Forced to Submit by Cara Layton

Davin’s luminous
green eyes scanned the noisy, humid shack where he and his buddies often drank
the nights away.  The familiar group was as loud and boisterous as ever.  Glasses
clanked and clattered.  The light foam from the tops of their beers sloshed every
which way, causing the entire make-shift bar to be eternally coated by a stale,
sticky layer.  Between that and the musky smell of men fresh from the front
lines, the place affectionately called ‘The Hole’ certainly lived up to its
name.
    A pretty
young woman, dressed in a tight corset and an ill-fitting hoop skirt, sauntered
up to Davin with a tipsy stagger.  She rested her hand on his shoulder and took
a deep puff of her short cigarette.
    “Hey
soldier,” she hollered over the din, “how was it today?”
    Davin
knocked back the last half of his warm beer and slammed it down onto the
counter.  The white foam stuck to his stubbly upper lip, prompting the woman to
reach out and flick it away with her finger.
    The women
that littered the gathering place were there for, as the brass put it,
“morale”.  Of course anyone would have known that they were basically hookers
on the government’s dole, not that any of the men minded.
    In fact,
“morale” had never been higher.
    “Not
tonight, Sandy.”
    She
frowned and tossed aside her spent smoke.
    “Oh come
on honey,” her hand slipped down over his shoulder and onto his tight chest,
“what’s bothering you?”
    The
twang of hard liquor followed her hot breath as it rolled past Davin’s ear and
down onto his shoulder.  He sighed and turned on the barstool where he was
seated.  The corners of his pouty lips were locked in a firmly straight line.
    “All of
this,” he swept his hand around quickly, “all of this shit.”
    The
tipsy prostitute grabbed his wrist.
    “Let’s
go.  We can talk.”
    Davin didn’t
fight back as she led him past tables full of dirty, ragged-looking men with
more alcohol in them than sense.
    The long
hallway that contained all of the girls’ rooms was just as dirty and stale as
the rest of the decrepit building.  It’s biggest saving-grace was that it was
cool; free from the sticky body heat that was eternally present in the main
drinking hall.
    Sandy’s
room was the last one on the right, hidden by only a faded floral sheet that
she threw to the side with what almost looked like contempt.  Inside of the
tiny room were a creaky old bed and a solitary, nearly empty dresser that was
missing all but one of its brass handles.  In the corner, near the window, was
a chair with peeling white paint flaking off of its legs.  Sandy flopped down onto
the bed and motioned for Davin to sit.
    “How
long have you been here, soldier?”
    She lit
up another cigarette as he lowered himself down onto the dubiously-stable
chair.
    “It’s
been over a year,” he sighed and rubbed his forehead, “and there is no end in sight.”
    Sandy
leaned forward on the bed, her already buxom cleavage nearly spilling out of
her top, and tapped the ashes down onto the wooden floor.
    Davin
continued, “I’m thinking about volunteering for a black-bar spot.”
    “No,”
Sandy shook her head, “you know as well as I do that nobody ever comes back
from those missions.  It’s like trying to use a shotgun to fish in the ocean. 
What good does sending men in blind do, huh?”
    She was
becoming visibly agitated.
    “I see
all of these men run off for those missions, thinking that they will be some
kind of savior.”  She threw her cigarette onto the ground and smashed it with
her foot, sending embers flying in every direction.  Her pale brow was furrowed
and a trickle of smoke leaked out of her mouth as she spoke, “There ain’t no
savior in this situation.”
    Davin
rested his elbows on his knees, “I guess.”
    His eyes
wandered over her curvy body.  Even in the heat of war there were some things
that a man just needed, including sex.  As his sight swept across her collar bones
and down