Not going into town to fuck the local women was suspect. I never did. Back then, sexual leanings much less sexual activity, could get you a court-martial and dishonorable discharge.Barracks was a misnomer. It was a WW II-era Quonset hut divided into eight cubicles. The plywood partitions did not go all the way to the floor or to the ceiling, so you could see shoes or feet at the bottom. At the partition top, anyone much over six feet tall was a shock of hair or military head-gear moving past. The entry to each cubicle was covered with a cloth curtain. It was enough to provide a modicum of privacy.My curtain fell back into place as the duty NCO marked his clipboard and backed out. That evening I knew who my bate fantasy was going to be. I lay in my rack and retrieved the mind's-eye snapshots I made earlier that morning in the showers.The sop to personal privacy in the Quonset huts did not apply to the latrine. It contained a row of exposed toilets with no dividers between them, a row. He swung his leg over the bike and walked to her. Want a ride to school? he asked in a deep, soft voice. Gracie whispered a yes and nodded slightly. He took her by the arm and led her to the bike. As they traveled, she clung to him and felt the rumble of the engine go straight through her shorts and small panties, teasing her with its vibrations. They pulled into the school parking lot and the rest of the students stared as Gracie got off the bike. Her face was flushed and she mumbled a thank you and started to walk away. She could feel his eyes on her, but she focused on walking straight. Halfway through the school day, Gracie had had enough of sitting in class, trying in vain, to concentrate. She walked around the hallways of the school, trying to clear her mind. She turned a corner and saw him standing there. He was leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. He turned and saw her before she could move. Flicking the cigarette away, he walked over to her. He took hold of her wrist.
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