that; saying stupid things.

"I'm sorry for the loss of your Dad," I replied. That's the first time I had expressed that sense of loss to anyone, outside of the Major. I knew the shit the 23rd Infantry Division took at the Battle of Kham Duc. Those thoughts sent chills up my spine. I read the MACV-SOG after action reports. Later, not long after I arrived in country, I was in the field when all hell broke loose and found myself on the wrong side of victory.

We shook hands. And I allowed that, if he wanted, we would talk about those times again.

+++++

I immersed myself into MBA accounting courses, intending to graduate with a forensic investigation major. It was an overload of classes, but I still found time to speak to a few of the others on a more frequent basis. Somewhere along the way, the stares and sideways glances stopped; at least by the 16th floor graduate students.

Gennie had offered me her notes from a couple of classes we had together. She noticed I was having trouble trying to keep up with the professor's rapid-fire lectures. At first, I was irked, but when I realized that she wasn't doing it out of pity, I accepted her offer. Gennie had a good heart; she respected my reticence to discuss the war. She and the others gave that subject matter a wide berth. I became Clark Kent, like the Major suggested, trying to blend into the landscape.

Not long after that, she, and Alicia, one of the other girls in the class, made a few library trips with me for research papers. They were looking for a security blanket while walking across the bridge from the library on those long dark night trips back to the dorm.

"Thanks for the company, Dad!" Alicia piped up one evening as we entered the lobby foyer. I chuckled at that idea.

From then on, Alicia and Gennie started calling me dad after a couple of journeys through the unlit areas. It was out of ear shout from the others — so, I let it slide. I wasn't old enough to be their dad, but given those midwestern curvy good looks and toned bodies, I did have some thoughts about being their 'Daddy.'

One day, as I headed for the stairs, Alicia was at the elevators waiting with a group of other girls. Without giving it any thought, she started out with, "Hey, Dad ..."

I cut her short before she could get out any more than 'dad.' I don't know why, embarrassment perhaps, but I cut her short, "... For the hundredth time, no, you can't borrow the truck, tonight!"

I pushed through the stairwell door. Before it closed, I could hear her laughter and bursts of other girlish giggles. I guess she filled them in on the name game; being called 'Dad.' From then on, I became the 16th floor Dad among the girls. The title sort of grew on me, like a favored old sweater.

+++++

I hate storms. A fierce one with tornadic winds was whipping across our area. The clatter of a loose steel covering outside my window was driving me nuts. I took a break from reading and decided to hit the latrine and shower. The baths were in the middle of the 'U-shaped' hallways and isolated from the sounds outside. I stood beneath the hot water as the steam rose around me. It was peaceful—until it wasn't.

The lights went out. I stood under the shower waiting for them to come back on.

'Probably just a temporary outage,' I thought.

But they didn't come back on. Giving up on the electrical power returning, I felt for my towel and robe. Falling back on my Army night crawl training, I made my way to the door.

'Easy, you just have to make it thirty-four yards to the left and wrap your head with a pillow crushing out the sounds of that damn metal pounding against the side of the building,' I thought.

Not so easy, as it turned out. I made my way down the hall feeling for doorways, when some dumb-fuck came running out of his room and crashed into me. We tumbled to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

Who the fuck goes running through a pitch-black hallway?

"Sorry, man! I was heading down to the elevator to find out what's going on! The phones are out, too. Shit, I'm bleeding!"

Dipshit jumped up and repeated the same stupid run. I heard him tumbling over the lounge chairs.

'Stupid fuck probably didn't know the elevators wouldn't be working either! I just grinned in the dark as I reoriented the search for my room in the pitch black hallway.

I'd lost count of the rooms, but knew I just had to get to the end and find the exit door and go back one. I continued feeling down the walls when my hand slipped into an open doorway. I brushed across a face that gave a start and a sharp breathy gasp at the sudden touch.

"Thank God, Jimmy! I was getting so scared. Here, I got a present for you!" she giggled, as she pulled me against her in total darkness.

"You like?" she teased.

'Jimmy sure is a lucky guy.' I thought, as I found my hands wrapped around her naked butt. As much as I liked the feel of her soft, round ass and the softness of her titties pressed against me, I knew I couldn't just stay silent in this situation.

"Sorry, you have the wrong Jimmy." Was all I could get out as I found my cock stirring, thinking about being embraced by a totally naked girl in complete darkness. That same kind of feel had been well over three months ago.

I felt her body stiffen and the slightest sounds of deep inhaling, but she didn't push me away. Instead, she clung to me as another peel of thunder crackled outside the dorm window. I thought about backing away, but I had already told her that I wasn't her Jimmy. It was too tantalizing to let go—unless she insisted. The streaks of lightning had lit up her room and I could see her face for a moment. She didn't let go, so, I left my hands gently holding her rump, hoping she didn't mind.

"Oh!" she answered, sounding surprised, "Jimmy was supposed to come to me after he got out of the library. He was going to use my outline for his term paper and start tonight. His stupid paper is due tomorrow and he's just getting started tonight. Do you think he can make it back?" she asked as she felt my growing cock straining to slip between the folds of my robe.

"My guess is that the library is on lockdown with the tornado alerts. Jimmy is probably sheltered down until the all clear is given." I answered, finding my words stumbling out in a slightly croaky voice.

She didn't reply immediately, but her fingers reached between us into the folds of my robe, searching.

"Dad," she finally spoke up, "I think I have the right Jimmy now. I am afraid of storms. Will you stay with me?" she asked, as her hands gripped me beneath the untied and opened robe.

"My room has a flapping steel sheathing loose and the racket from the wind bending it back and forth is driving me crazy, too," I replied. "I can't go back to my room. And I don't like storms either."

Her delicate hand has found its way to my groin and wrapped around my cock. It felt nice. "This is as hard as steel but it isn't flapping, Mr. Rawlings," her soft voice giggled.

"No, Ms Gennie, it's not flapping—just a stiff arm salute."

"Then stay with me, until the storms are over," she whispered, as her fingers gingerly explored my cock. "Please, Daddy Rawlings?" she teased when I didn't answer.

It felt good to be wrapped in her arms and have the rising sensations building through my core.

"What about your boyfriend, Gennie?" I asked, although the concern I might have felt had already begun to fade away. I could be persuaded to stay, if she could ...