“[six],” she said, pulling her shirt up and over her head, her hair pouring down from the neck of the shirt and onto her shoulders, “where have you been?”

My shirt was gone already, my pants undone but still on, leaning backwards on the bed on my elbows. I blinked, maybe a second too long.

“Oh I see,” she said, stepping closer, her knee folding upwards as she reached the edge of the bed, her hands behind her back, arms bent; the sudden slack in her bra straps revealed that she had undone the clasp. “Well I hope you’ve been keeping her happy.”

I started to shake my head, which was the wrong thing to do.

“So you… haven’t kept her happy?” she asked, leering at me. “Can’t you do anything right?”

(I had burned the fish slightly. The early-Spring steelhead trout was to be steamed and seared with seasonings, not charred. Never mind that the rest of the meal was perfect, the asparagus tender-crisp, the almonds perfectly roasted. The wine paired excellently, with the fish, the salad, the sides. And still, despite this, the wisps of smoke from beneath the lid I’d placed on the cast iron grill pan called out “failure, [six]!”)

She was on the bed now, crawling. A knee landed square between my legs. Another, on the outside of my thigh. A hand poked the bed next to my waist. The other hand higher up, alongside my chest. Her back arched, like a cat in stretch, her hips up but her chest falling, curving away downward, brushing against me, hair falling on my face. I breathed steadily. Even as she rocked gently forward, her weight on her straight arms now holding her chest up, her hips falling, legs spreading, her warmth now landing on my thigh. Scraping against my knee, and slowly warmer as she let her weight shift again, sitting and slowly moving back and forth rubbing herself against my leg.

It was wet.

The moisture seeping through the underwear, now like a hot breath expelled against my knee and thigh. Smeared back and forth in a sawing motion as her eyes closed, her lip half-bitten, the slightest sliver of her upper teeth gleaming at me.

I reached out for her bra, slipping the straps off her shoulders, the first touch of my hands on her skin. It was cold against my hands, the icy stare from her eyes not isolated to her face only. I withstood the chill. I gritted my teeth and pulled her in closer, reaching behind her, my eyes on her breasts, nipples hard and hanging below her tender curves, dangerously close to brushing against my chest.

She continued to saw herself back and forth. The moments with her eyes closed grew longer. Her breath grew shorter.

My hand dared to move down her body. Pressing flat against her chest, between her breasts, I snuck it lower and lower. I felt the falling and rising of her breathing. I felt the results of her tireless trips to the gym. I slid over her navel. I found the waist of her panties. And I pulled.

The tug caught her off guard, the muffled “mmmf” escaping as the fabric was pulled taut against her clit. Against her pussy. Against my leg.

Her hand landed on my chest, nails digging in. I pulled some more. She pressed harder. It was a matter of attrition.

It was a matter of time, before my hands were around her hips, pulling her towards me. Tugging and pulling her panties off; her hands, my hands reaching as far down as they could, pulling them off her legs. All the while her nails not relenting in their steady offensive assault. Half of her weight resting on top of my stomach, still off center, using her thigh and knee to hold herself steady.

My hand reaching between her thighs cupped her pussy, the heel of my palm moving in a swaying motion, side to side. My fingers prodding her folds, the warmth and wetness slipping inbetween my knuckles. It was a swift counter-attack, the pressure on my chest less, her eyes shut tightly. And like gravity in reverse, my fingers pointed upward, slipping into her wetness, plowing between her soft folds, and deep into her pussy.

The wetness made it easy. The position of my arm made it hard. My forearm flexed as my wrist curled upward each time I thrust my fingers into her. My other hand found its way to her breast, my hand spread wide over the soft bulge, her hand quickly covering mine, her fingers pulling and twisting at the nipple escaping just past the webbing between my thumb and index digit.

I witnessed this act of treason, her fingers mercilessly betraying her own body, with deep interest. Her body started to slump forward, her hips shake, and her pussy tighten. And in an instant, she shoved herself onto my fingers, her arm buckling under her weight, my arm unable to keep her steady. Her head landed on my shoulder hard, the sudden weight with a sharp pain added as an exclamation mark making me wince.

Her body on mine, I wriggled my hand free. My fingers were covered in a mixture of her sticky wetness and blood, the pinkish combination speckled with dried up crimson brown smeared all the way to the palm.

I felt her arm moving, her hand dragging itself roughly across the sheets. Over my waist, over my thigh, pulling my pants finally off as she lifted her hips and legs up, my legs wriggling to help. Her hand moved slowly but steadily, upward again until her fingers wrapped around my cock. She let her body slide off to the side of mine, her hand not tugging or pulling at me, not jerking or moving, but instead squeezing. Her grip tightened and loosened in rhythm, my cock growing harder and harder, the blood rushing in with every squeeze of her hand. What a dirty tactic.

Holding out became a fast fading option. After her pussy rubbing against my leg. After her hands on my chest. After her body writhing on top of mine. After her nipple pinched and twisted by her own hand. After her orgasm riding down my fingers.

She didn’t have to jerk hard. Or fast. Or anything, really.

And with little warning I tightened up, my jaw slack and eyes shut as I came, her hand milking my cock. One, two, three splashes of cum fired into the air, landing warm then quickly cold, on my chest and my neck.

My hand instinctively reached for it, too late, smearing her blood with her cum and mine.

She lumbered to her feet, a drunken series of steps to the bathroom, the sound of the faucet on. I got up slowly, finding her wiping herself clean, her face wincing slightly, the bloody toilet paper staining everything pink and red. She left to go dig in her purse for a tampon, I think. Looking in the mirror, I started to wipe myself off, and only now I wonder why I didn’t just go in the shower.

Looking at the toilet, however, the toilet paper accumulated, I couldn’t help but think of something pertaining to casualties, violence, and the loss of human life. It’s the cost of war.