Back in 2016, I wrote this story called ‘Simply The Best’ and where this might seem like fiction, only part of it is. Every time I hear this R&B song by Tina Turner, I am transported back to the barracks in Pretoria, where I did my basic training in 1988, a couple of months after I had joined the army as a permanent member. I was appointed with the rank of corporal (because of my diplomas and working experience), but I still had to do all the compulsory courses, and this included the basic training.
So I give you ‘Simply The Best’ again, with a couple of small edits, but mainly left intact. A fraction of this story is fiction, and the rest is all true.
The female recruits scurried to their place at the foot ends of their bunks. This was only the third time in their short military careers that the sergeant unexpectedly turned up in their sleeping quarters. They still have to get used to always keeping their living quarters clean and tidy. Tonight was no different. The sergeant walked from one bunk to the next, scolding the recruits for their untidiness. Clothes were everywhere, beds unmade, shoes not polished.
“Inspection at 4am each morning for the rest of the week,” the sergeant said, turned and left the sleeping quarters with the two corporals in her wake.
Malory turned back to her bed and looked at the mess. Back home she could never keep her room tidy and here she followed the same pattern. Why can’t she be as organized as some of her fellow soldiers? Malory admired the tidiness of her two neighbors. Even though the sergeant scolded all of them, Malory knew that she was more to blame for the 4am inspections than any of the others. Still, no one seemed to blame her for it. In fact, the young woman to the left of her scrolled through a list on her phone and suddenly Tina Turner’s voice filled the room. Soon all the women were singing along, pointing at each other:
You’re simply the best
Better than all the rest
Better than anyone
Anyone I’ve ever met
And while they sang the song, over and over, they folded clothes, scrubbed the floors, polished boots and got everything ready so all they had to do at 4am the next morning, was to make their beds. Some women even slept on the floor, their beds already made and ready for inspection. By midnight, Malory was still awake. She needed to be up in three hours, but she couldn’t sleep. Her horny feelings kept her awake.
Malory slipped her hand into her pajama bottoms and between her puffy lips. An almost audible moan escaped her mouth when she touched the swollen piece of flesh in the center. She pressed down hard and rubbed, but stopped. There was just too much noise with the friction between her hand and the coarse sheet she was under. She needed something else to help her reach her orgasm.
Her hand snaked under her pillow and closed around the cold steel under it. Moving carefully, she pulled her knees up and spread her legs some. Malory pushed the cold steel against her clitoris. Holding her knees still she lifted her bottom off the bed and rocked her hips in slow and deliberate movements. The hard steel and her soft flesh united in a unique dance, bringing her the release she so needed.
Just more than three hours later Mallory stood at the foot end of her bunk, fully dressed in uniform and with her sleeping area as tidy as that of the other women. She was tired, but content and proud. After releasing the tension in her body, she had a short, deep sleep and woke feeling ready for the day. She had worked with the other women to be ready for the inspection and here she was, knowing this time the sergeant would find nothing out of order.
It was only when the sergeant held a piece of steel in front of her eyes and she saw the white flecks of her dried juices on it that she realized how wrong she was. Malory could only stare at it, even when the sergeant spoke: “Why does your gun smell like cunt, recruit?”
© Rebel’s Notes