His eyes were the most soulful I have ever seen.
Giant pools of innocent brown, born within swirls of hazel and kind wisdom. Beckoning. Distracting. Merely focusing on the most rudimentary of tasks proved quite difficult; eventually impossible.
Oh, those eyes.
Despite the obvious tension, I maintained my professionalism. I continued to carry out my work to the best of my abilities, pushing through each agonising minute in his presence with gritted teeth... and crossed legs.
His eyes, I could resist. For now.
What made him completely irresistible though, the thing that really made me involuntarily buckle at every joint, was his uniform.
The way it seemed to mimic his lean frame just drove me wild. Everything was in proportion. Shoulders. Chest. Butt. The thin material that contoured his ribcage. Even the illusion of the simple, standard issue pattern, deceptively leading the eye away from his rugged, life-worn face. A face that in recent days had become drawn from the daily strains of both a physically and mentally taxing job. A face that each day, seemed to ghost more and more into a distant, withdrawing fog.
Still, it wasn't my place to worry. Besides, the uniform made it all okay.
And those eyes.
As the days passed, my work became sloppier. My hands shook through every procedure. Every incision crooked. Every extraction awkward. The prison of my synthetic denial had grown flimsy. My clenched teeth could only chastise my primal urges for so long. Taboo or not, I had to be with him.
Even just once.
On the day that I made love to him, he was brought to me by two zealous soldiers. This was quite normal in my line of work and I didn't find it at all off-putting.
My senses were tingling and, if I were to be completely honest, I would have to say that I felt quite ill. The chemical smell in the air was almost disorienting, especially to my heightened senses. Sweetly intoxicating yet nauseatingly pungent.
Looking into those eyes, I slowly unbuttoned his uniform shirt. I blindly ran my fingers across his caved chest and xylophoned ribcage. One rib, two ribs, three, four... so exposed, so prominent.
To my logical mind, he didn't seem like the type that would mark his body with a tattoo, but there it was. It was the first thing I noticed as my eyes left his and rolled down to his chest. A series of numbers. Black.
I continued fingering his ribcage.
He'd had a haircut since I last saw him. Gone was the thick mane of shimmering dark, so irresponsible with wild European life. Today, he came to me with a close crop. Bristly and regimented to the touch. It seemed to couple with his current demeanour; forlorn and formaldehyde cold. The embodiment of the starkest of Autumns.
Still, he came to me. This is what I wanted.
My eyes met his once more. They were still chocolate treasures but now there was no life. Defeated, they seemed to retreat into his face, although not so much that I couldn't see my reflection. I wanted to look good for him, and I did.
I straddled his chest and danced in those eyes. I really put on a show for him too; provocatively writhing over his chest, grinding my crotch across the corrugations of his ribcage, slowly removing an item of clothing after each mini-performance.
I leant forward and kissed him softly on the lips, then hard. I looked over my shoulder, no one was there. It was time.
It was a blend of dutiful relief and quiet awkwardness when we finally made love. I turned him over onto his stomach so I could enter him with maximum force. This took some strength and persistence on my part because of his increasingly stiffening limbs. An equally difficult task was pushing through his tightening muscle tissue.
It didn't last long. Maybe 20 seconds. The time was like a tortuous purgatory. The afterglow, the most rewarding harvest of my career.
Those eyeballs I kept for myself.