Counterception

[headpop]

"You were interrogated." "No." "But you just said.." "It wasn't an interrogation. At least, not anything I'd been trained for." Captain Hughs stared at his colleague sitting next to him. The Sergeant was sitting on a small chair in front of the two men, nervous and staring at his hands. With a frustrated breath, Hughs asked the question again. "Sergeant.. were you or were you not captured and interrogated by the enemy?"

The F-117 is a beautiful two-man ship. But on the night of November the 6th, 1992, she was sent on a secret mission over enemy territory and shot down. The pilot never survived. But his sidekick, Sergeant Willy Hays, fell down to the earth hard and broken. And captured to find himself not in a cold cell under brutal hand, but in the bed of a very strange woman. Comfortable and his wounds cleaned and dressed, Willy Hays was interrogated.. and told her everything from underneath her lovely gaze..

picture courtesy of: http://www.tishsummers.com

[headpop]

"It's called counterception." She said. "You're going to tell me?" And she heard him. She felt him. "Yes. I'm going to tell you everything. Just like you're going to tell me.. Everything." And a beautiful smile filled Willy's world, like it were a sun shining. It made him wonder what else she could do to him..

[Tagwyn]

I dont suppose it makes any difference, but Sgts are not crew on an F-117. Lt would work as well? Tag

[headpop]

Um.. I beg to differ. Sergeants are crews (or were I should say) on the F-111's. Which is was I was thinking about. Not the F-117.. sorry.

[headpop]

In a world of extremes, silence becomes something else. Like it did for Willy, who it seemed not five minutes ago was in the middle of a fire fight. His suit squeezing the air out of his lungs, trying to keep him conscious while the pilot dodged again and again past the speed of sound the repeated attacks by that one persistant sam missile. It just kept coming again and again, and no matter how lucky the pilot got, or how loud Willy screamed, it just kept coming again and again. Until finally it tore the left wing off.

Now he was in a comfortable bed. A soft white light beeding in from the sheer window. Total silence, his right arm and right leg covered in cast. His ribs.. and with his free hand he felt too, his right eye. It was like his hearing was protruding from his skull, desperate to hear the screaming of jet engines. But there was nothing but this.. This beige cotten bed. This white sheered window. And the painting on the wall.. It looked expensive of a flower pot.

"Hello." She said, and every cell in his body heard her. He lurched, his limbs screaming in agony at the broken bone. "Who are you? Where am I? Ahh!"

"You're here with me." She said putting her knee up on the bed. She was wearing a short leather skirt, and the pose lifted it clear to reveal the dark nakedness underneath. "Who are you?" "You can call me Sharon." She said climbing up on the bed in a lovely crawl. "Where am I?" "You crash landed.. You're hurt."

Caringly.. soothingly.. she climbed up on top of his chest. "I know!" He said, punched. Like her gentle sit was a punch. And for the first time he noticed she was wearing boots that climbed nearly all the way up to her knees.

Her hands went to his head in a careful massage, and he grabbed one to stop her. "What do you want? Did you do this?" "Shhh.." She said. And she took his arm and gently pushed it down.

And Willy watched in amazement.. surreal and unbelievable.. as she climbed up on top of him as simply as if it were nothing. He turned his head but she guided him. "Don't resist. You're hurt.. Don't resist me.." "I must be dreaming."