Chapter 1

I guess it all started at Frederick's -- that's Frederick's Ye Olde Renaissance Inn to those of you who have never heard of it. The place was a rambling ramshackle wood and stone building out on the edge of a suburb of -- well, you don't care about the city, do you? It's gone, anyway, I think. Yes, I mean the city. Frederick's probably is, too -- or at least, it probably isn't doing the same business it was...

Never mind -- no sense getting maudlin over the Sa'arm landings and what they've done to Earth. The Navy keeps reinforcements from coming in, but the ground battles go on and on and on... That bastard -- it's one creature with a billion sets of arms and legs, all connected telepathically -- is paying dearly for his real estate -- and he's NEVER going to own it all -- not while a single human lives and breathes there! Once we FINALLY made the AIs understand that they could not and we would not abandon our homeworld to ANY sonofabitch, we managed to re-apportion assets in order to keep Earthat -- or the Solar System for you pre-Confederacy ancient-history types -- under permanent blockade. Unfortunately, this was AFTER they punched through a lighter blockade and made landings, so we're stuck with an ever more savvy foe on the ground...

Enough of that. This was then -- pre-invasion Earth, oh, five or six years ago, during the 'hiatus' -- the period during which we were SUPPOSED to be close to having an invasion according to the early data, but hadn't yet. People were beginning to believe that it was all bullshit and things were going back to normal -- or what passes for that, anyway. There was no doubt that there WAS a Swarm, but whether they were actually coming for US or we were just being suckered by the Confederacy was an open question. Politicians and religious leaders were up on their soapboxes complaining about the Confederacy 'taking our best and brightest for cannon fodder in a war of no relevance to us.' They had passed laws in California and a couple of other places outlawing CAP cards. You didn't tell anyone your score and you didn't fool with pre-packs because you really never knew whether you were going to get extracted, and you didn't want to make yourself a target for Earth First whackos at any point in the process. Weddings were down, but couples were living in sin and pumping out kids -- it just made life easier if you didn't get all tangled up in something that could be meaningless, commingling your assets with someone who could be gone at a moment's notice. If you made it to an extraction, then the kids were paramount; if you were sponsor-class -- and male -- you could usually collect Mama with the kids, and if you WERE Mama, then Daddy got to start over with another woman, theoretically, if he didn't make the cut. Monogamy was back, because being out with more than one woman painted a target on your back. Polygamy was out there and no one was enforcing laws regarding it -- largely because it was without actual marriage -- but if you had a pre-pack picked out -- and many did -- you kept it behind closed doors. Basically, the pendulum had swung -- and was on its way back. Clothing styles had made a close approach to nudity, but that, too, was in remission; girls went exposed all the time, but not everyone did it and not all the time. In some cases, that was a good thing, naturally.

So, anyway, we were at Frederick's -- which had as its thing this Medieval European theme. The walls were log or knotty pine -- or stone, in some places -- and the furniture was rustic and the floors were hard clay. You could get a beer in a ceramic stein or a pewter one, but not in glass -- even if it was bottled beer. They advertized sixty-nine beers on tap, anyway -- who would want to drink from a bottle there? The waitresses all looked like St. Pauli girls, in dirndls -- peasant blouses and long, flowing gathered skirts out of thin cotton and laced leather bodices. They all wore sandals -- and the rumor was that they would be barefoot, but the Health Department wanted to be dicks about it. The staff all talked the talk, trying to sound medieval, too, which was fun. On that particular night, the waitresses were the subject of conversation...

"Man, that Sylvie is sure hot!" Chet declared, sucking on his mug of ale. We were waiting for burgers at the time.

I wrinkled my nose. "You're kidding, right? That slip of a thing?" Sylvie wasn't much of a representative of the hardy peasant stock that Frederick's overall theme brought to mind -- she was narrow and damn near flat-chested and her pigtails were OBVIOUSLY bleached blonde. "She's all skin and bone, Man! She'd probably break like a bundle of sticks under a good, hard fuck!"

Chet laughed. "So what's your ideal example of feminine pulchritude?"

"Beatrice," I announced pedantically. "Now THERE is a woman!"

"That sow?" Chet scoffed. "She's a porker!"

"She is not!" I rose to her defense, "She's... substantial. Husky. Good peasant stock -- able to take a licking and keep on ticking. AND she has nice hooters!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Ron!" Chet objected, "She's even hog-nosed! Not to mention the legs!"

"What -- because her nose tilts up a bit at the end?" I argued, "That's cute! And you haven't even SEEN her legs above the ankle!" Beatrice's ankles WERE a little thick -- like the rest of her -- but the right one sported a little bracelet. I liked that.

"I've seen that big fat ass!" Chet scoffed.

"That's not fat, that's ham!" I argued, "All meat!"

"So what's that at her middle?" Chet sneered, "Bacon?"

"You're rude, Man," I protested, "I bet she could fuck you into the middle of next week!"

"If she rode on top, I might wake up next week..." Chet chuckled.

About that time, the subject of conversation swept past, her wide hips swaying. Since she came from behind me, I didn't see her until she was abreast of me and moving beyond -- and I wanted a refill, so without thinking, I reached out...

... And laid my hand on her ass...

Beatrice stopped dead and looked at me over her shoulder in some surprise. "Milord?" I snatched my hand away.

"Uh oh..." Chet muttered.

"Ahhh..." I swallowed, "Forgive the intrusion, Lass -- I merely wanted another ale. I meant no offense -- ye were beyond me..."

Beatrice turned to look down at me, her eyes twinkling. "Aye. None taken, milord. What drinkest ye?"

"The Vermont White, Lass."

"And ye?" Beatrice turned her attention to Chet.

"I'm good..."

"Half a mo' milord." Beatrice waved her hand daintily and moved off, apparently unconcerned.

Chet gusted a breath, "You'd better hope she doesn't piss in your mug!"

"She didn't SEEM angry," I murmured carefully.

"Lucky you!" Chet snorted. "Still, I think I'd be sipping before I tipped up my tankard, if I were you! Patting her on the ass like that..." He shook his head.

But Beatrice was back in no time with a new tankard and whipped it before me with a cheery smile. "Your ale, milord. Methinks your repast is ready -- I'll return in a trice!" Then she was off, her wide hips swaying.

Mindful of Chet's warning, I sniffed my beer -- but if it had urine in it, there wasn't much. A careful taste didn't detect any, either, so I went ahead and took a good swallow. "Apparently, she bears me no ill will," I mused.

"Lucky you!" Chet chuckled, "She could squash you like a bug!"

A minute later, she was back, putting a knee on Chet's bench and leaning over the table as she placed my plate before me. "Your repast, milord," she announced, presenting an absolutely awe-inspiring amount of soft cleavage within a foot and a half of my eyes. "Dost thou desire aught else?"

That smile -- that twinkle in her green eye -- she was flirting with me! "Ah, Lass -- tempt me not!" came rolling from my lips, the words created somewhere by someone not totally entranced by those eyes.

"Thinkest thou that I am a temptress, then?" she mocked me.

"Wouldst thou claim thou art not?" I shot back.

She reached out and traced the line of my jaw with a finger. "Thou hast a tongue of silver, milord. An thou requirest my attention, do what thou must -- but I doubt that it will be anywhere else this night..." She swept off, those hips of hers rolling, glancing at me periodically over her shoulder.

"Oho! She's got the hots for you!" Chet chortled.

"Well, it's mutual!" I retorted, adding, "Gee, I wonder where YOUR burger is?" In fact, it took several minutes to arrive -- and Sylvie delivered it. I didn't see that she was as friendly about it as Beatrice had been with mine, either -- just another reason to avoid her, to my mind. Chet didn't agree, of course -- as soon as she was out of earshot, he was singing her praises. As far as I was concerned, though, he needed a different songbook.

Beatrice came back three times to check on me, and she flirted and made sure I got an eyeful of her rack every time -- and she backed into me once while cleaning the booth across the aisle -- something I was more or less prepared for, since I was watching her ass wiggle as she cleaned the bench across from mine. Being pretty damned sure it was deliberate, I got a double-handful of it when I stopped her. She did a great job of pretending it was an accident -- and made no complaint about my hands, even though I left one there as she turned around!

"She wants you, Man!" Chet chuckled.

"Well, it's mutual -- I'd do her in a heartbeat!" I replied.

"I wouldn't be caught dead with a porker like that," Chet snorted. I just shook my head. MAYBE Sylvie could fuck and MAYBE she was athletic about it -- you see those babysitter porn flicks where a little bitty chick takes fourteen inches and has a ball with it -- but I was betting not. Besides, pickups were STILL on everyone's minds -- and I like happy chicks, and I didn't see Sylvie as a happy chick. I COULD picture her as an UNHAPPY pregnant chick, very easily, though... Adjustments to her body could be made easily, according to everything we'd seen and heard -- but adjustments to her head? I figured she would be a total shrew.

Chet and I stayed and had three or four -- or five or six, maybe -- it was a Wednesday, so we weren't going to clubs or anything. Beatrice brought my check and said, "I'm off for a bit -- Sylvie will take care of you. Dost thou desire aught else?"

I looked at her and sighed, "Nothing I can acquire, Lass. Nothing on the menu."

Beatrice eyed me, amused. "Thy silver tongue still wags. Be not so certain that thou art limited to the menu!" Smiling, she swayed off...

"She's talking serious shit, Man!" Chet chuckled. "She wants you!"

"She's just playing. It's fun, but if I got serious, she would want to know what I thought I was doing," I argued. "It's certainly a pleasant thought, though."

"I wish Sylvie had similar interests," Chet pouted.

"Undoubtedly, Sylvie has a boyfriend and six other guys waiting to take his place," I replied, "which might explain why she isn't in a rush to romance your ugly ass!"

"Yeah, maybe," Chet snorted, "which explains why that porker Beatrice is wide open. Not gonna be much demand there..."

"Different strokes, Man. I bet you that Beatrice would go all out to make me happy -- but Sylvie would have YOU going all out to make HER happy!"

Sylvie showed up a couple of minutes later to take our money -- and was decidedly cool with me, not that she gave Chet anything in the way of encouragement. We got up and headed out. I was a little unsteady -- I'm not a two-fisted drinker. We came around a corner by a side door, headed for Chet's car, and I drifted a bit. Beatrice came out of the shadows, where she and a couple of other waitresses had been taking a break, I guess. Grabbing my arm, she said, "You shouldn't drive."

I rotated to face her -- she was nearly my height. "I have to get home... Besides, Chet is driving." Putting my hand on her hip seemed to be a natural thing to do.

"Chet shouldn't drive, either."

"No doubt, but he has the same problem," I noted. "We can't sleep here -- this isn't an inn, just a tavern."

"Yeah, too bad about that. You be careful -- I want you to come back to see me. My sister Bridgette would love to meet you, I bet."

"I'll be sure to be careful then," I replied. "I wouldn't want to miss that. Besides, we don't have far to go." I smiled at her and she let go -- there was only so much that either of us could do about it, but there was definitely a spark there.

I got in the car and Chet backed out of the parking space, snorting "Her sister is probably a REAL hog!"

I just eyed him. "Gee, I wonder what your chances are of bedding Sylvie? Slim and none? If Beatrice is serious -- and YOU claim she is -- at least I can get laid!"

"Yeah, well, look what you're paying for it! I wouldn't be caught dead in public with that!"

I shrugged. "Then you wouldn't be fucking ANYTHING in private, I bet!" Thirty minutes later, I was home, alone -- and Beatrice was a prominent feature of my nightly jerk-off session.

I remember the night I met Ron well. The place I was working -- Frederick's -- LOOKED rustic, but was trying out a few things to improve service -- high-tech stuff, like everyone wearing radios. June, one of the waitresses, was always taking hers off -- she couldn't deal with the earpiece -- and she'd tossed it in the booth next door to where Ron and his buddy Chet were sitting. I was loafing near the kitchen, waiting for appetizers for Table Twelve to be ready when Sylvie wandered up and said, "Switch to channel two."

I did so, just in time to hear, "She's a porker!"

"Wait..." Sylvie put a hand on my arm. The next thing I heard was another voice arguing hotly, "She is not! She's... substantial. Husky. Good peasant stock -- able to take a licking and keep on ticking. AND she has nice hooters!"

"Yeah, that's you!" Sylvie giggled.

"She's even hog-nosed!" I could match the mouth movements to what I was hearing and pick out the guy. He was pretty nasty!

"What -- because her nose tilts up a bit at the end?" the other guy argued, "That's cute! And you haven't even SEEN her legs above the ankle!"

"This is what guys say to each other about girls when they think we're not listening!" Sylvie hissed. "Do you BELIEVE this?"

"How ARE we listening?" I asked.

"Junie dumped her radio again -- in the next booth."

"She's gonna be gone if she keeps that up," I observed. In the background, I heard the nasty guy compare my midsection to bacon.

"You're rude, Man," the nice guy protested, "I bet she could fuck you into the middle of next week!"

"If she rode on top, I might wake up next week..." the nasty one chuckled.

"Wow! They really talk like that? I've got to see this guy..." The nice one had his back to me so I headed up the aisle. I was going to turn around and come back down and get a good look, but as I passed the booth, I felt a hand on my ass! I stopped dead, surprised that someone would just DO that...

The guy was, too, obviously. He was bright pink as he muttered an apology -- AND he was HOT! Clean-cut, serious face -- kind of a young Harrison Ford look. And he thought I was hot! Thank you, God! I rushed off to get him a beer. While I was at it, I checked on his burger -- and it was coming up. I told Junie I would take it to him. She asked, "Why?"

"Well, for one thing, you're not communicating again..."

"Oh! Damn!" Junie looked vexed. "Where did I put it?"

"Sixteen. You can have the tip, Sweetie -- I want the customer!" I told her.

"Why?"

"He's hot -- and he says nice things!"

Junie blinked and said, "Oh, okay..." I collected the ale from the bartender and delivered it, then headed back to collect his hamburger. On the way, I decided I would play a little, so I leaned over and waved my boobs in his face while I delivered it and said, "Dost thou desire aught else?"

His eyeballs disappeared between my titties, but he said, "Ah, Lass -- tempt me not!" We went back and forth like that, flirting, and I was flying high when I left the booth -- the guy really liked me!

Sylvie tried to put a damper on it, of course. "He said he wants to fuck you, Honey -- not date you. He wasn't proposing marriage."

"Yeah, well..." I replied. "I'm sure you get that kind of thing all the time, but guys don't even line up for THAT with me! I'd do him -- he's cute!" Heck, it had been MONTHS since I'd had sex -- and that time wasn't memorable at all. I'd gone through a half-dozen sets of vibrator batteries since...

"All guys want is to stick their dicks in you," Sylvie declared. "You heard them!"

"Well?" I shrugged. "That's two guys bragging to each other. What are they SUPPOSED to say? 'I'm in LOOOVE with Sylvie...'" I batted my eyes dramatically and clasped my hands together. "Does that sound like a guy you want to date? Guys want to have sex. Duh! So do I, as a matter of fact! I'd like to do it more than once with a particular guy, but it's not like I DON'T want it!"

I kept finding excuses to go back and flirt -- and Ron was right in there with the comebacks! I even gave him an excuse to play with my ass again -- and he took it! My ass probably isn't my best feature, if only due to its size, so having a hand squeezing it was a good thing!

I had to go on break, so I dropped off his check and I offered him me again -- and he played up! It wasn't the time or the place, but I swore to myself that if I ever saw him out...

A little later, he and his nasty friend staggered by headed for the parking lot while a bunch of us relaxed out by the kitchen door. I got worried -- I wanted him nice and alive -- so I stopped him and told him he couldn't drive. He was clearly tipsy -- do guys get tipsy? They probably call it something else... But he said he wasn't driving and he didn't have far to go, and the whole time, he was rubbing me at the hip with one hand. I let him go, because there was nothing else to be done -- but I promised myself that if I got an opportunity, I was coming for this guy!

Frederick's was my new favorite place. I hit it a couple of times a week, sometimes with Chet, who would moon over Sylvie, sometimes with other guys, and sometimes alone. Beatrice wasn't always there, of course, but when she was, we got to the point of flirting outrageously. For some reason, though, I was completely gutless about asking her out...

I was vexed! I KNEW he wanted me -- you can't fake that, especially over time! But I worked nights and he didn't even ask... One night, I pointed him out to my sister Bridgette. We were seldom on the same nights, because Sis had a two-year-old boy, Alan, and I babysat on nights she was on in order to keep the babysitter from sucking up her tips. We both got called in on that Saturday night, though...

"Which one?" Brit asked.

"The cute one..." There were four guys at the table.

"Sweetie, NONE of them is horrible..."

"On the right, facing us. Brush cut? Blue eyes?"

"Oh, VERY nice!" Sis approved. "And he flirts?"

"All the time."

"With everybody?"

"No," I replied, pleased with myself, "Just me."

"Is that a fact...?" Sis bustled off. Now, Sis is a brunette and takes after Mamma while I'm a redhead -- dark auburn, but still red, not brown. Alan has had his effect on her figure, so she's a little more 'womanly' than I am. It's not a lot -- but it shows...

So I'm eating and drinking with three buddies, preparatory to going out hunting, and this big busty brunette waitress comes and stands over me and says, "So, you're the blackguard my sister raves about!"

I looked up, startled. "Blackguard? Sister? I haven't..." I was nonplussed. I hadn't touched a woman in three months! Well, except Beatrice, and that was fairly chaste...

The waitress grinned. "Eh, sorry, milord. I didn't mean to startle you. I be Beatrice's sister Bridgette."

"Ah." I settled back in my seat. "Despite rumors to the contrary, your sister's virtue is intact. I have not taken her..."

"... Anywhere, apparently," Bridgette finished for me. "And why is that, milord? It would appear that you find her comely. Is there a lady, then?" she eyed me accusingly.

"I am but a simple soldier, Lass. I would not be one to harbor a wife AND a mistress -- but I have neither," I replied.

Chet, who happened to be one of those present, laughed out loud! "Big Beatrice is making her move!"

I speared him with a look. "It just seems to me that her sister is looking into my bona fides. That's what sisters do." I have two -- I KNOW.

Bridgette also speared him with a look. "You be that Chet -- the nasty mouthed blackguard with an eye for Sylvie!" The other guys roared. "Well, you can forget HER! SHE knows what YOU want!" She shifted her attention to me. "A sojer, huh? Blank-shield soldiers have a certain repute..." She glanced fixedly at my crotch, then lifted her eyes to mine. "Dost thou wish anything? Dost thou DESIRE anything?"

"Uuuhhh..." I could think of nothing to say at all! Bridgette gave me a predatory smile and said, "Perhaps thou shouldst examine thine options regarding feminine companionship..." She swept off.

"Hail, Lord Ronald, Lord of the Porkers!" Chet howled, waving his tankard. Everybody roared. I blushed crimson -- but it was clear that I was moving slower than I needed to with Beatrice.

I didn't see Beatrice that night -- but Bridgette was all over us. I didn't want for liquid refreshment -- and on every pass, Bridgette had something salacious to accuse me of. Most memorable was the time she swayed up and stuck her prodigious cleavage in my face while dropping a new tankard before me and said, "One hears that thou hast a fondness for fondling derrieres -- what dost thou think of mine?" She turned around and presented hers and said, "Go on, thou canst not harm my reputation as I am already spoiled goods..." So I gingerly rubbed her ass while the guys roared laughter. "So, what think ye?" she asked, eyeing me over her shoulder.

After a moment's thought, I gave her a mock glare and growled, "Begone, wench! Think ye that ye can divert me from my campaign to woo thine sister?"

Bridgette cackled. "I thought mayhap we could share, if thou managest to complete thine charge without tripping over thine feet too many times!" She swayed off to the hoots and laughter of my comrades.

"So what does this Beatrice look like, anyway?" Jackson Brodie asked.

"She's a redhead -- a nice, dark red -- and smaller in some dimensions..."

"Not a whole lot!" Chet interjected.

"...Than Bridgette," I continued, "Otherwise, she's not a lot different in the face. She's a happy girl..."

"She's another hog-nosed porker!" Chet argued.

"Chet, dammit!" I rasped.

"I've listened to you playing with her on six or seven occasions -- and YOU know and I know that you're not going to fuck her!" Chet insisted.

"YOU know nothing of the sort!" I retorted.

"Hey, it's pussy," Jackson noted. "And it's apparently free..."

"So you'd fuck it?" Chet gasped. "Do NONE of my friends have any standards?"

"So when is the last time you got laid, Chet?" Pete Wiggins erupted. "Is that what standards are doing for you?" He chuckled. "I subscribe to LaBonte's Laws, myself..."

"LaBonte's Laws?" Chet queried.

"Yeah. There are three of them. LaBonte's First Law is 'If a willing woman fails to meet your standards, lower your standards.' That seems relevant, here," Pete declared.

We all chuckled. "What's the second law?" Jackson asked.

"Go ugly early. They're all taken by closing time and the competition gets fierce if you don't plan ahead," Pete replied. "And the Third Law is 'No woman is ugly with your dick in her mouth.' Am I right?" He glanced around, grinning.

I nearly fell into the aisle, laughing. Pete turned to me and said, "It looks to me like you could be hip deep in pussy if you worked at it."

I shook my head. "I'm gonna have to take that under advisement."