My Boyfriend’s Boyfriends. Lisette Ashton

seem real yet. Here I am, standing in front of seven fit, hard men, and they’re all looking at me and picturing what it would mean to chase me down and fuck me. ‘Yeah,’ I say, my voice all hoarse and strained. ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

      ‘That’s my girl,’ says Dane, giving me a hug. Then he flips a small rucksack off his shoulder and presses it into my arms. ‘Go get changed into this lot,’ he tells me, jerking his chin to indicate the stone hut we’ve all parked in front of.

      They watch me go. I can feel their eyes on my back and my ass and my legs. I slip into the dark interior of the bothy. It’s pretty rough and basic – stone floor, plank bunk-beds, sleeping bags and six-packs of beer dumped for later use. I drop the rucksack on the rough table and explore the contents.

      The change of clothes has taken me by surprise. I had intended to run in the sports gear I’m wearing now, the same kit I wore when I met Dane. Yes, I’m one of the soft managerial types. A local government officer. My Saturday workouts were what led to us starting our private one-to-one exercise regime.

      Now he’s presented me with costume, and I struggle to make sense of it. A narrow black skirt, almost knee-length, in some nasty shiny fabric. A white button-fronted blouse, but over a cami-top of red lace. Knee-high black suede boots – with no heels, thank goodness. I couldn’t run in heels. A short scarlet jacket, very 80s style. It all looks a bit like formal office-wear, but also a bit cheap. And quite dated.

      It doesn’t convey anything to me, but older men always have baggage.

      Military men have shit-loads of baggage. I know that. I’m from an officer’s family.

      I can hear them talking outside, their voices deep. Each rumbling syllable sinks to the pit of my stomach. When I squint out through the half-open door, I see one of them shake his head dubiously.

      Dane can handle the discussion. I get changed, deciding not to bother with bra or panties. What would be the point? I touch myself between the legs, exploring the pussy Dane lovingly shaved this morning. I’m as soft as a plush toy, but there’s a secret slipperiness hidden there. My body is eager for this.

      The clothes fit snugly, but well. My fingers tremble as I do up the buttons on my blouse. That’s when Dane comes in to check on me. I hear the deep intake of his breath, and he blocks the light from the door as he enters. ‘Hey, Zadie.’

      ‘Hey.’

      He’s got a paintball gun like a rifle hanging from his shoulder.

      ‘You OK with this?’ His knuckles graze my cheek softly, and he cups the back of my head. I look up into his face, like it’s going to tell me something I need to know. But his expression is closed, as always, his eyes watchful but betraying nothing. Everything about him is reserved. Except when we fuck. It’s one of the few times he opens up.

      No, he’s not going to be my forever guy. But he’s a good man, I think. And good to me.

      ‘I reckon so,’ I say, my voice a little weak. I’m scared, but I want to try this. I want to take the leap. I want to do something that isn’t just fantasy. These guys … they’ve done stuff for real. Here in their woodland hideout they’re playing a game, but it hasn’t always been a game to them. They’ve killed people, I suppose, and that freaks me out a bit. They’ve hunted people down. They’ve been places I can’t imagine, and don’t want to. When they run round with their paintball guns, they are just pretending – but these are men who don’t have to pretend.

      I don’t want to just pretend either, any more.

      ‘I’ve told them the rules,’ he says, one hand on my waist. I can sense the tension crackling off him, and as our bodies brush together I feel the push of his erection. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

      ‘They’re all up for it?’ Even the married ones? I might have added.

      ‘Oh, yes.’

      I nod, and decide to ask. ‘What’s this clothing about then?’

      His gaze flicks to my breasts. For a long moment I think he’s going to blank me, but then he speaks. ‘That’s how Lelia was dressed. In the hotel.’

      Oh. Lelia.

      That makes sense.

      Lelia is a framed photo on his desk. She’s standing in the courtyard of a nice-looking house, with a bright-pink bougainvillea vine sprawled over one tiled wall. She’s got her hands on the shoulders of a boy in front of her, and both face the camera with grave, formal smiles. Wearing a long-sleeved, embroidered blouse, she looks Southern European or maybe Arabic. The kid looks about ten years old in that picture – though I think it’s an old photo – and he’s fair-skinned, but with dark curls and eyes like hers.

      ‘Who’s this?’ I’d asked, picking up the frame.

      Dane came up behind me, and looked long and hard at the picture before replying. ‘Lelia,’ he said quietly. ‘The boy’s Yusef.’

      ‘Who is she?’

      ‘She was a lobby girl. She worked out of the lobbies of the tourist hotels.’ He suddenly spoke with the contempt of the military for civilian parasites: ‘Journalists, businessmen, diplomats … pond-scum like that.’

      I recognised that tone of voice. I had a sinking feeling that I’d stepped into deep waters. ‘Where?’

      ‘Somewhere we weren’t supposed to be.’

      When he said ‘we’ I knew he meant his troop. I didn’t know what to say to that, and didn’t feel keen to ask. But he carried on.

      ‘We were pinned down for two days. They dropped all sorts of shit on us – the roof shaking, great chunks of concrete falling down. We thought we were all going to fucking die. Three of us did.’ His voice dried up and he swallowed. ‘She stepped up and kept us sane. This … girl. She was … like a light in the dark. The only light. You can’t imagine. You won’t understand.’

      I couldn’t imagine, but I think I understood. A bit. That was the only time he’s ever really talked to me about Lelia, but I know he sends her money regularly, and she writes to him. I wonder if Yusef is Dane’s son – but there’s no obvious resemblance.

      I’m not jealous of Lelia. If I was going to be jealous of anyone, it’d be the ex-wife with the two kids. Like I say, older men come with baggage. I’m not escaping it now, on this sunny evening in this beautiful woodland. Whatever this is, it’s not escapism.

      ‘Oh. I see,’ I say now, and lay my hand on his breastbone, as if I might feel his heart. ‘That’s … heavy stuff. Are you OK?’

      He pulls his mouth – only his mouth – into a smile. ‘It’s been tough since February. The funeral. For all of us. But you’re going to be fine, babes.’

      I nod, letting him know I trust him. He responds by kissing me – gently at first, then more warmly.

      ‘Ready?’ he breathes.

      ‘Yes.’

      He leads me outside.

      ‘Where’s everyone gone?’ The cars are still there, but the men have vanished.

      ‘They’re out there in the woods. Waiting for you.’

      ‘Oh.’ I stare into the green shadows, wondering. My legs feel wobbly.

      ‘You’ve got twenty minutes’ grace. The boundaries are the road that way, the river over there.’ He sweeps his arm in broad gestures. ‘And the deer fence up where the open fell begins, but you won’t get that far.’

      Now I’m nervous. Now I feel like I’m being hunted. ‘What about you?’

      Dane checks his watch. ‘I’ll be following. Run.’

      Somehow it takes me by surprise. I want to protest that I’m not ready yet, but I know it’s too late. I start off at