My Rifle Is Human

Knock knock.

Fil took up his position on the bed. "Come in."

The door swung open. Fil propped himself up on one elbow and made sure his cock was well positioned on his thigh. Or maybe they were into asses? Should he have been on his stomach instead?

"Hello," said the man in the doorway.

Fil raised his eyebrows. The new Ordnance was at least five inches shorter than Fil and an indeterminate mousy color all over, from his hair to his dusty traveling clothes to his worn shoes and canvas bag. He was older than Fil, too, gray flecking his hair and lines creasing his forehead and around his mouth. The only distinct thing about him was his eyes, which were a pleasing shade of blue.

He gave Fil a friendly smile and peered around the room before dropping his bag onto the floor in the corner. He approached Fil with his hand outstretched. "Morris," he said.

Fil stared at the hand, which didn't seem about to touch or caress him in any way, and took it tentatively in his. Morris pumped it twice.

"Pleased to meet you," said Morris. "What did you say your name was?"

"Fil."

"Fil." Morris go of his hand. "Now, if you don't mind—you don't need to get out of bed, but I've had a long trip, and I'd like to take a nap."

"But..." Fil glanced down at his cock, at the vicinity of Morris' crotch, and then up at Morris' face. Morris was unbuttoning his collar. "Don't you—?"

Morris shrugged off his shirt. He had the body of a man who'd made an effort to stay fit, but couldn't help a slight softening around the middle. An endearing, light brown trail ran from his navel to disappear into his waistband. "Later. I'm really tired right now." He shucked off his trousers.

Fil moved aside to let Morris crawl into bed and under the covers. To his surprise, Morris drew the blankets over both of them and slung his arm over Fil's midsection.

"Is this okay?" Morris murmured. When Fil didn't answer, he said, "Well, just kick me if it isn't." Morris pillowed his head on Fil's shoulder and, as far as Fil could tell, went straight to sleep.

This had never happened before. The young Ordnances were always delighted to be presented with their very own Gunslinger and wanted to engage in all kinds of perverted acts as soon as possible. The occasional older Ordnances whose own Gunslingers had rotated out were more restrained, but they had seen the battlefield and took what was their due, so as to make sure they would live to see the barracks again. He'd never had an Ordnance come in, look at his prick, and then... go to bed.

Maybe he was getting too old for this. He was beautiful—or so his past partners had described him, all long, lean limbs and body and attractively dark curls and skin—but thirty-eight was old for a Gunslinger. There was no hiding the march of time, which manifested itself in needing a rug or pillow to kneel on when giving head, diminishing flexibility, and laugh lines. But he'd done his part in keeping fit, so there was no excess fat on his body, though his rump still had a pleasing curve to it. His age meant that he had stamina and experience in bed, which the young Ordnances soon discovered, much to their delight.

But Morris was clearly no spring chicken himself. It was sort of surprising that he was still around. Ordnances were only required one tour, and their jobs were a lot more dangerous than the Gunslingers'. But then, why didn't Morris have his own quarters already? Maybe he'd transferred from another division?

Somewhere during all this thinking, Fil fell asleep. When he woke, Morris was coming back from the door with a tray full of food. The door shutting must have been what had woken Fil.

"Good evening," said Morris. "Looks like we missed dinner. Fetch that chair over there, won't you?" He set the tray on the little end table next to the chair.

Fil heaved himself out of bed and fetched the desk chair, positioning it opposite the camp chair. The end table was too low to be a proper table, but it was better than nothing.