id: 246
name: Our Beautiful Clementine
author: kevkev
date: 1st March 2021
text len: 7986
views: 237

Something I wrote a very long time ago and forgot about until now. Found it in my files, figured I ought to post it. 

Edit: Tags I guess: /k/ stuff. Waffengeist. Short. Oneshot. Comedy. Small amount of lewd. 0 editing for quality even at time of writing. 

>You're a Cadet at Wingham military academy.
>Your dad's an officer in the Navy, sent you here to be "groomed" before being sent to officer school too.
>Wants you to be a general or some shit. 
>That'd be fine for you, except for the fact that you're sort of a fuck up, generally. 
>One of those fuckups got you stuck pulling "sentry" duty, which is just this schools way of making you get even less sleep before morning PT. 
>You walk around the halls, looking at old decorations and shitty, crumbling paint flaking off the wall. 
>Boring. The only high point of your night is coming through the main entrance, there's a black powder rifle there, 160 years old, at least.
>It was used in the civil war, and has been on the walls of this academy since the 20's, apparently.
>All they do with it these days is take it down for holidays and have the old groundskeeper fire off a shot before speeches and stuff.
>No one's going to be around for five hours, fuck it. 
>You stand on a small stool and take it off it's rack, running your hands over it. 
>No rust, no cracks, good condition. The rifling's even clean.
>Your inner /k/ommando comes out and you start clearing hallways and slicing the pie with the gun, doing breaching drills, and generally having fun.
>You end your festivities by posing in front of a mirror at attention with the gun, taking in the image. 
"Beautiful.."
>You whisper to yourself, running your hands down the shiny wood and worn, but still presentable steel.
>You pull the hammer back, trying to feel the inner mechanism through the cocking action.
>Clean click, pristine lockup, no wobble.
>You run your thumb across the nipple, the piece one would slip on a percussion cap, trying to see if any bits of carbon or unburnt gunpowder might be stuck inside the hole, when you hear a woman gasp.
>Suddenly you're not holding the rifle. Not holding anything, infact. 
>Instead you're staring into a mess of dark chestnut hair.
>There's a woman. A tall woman. Holding onto you, running her hands across your body.
>You feel a hand run down your back and squeeze your ass, and you shout out before you realize what you're doing, and feel her other hand clamp down on your mouth.
>She whispers a sweet, quiet "shhh", and lets that hand sink down to your chest.
>You see now that she's naked, a coy expression on her face.
>She speaks in a sweet, almost stately Southern accent "What's wrong soldier boy, not used to your guns feeling you back?"
"I- Who are you"
>She just smiles, and says "Call me Clementine."
>Despite everything, you're still a dude. A young dude at that, and you feel a little stirring down there, and so does she.
>She starts feeling and squeezing around your body with her curious hands.
>She says "You know, I haven't even been held by a man under 50 since 1900.", and her curious hand makes it's way up to your face, and gently cups your jaw and cheek "It's rude to rile a girl up like that and not.." she slowly starts running her other hand down your stomach, toward your crotch "finish what you started"
>She kisses you hard on the lips and your head spins, and then parts with a forceful shove and playful grin. "What do you say, soldier boy?"
>You sputter some words of agreement, walk her to your room, and on the way there she compliments your physique. You're not sure what words she used to do that exactly, your attentions were more focused on her hands and the wonderful sensations they were bringing to your bare skin, but you're still sure it was a compliment. 
>Some part of your mind fist pumps, now convinced that buying that bowflex off of craigslist was a great idea.
>You take her to the last room down the hall, the dead end.
>You were lucky, the last one on the list of names, the last one to be assigned, so you got your room to yourself.
>You two slip through your door, and she helps relieve you of your clothes on the way to your bed.
>She pushes you down on it, and dips down between your knees, stroking you with one hand and taking a fistful of your pectorals with the other.
>In time, you finish and lay back, and it takes a moment to realize with some shock and embarrassment that you didn't actually warn her. She pokes her head up into your vision, and straddles you, a look of accomplishment on her face, as well as strings of .. you.
>Her excited, flushed face turns to one of ruddy confusion as she sees your expression, then she notices the bit of white seeping down the bridge of her nose, and tries to cover up her honest-faced laughter with her hand.
>"Baby, I'm a black powder musket.." she says smoothly, laying herself down along your chest, her hand softly caressing your dick as she does so.
>She kisses your jaw line and then whispers into your ear "We're used to getting dirty"
>She feels you harden up right away, and laughs her cute, genuine southern laugh "This is why I love you soldiers"
"I-I'm not actually a soldier ye-"
>She shushes you, and gets down to taking you for a ride. 
>A few minutes later, and what a ride it's been, and you think she's getting close judging by how hard her finger nails are digging into your chest. 
>You're about to finish yourself, and sit up and hold her, "Clementine, I'm-"
>That's when the door handle makes a loud click
>You freeze. Clementine turns and yelps. 
>The door flies open, slamming into the wall. It's 'Officer' Andrews, and his face goes from intense anger, to blank.

>You're John L. Andrews, you spent 12 years in the Army, one year playing golf in Florida, and the last few keeping these sniveling kids in line.
>They're the sons of rich men with more money than parenting skill and feel like this'll build 'character', or little shits born to middle-class parents who can't stop smoking dope and getting caught doing it.
>One such little shit is Cadet Hilton.
>He's failed at every task you've given him, and apparently he's even failed at his punishment, one of the simplest fucking tasks a human being could be assigned: Standing up in a fucking hallway without falling asleep.
>You stomp down his section's hallway, not caring if you wake the others. You're about to chew Hilton's ass out so loud and long, you doubt they'll get to sleep for the rest of the night.
>You come to his door, grip it firmly, and then slam it open, expecting to see him asleep and drooling on his pillow. 
>Instead you see him sitting up in his bed, completely naked, panting, and cradling the 1863 Springfield that the school has had on it's grounds since 1922, his dick through the trigger guard, the gun itself covered in cum. 
>You stare him down so hard you think he lost two pounds in water-weight from sweating so much, before going to phone this in to your superiors. 

09:30, the next morning.
>You sit in your office, looking over the parade ground. The cadets are hustle and bustling around, a large mass of them running in formation, and a lone young man in a mix match of civilian clothes and school uniform carrying a large duffel bag to a waiting car beyond the gates. 
>You called all the official people you needed to call, and got the boy expelled. He won't see the inside of another formal military academy this side of the Mississippi for the rest of his life.
>You're expecting an angry letter from his father, but he's Navy, so who gives a shit. 
>The ice cubes in your glass shift, and you pour more bourbon in the glass to silence them, looking back up to the distant figure climbing into the car. 
>You down some of the contents of your glass, letting the alcohol warm you and try to fight back the ice in your veins. It warms your body, but it does nothing to clear your mind. Your confusion.
>How this is the third time this has happened in the five years you've been here?