The Little General

All characters are over 18. This is a work of fiction. I'm just having fun with writing, so enjoy. I'm thinking of making this into a continuing story.

If you have feedback, feel free to leave an email address so I can ask questions for anything I need clarification on.

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All 8 fingers broken! 8! Fucking drunks!

Let me explain. I was working for a local contractor named Fred. There were 3 of us, Fred, Myself, and fucking Melvin. We would do small jobs for people around the county, put up screen rooms, build decks and patios, that sort of thing.

The big problem was Melvin. He was a fucking drunk. Actually he was a continually recovering alcoholic who never managed to get to 30 days sober for his token from AA. Seriously, he spent more time off the wagon than on.

I had told Fred he needed to get rid of Melvin the third time he came to work drunk, but Fred always deflected.

"Melvin works hard. He does good work. He works for minimum wage, and nobody else will work for that cheap. Including you. Now, if you wanna take a pay cut so I can hire someone else..." He said.

I sighed, "First of all, you know we have to go back and redo sixty percent of his work. Second, you know I can't take a pay cut, Fred. Rent's going up everywhere in the county since they started putting up new subdivisions in every patch of woods within 20 miles of the interstate!"

So there I was, trying to get the placement right on a wheelchair ramp connecting to a deck on the side of this nice old lady's mobile home. We were doing this pro bono for a charity group that helps veterans, as her husband was a disabled Vietnam vet.

I liked the work. I'm a vet, my dad's also a Vietnam vet, so I was all about getting this done right for them. I was within 1/2 an inch of getting this placement perfect, when I noticed Melvin's drunk ass flying through the air towards the ramp, feet first.

I started to jerk my hands out when the fucker landed, driving the edge of the ramp right down onto my fingers. The fucking drunk broke all god damned 8 of my fingers right above the palm.

Before Fred could get there, Melvin's beer sodden breath blew in my face as he walked up to me. Then his smile turned to fear when he saw my fingers limp or bent in the wrong directions, and the look on my face.

Before the pain had a chance to set in, I backhanded Melvin, which I felt IMMEDIATELY. I cursed enough to scald the white off rice as I started kicking him once he'd fallen to the ground, my vision gone red in pain and rage.

I'm 6'2, 195 lbs of muscle from working with my hands all day every day. My Blond hair is so dark it's almost brown, clipped short so I don't have a sweaty mop hitting me in the face while I'm working. I'm stronger than I look, which is saying something, so when I kicked that drunk fucker, he knew he'd been kissed by my boot.

Fred got me off Melvin, with some difficulty, then took me to the ER once I got it through his thick cheap skull that YOU CAN'T WALK OFF 8 BROKEN FINGERS!

So I was having some anger issues when, after too many hours without painkillers, the docs at the ER finally took care of me. Some dumbass had only put me down on the charts as "broken finger", not "all 8 broken, bruised and possibly not recoverable."

Eventually, the docs determined that I would not have to have any amputated, thank God. I didn't wanna look like Fred, who only had a forefinger and 3 nubs going up the first knuckle in addition to his thumb on his right hand.

So, after kicking Fred out, since he was the cheapskate asshole who refused to fire the drunk that caused my injuries, I asked one of the cuter nurses to call my friend for me, and ask her to please come get me.

The pain meds were starting to kick in, and she WAS a cutie, a thin redhead about 5'6, with stout C cups and a firm apple shaped ass hugged tightly by her scrubs. Her hair was in a ponytail, but it looked like it might stretch down almost to her ass if she let it down.

The Little General, as I call him, also seemed to approve, as he started to make his presence known through my carpenter pants. She saw the lump and gasped, and after looking around, reached down and gave him a little squeeze in salute. She gave an excited little squeak when she felt my girth.

When she put my discharge papers in my lap, she told me she had put her private number down, and if I needed any help, to call her straight away. She gave the General one more salute with her fingertips, then left me to tend to other, much less fortunate patients.

Becca had made the 25 minute drive in 10 minutes. The woman I usually tease about being a granny driver for never driving 1 mph over the speed limit. Her friend was hurt, so she made an allowance.

By then, the pain meds had kicked in, and when she got to my ER bed, I giggled and waved my bandaged hands at her. I was in la la land.

Becca stands one foot shorter than me at 5'2. She weighs about 110. I wish I could convince her she was pretty, with her deliciously firm DD chest, delectably chubby derriere, and pretty hazel eyes, but she always seemed to think she was chubby and undesirable. Some would call her pear shaped, or a PAWG, but I called her perfect.

Her jet black hair is in a ponytail hanging over her right shoulder and seems to point at her nipple, and I start giggling. Hey, those were some good meds, ok?

"Hi, Becca! Wanna take this soldier home?" I giggled.

This was NOT the norm. Becca has been a friend since 3rd grade. Sure, I maybe had had a crush on her since about 4 minutes after we first met, and had secretly been in love with her since about a half an hour after that, but I always managed to crush those feelings down into the depths of my being. I had always valued her friendship and never wanted to endanger that.

Becca was the one constant in my life, always there for me. First heartbreak? Becca baked me cookies and hugged me (hey, it was 5th grade). Dog died? Becca helped me dig the grave, and went and picked flowers for him. First when Mom died when I was 13, then when Dad died when I was 16? Becca helped me pick up the pieces and stay (mostly) sane.

By that time, we were 16, so I was able to stay with her and her mom without having to worry about foster care. Money was tight, since Mom's insurance had gone to Dad. Dad had remarried, and when he passed, his insurance and other money went to his bitch of a new wife, who was just gone one day when I got home from school. I got home and strangers were moving into my house. She had sold it and left with nary a word to me.

I'd worked small jobs to give money to Becca's mom to help with bills or groceries, even though she tried every time to give the money back. It was never a lot, but in those times, every bit helped.

Becca became like a best friend combined with sister to me. Sure, I was madly in love with her, but so what? What could she see in me? A loser orphan with no money and only the clothes on his back is not exactly a glowing prospect for romance or, god forbid, marriage.

At 18, I signed up for the Army. Spent 4 years going places I never could have otherwise. I hate sand, now, and that's about all I'm gonna tell you about that. I had a decent amount in savings by the end, and I've been picking up work in our small town wherever it could be found to avoid tapping into savings, but pickings were slim if you weren't an auto mechanic. My training was in "make things go boom at a distance", not "make engine work."

"Zack!" Becca demanded, "what the fuck happened to your hands?"

My mind, such as it was at the time, snapped back to the present.

"FUCKING MEEEEELVIIIIN!" I caroled out at the top of my lungs, "he was drunk at work again, and he broke. My. Fucking. Fingers."

Now, while Becca cusses like a sailor, my Mom and hers, both, had me trained not to talk like that to a lady, so she was taken aback for a moment by my speech.

"I'm sorry, Becca. I'm not supposed to use that language around you. Could I go home now? I need a pizza! Did you know, most of the world's problems nowadays are because nobody makes a good pizza anymore?" I lectured.

"Yeah, you are NOT going to be able to handle your place alone in that condition. You'll stay with me for a while," she stated.

"Yaaaaaaaay!" I caroled. Painkillers make me an incredibly chatterbrained dufus. I'm not big into anything other than beer.

We stopped on the way to her house for cold drinks, since it was hotter than hell and muggier than the Devil's taint. She got me the biggest fountain drink they had, and got herself one of those root beers in the glass bottle. She always got those when driving and always held it like a guy between her legs. Sometimes it seemed she would wedge it pretty deep, and her legs would move an aweful lot around it.

Once we got to her place, and she set me up in her guest room, she went to go take a nap before fixing us dinner. Hot dogs and Mac n cheese. She used to cook real dinners when we lived with her mom, but not any more, I dunno why.

She got fidgety while cooking and took off to her room for a few minutes, which led to over boiled hot dogs and burnt Mac and cheese. I had her get my card out of my wallet and order us some pizza, and consoled her that it'd be alright.

My hands hurt unbelievably. And I was unable to handle my self care needs below the belt, either pleasure or necessity (I'm sure I don't need to go into detail, use your imagination). Hell, I had problems handling self care needs ABOVE the belt, for that matter.

Luckily, Becca's bathroom had a bidet. I used to not be too sure about those. I had the testosterone based doubt most southern manly men have about them, but that kept Becca from having to help me wipe my...you get the idea. And it kept her from seeing what made me a freak.

Becca was there for me whenever I needed her. I insisted I wear swim trunks when she helped me bathe, which she giggled at, but I told her I had my reasons, to which she sighed and rolled her eyes. The bidet was helping, and I found that, while painful, I could somewhat scrub down there with a soapy washcloth and use the bidet to rinse. Ish.

See, I have...rather large testicles. I have to wear loose boxers and carpenter pants, usually. One ex girlfriend said I had the balls of an ox on growth hormones. I mean, they hang low and heavy at the best of times, almost to the end of my tool. Each one is about the size of a plum. I usually handled things on my own at least 5 times a day to release enough steam for them to not hurt. Hell I always had to be careful to make sure I didn't sit on them. My Little General is about 6 1/2 inches long, but it's girth is only slightly less than a beer bottle. The bottom, not the long neck, for any of you smartasses.

I had trouble keeping girlfriends because I always thought they felt I was a freak, and often couldn't keep up with my appetite. The biggest problem is that while I need to release pressure rather often, I am affected the same way an average man is by orgasm, meaning after the first, there is enough desensitization that it takes me much longer for each successive orgasm.

So, after a couple days of having no release, pressure had built up, and I was in pain. After the 4th time in as many hours of Becca disappearing in her room, I got snappy with her when I needed help using the computer to try and handle workman's comp and she wasn't available.

"Damnit, Becca, where are you? I need some damn help!" I yelled.

Her door opened and she came out, cheeks flushed "I'm sorry, Zack!" She mumbled, "what do you need?"

I immediately felt like shit for talking to her like that. She was my best friend, taking care of me out of kindness, not beholden to do my bidding.

"Becca, I'm sorry. I truly am. I'd be kicking the ass of any man I heard talking to you like that, and I just did it myself. I'll never do that again. Forgive me?" I asked

"Zack," she sighed, "I really need to find myself a man like you to take care of me forever. You're so sweet! Yes, I forgive you." She said, ruffling her hand in my hair.

I smelled...arousal? Yes, I smelled arousal when she did. Was she...busy when...no. my brain cut that line of thought off. "Best friend! Like a sister!"

But The Little General doesn't take orders from just anyone, he does what he damn well pleases. He decided to poke his head up and say Hi, so I hunched forward and let my shirt hang out from my body while Becca helped me with online paperwork.

With any other woman, I'd have stretched back and let them see. With my build and the fact that I keep myself shaved and well groomed, women almost always look. And then they would try to tame the Little General, and he and his two meaty minions would let them know who was in charge.

When they got worked up, it was like a burst of pure adrenaline flooded my body, and I became a whole different person. I would use a woman rough and leave her a dripping puddle of fluids, then once the adrenaline ran its course, I would feel bad for what I'd done.

At 23, I've had more than my share of women. Good girls, bad girls, sweet and naughty, but no one I have ever had true feelings for like I do Becca. I refused to let the General, or myself, do that to her.

The only person I actively wanted to let him destroy was my dad's money grubbing whore of a widow. If I ever got the chance, I'd fuck her ass until her brain broke and leave her naked in the street for what she did. It might make me sound like a monster, but there it is.

I dragged myself back to the here and now. Between the pain from my fingers and the pain from my balls, my mind kept wandering so as not to focus on the pain. Becca had been talking, and I had missed it.

"I'm sorry, Becca. What was that?" I asked sheepishly.

"I said the website is down. We'll have to call them on Monday morning." She repeated for me. Shit. It was 5pm on Friday.

"Well, shit." I said, "wanna just watch some movies? Netflix? I'd suggest a game, but..." I held up my hands.

"Netflix is good, but you need a shower, first." She said, "it might be sexy when you sweat, but I am not sharing the couch with you like that."

I had to agree. I sweat once the temperature hits 75 or above. Or when I'm stressed or in pain...wait, WHAT? SEXY?

"Did you just call me.." I started to ask.

"Yes, I said you look sexy when you sweat. A lot of women like a well built guy with a sheen of sweat." She said, her face blushing, "even you, Zack. We may be friend's, but friends can tell each other that stuff" she finished in a shy mumble.

"Ok, Becca, I'll drop it. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." I said.

She smiled her nuclear smile at me, "See? Super sweet! Now, I just have to go take care of some stuff real quick, then we'll get you into the shower."

She disappeared into her room again. This was driving me crazy. She wouldn't tell me what was going on, but it seemed an hour didn't go by without her going to her room for 10 minutes. I waited about 5 minutes, then silently padded towards the bathroom, which is on the far side of her bedroom door.

I stopped outside her door for less than a minute in total silence, and I noticed a buzzing sound coming from her room. And...sloshing. the buzz would doppler higher or lower with each wet slap. No way. She left to go use her toys? Did she do that every time? And...a moan...

I stepped into the bathroom and started humming an aimless tune as I started pissing. This could take a while. I should hopefully be done by the time she finishes, and if she noticed any movement, hopefully she would just think I was using the can.

Is she... masturbating every time she goes to her room? If so, she must need release as often, possibly more than I do. No! Friend! Get those thoughts out of your fool head!

I was fighting with the General to keep him in check, and he was being insubordinate as all hell, after what I was sure I'd just heard. I had just pulled my shorts back up and flushed when her bedroom door opened and a wave of patchouli rushed out and clobbered my nose.

Under the patchouli...yeah...I could smell aroused woman. Christ! If she did this every time she went to her room, Becca must have a pallet full of batteries somewhere in her house. Is this why she never ventured out anymore for longer than 1, maybe 2 hours?

None of my business, I decided. If she wanted to discuss her private affairs, she would. Otherwise, I'd keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself.

I smiled when she came into the bathroom to help me shower. I teased her a bit, asking "is that patchouli I smell? Are you smoking weed in there?"

She just blushed and shook her head no, then helped me get my shirt off and started helping me soap up in the shower. I felt like a damned infant, unable to wash myself.

"I'm sorry, Becca. You shouldn't have to do this for me" I said as she scrubbed the stubble I call hair with shampoo while I sat on the shower chair typically used by old folks.

"Shush, Zack!" She said, "You're a friend in need, so this is no problem. And stop apologizing!"

Then, it happened. She reached for the shower head when I had turned to thank her. Her big DDs pushed around my head, their softness unbelievable, as I found myself with a face full of the most amazing breast on the planet. The General sensed the coming battle and called for his minions.

She squeaked and fumbled the showerhead, which sprayed me in the side of the face, meaning she took the blast on her chest. I was already able to tell by the feeling that she wasn't wearing a bra, but when her t shirt became see through giving me the closest possible view to the winner of the wet t shirt contestant of the century, it was confirmed.

I saw her glorious mounds of flesh in all their stiff nippled glory as I quickly stood up to try to interpose myself between her and the shower while turned towards her.

Her head was hanging low, in what I first took to be shame, as her nipples began to truly engorge and her areolas turned a much darker pink on her pale flesh. I started to reach for her shoulders, but stopped as a hand came up to silence me. She was still looking down.

"Zack?" She asked softly. I could barely hear her.

"Yeah, Becca?" I asked, worried I had irreparably harmed our friendship somehow by seeing what I had been so careful not to see when I had lived with her and her mom.

She lifted her hand, pointing at my waist. "What...is that...ummm...hi, there big guy?" She ended with a squeak.

Oh, shit. I could feel the flood of the adrenaline gripping me. The overpowering urge to grab and rip that shirt off and jam my rod between those perfect tits. To own her and use her and make her mine. Luckily, my hands were useless at that moment.

I felt the urge, but I am not some mindless rutting whore beast. Not to Becca. Even with the pain from my fingers added to that of my balls, no. Not to Becca.

"Becca, I am truly sorry," I said through teeth gritting so hard I thought some might break. "I am going to go lie down for a while, and try to sleep this off. I love you too much to put you through all this."

Becca nodded, still looking. "That...that's you, huh?" She whispered, barely audible over the water. "I mean I always wondered, but...wow" her face was flushed, and she had a faraway, almost hungry look in her face.

I just dropped the wet swim trunks and walked my naked ass to her guest room, kicked the door shut as gently as I could, and lay on my back, the General waving in the air as if letting me know he refused to surrender. Damn my balls hurt so bad.

I was on the verge of asking Becca to call that nurse for me, maybe go ahead and just dump me at my place to let me fend for myself in punishment for what had happened. I knew I'd probably never see her again. I didn't know how, but I knew this was somehow my fault.