The Pardoning of Chelsea Manning

Bradley sat in an empty, sterile room, his ankle chained to the leg of a chair, and his hands resting on a formica table.

The chain was unnecessary, a joke; even if he cut it, where could he go? His life was now a barren room, no matter where he went. Dead ends in every direction.

One manila envelope was in front of him on the table. He knew what was in it, because he wrote it.

He was a man at that moment, because that's what the verdict read: hereby sentenced to 35 years in a military prison at Fort Leavenworth. That was a male prison. It was full of men, who like him had committed crimes. But they were not like him. Not at all, really. No man was.

The identification badge on his army uniform, which he was only wearing because it was required for the tribunal, his real uniform for the past year being a prison jumpsuit—read simply MANNING. But neither name ever felt right; Bradley is a man's name. And "Manning" had always felt like a cruelty.

His real name, he knew, was Chelsea. And he was no man.

Above the steel door, which had locked with a THUNK after the guards had chained him to the chair, and now was surely blocked by those same guards on the other side of it, armed and ready to kill him if he tried to escape, hung a circular black clock. The minute-hand ticked, audible and echoing in the otherwise silent, blank-walled room.

"That clock," he thought, "must have been a model they made a million of back in the cold war." He suspected this because he knew it was the same kind they had at his elementary school. Not only did it look the same, but that "tick" of the minute-hand had echoed through his life just as it did the room.

That "tick" had surely marked the moment, whenever exactly it was, when he knew was a woman. In his soul. The moment when he started to resent his own names. He knew it had been in 1st grade, because he could remember the realization that he had a crush on the father of his best friend, Tom Gunderson. Bradley remembered that at this point he had known he was woman, had just started to grapple with it, but this was his first crush: Tommy's dad, Jeff, with his prematurely white hair, his lean build supporting western-shirts with snap buttons and Levis 501s, and his smooth, resonant voice that made Bradley quiver whenever he called his name from the next room, on overnight stays when Bradley was ostensibly visiting Tommy. Pretending to like Tommy's NES games and action figures. Pretending to like Tommy's toy guns. Hell, pretending to like Tommy.

"Bradley, did you bring a toothbrush?"

It became a regular thing, those sleepovers. Bradley saw to that. Often, Jeff would leave Tommy at home when he came to pick up Bradley, and for those 25 minutes of the return trip, Bradley would have Jeff all to himself. Jeff, who had supposedly quit smoking, but really only "quit" for those every-other-weekends when he had custody of his son, would wait until the first red light, leaving Bradley's neighborhood. Then he'd reach a hand over to the glove box (Bradley, of course, breathless as Jeff's hand crossed over a few inches above his cock) and snake out a dented box of Marlboro Lights from behind the oil-stained Toyota pickup owner's manual.

Jeff would wink at Bradley as he drew out a smoke one-handed, rolling down the window with the other.

"Our little secret, eh Brad?"

He said it that way every time, not-yet-lit cigarette bobbing on his lips: "Our little secret, eh Brad?" After the first time, and the way it had made him feel, he had grown to look forward to it, anticipate it, the buildup and delivery and subsequent release laying the groundwork in his brain, the motions of obsession and orgasm he was still too young to understand then.

The minute-hand ticked again. Reality came back, the room with it.

It must have been Jeff Gunderson, with that blazing white hair and that voice, that had made him fall for Julian. That made Bradley want to do anything to please him, just to hear that voice again as he handed Julian the disc with all those classified documents on it.

"Our little secret, eh Brad?"

He never said it, of course. Julian Assange would never use such a coarse, inarticulate interjection as "eh" in his speech, and his voice –while sexy—was nothing like Jeff's. Julian was eurotrash. And, Bradley had come to accept, was kind of a prick.

And, yes, finally, tragically, Brad also accepted that Julian Assange was straight (maybe he wasn't as eurotrash as he could be, in that case.) He met Bradley's security leaks with appreciation, and pride, and promises of discretion. At best, a handshake. The approval of a colleague, not a lover.

The minute-hand ticked again, and brought with it the CLUNK of the hour turning over: 11:00am.

Right on cue, the ding of the elevator down the hall arriving, the doors swooshing open. Click-clacking of military shoes drawing closer, about-facing just outside the door, and the crisp movements of the visitor and the guards exchanging salutes.

The door unlocked with a low click, and the steel swung open slow. In walked a man.

He was tall, even for an army officer. Which he certainly was, as Bradley scanned his uniform adornments: First Lieutenant. Square-jawed, clean-shaven and blue-eyed, he was the picture of American masculinity that the Army so loved to embrace, but his face held a certain kindness, as the dimples on his cheeks told the world he was a man that preferred to smile, even though he wasn't now. He wore a dark beret, spotless and crimped perfectly. His identification badge read "HUGHES".
Hughes strode across the room, powerful but without menace, and stopped at the table, across from Bradley.

Without thinking of it, Bradley stood up, ramrod straight, and saluted. Only at that moment did he realize how his blood was flowing differently since the man had appeared in the room. Slightly dizzy, his heart pounding, he sat back down, and the chain on his ankle jostled the leg of the chair, piercing the silence with a slight "urk" on the tile floor.

"Sorry." Bradley blushed.

"What are you sorry for, Private?" His voice had the timbre of a hollow oak tree, lush and baritone. Deeper than Jeff Gunderson's. Stronger than Julian's. Bradley quivered now, in kind.

"Nothing. Sorry."

Bradley bit his lip, looking away, but Hughes let the awkward moment pass. Hewas kind. In boot camp, the Drill Sergeant would hammer Bradley about his stammering and constant apologizing, getting in his face and screaming for him to "shut up and think before you speak, faggot!" Bradley knew that Hughes must have had the same experience – maybe even the same Drill Sergeant; he looked to be only a few years older than himself – but Hughes knew how it had felt, and chose not to repeat it here. Here, when Bradley was his most alone, and most vulnerable, suddenly a man cared just a little bit. That felt nice.

Bradley relaxed. Hughes put the briefcase down on the floor. Bradley realized that there was no chair for Hughes to sit in, and looked up at him. "Sorry, I would tell you to sit down, but..." as if this were his home, and not a cell.

"It's alright."

Bradley kicked the chain on his ankle taught, making the "urk" sound again.

"I would even give you mine but, you know..."

Then Hughes really did smile. The dimples deepened, and his blue eyes shone as he chuckled.

He immediately erased it from his face, coughing, then blushing from his own embarrassment at dropping his firm façade. But he pressed on.

"I don't need a chair, Private. I will stand. Do you have the letter you requested to send?"

The letter! Bradley had almost forgotten about it.

"Yeah, yes. Sorry. Right here."

He fumbled for the manila envelope, which had been sitting face-down, and flipped it over. It was addressed to "PRESIDENT OBAMA", which had made Bradley feel childish when he wrote it, like a 2nd grader writing a letter to the White House, but he didn't know what else to write. He quickly flipped it back over.

Hughes reached over and slid the envelope from Bradley's side of the table toward himself, his manicured and powerful hand brushing against Bradley's for a moment as they passed. Bradley gasped, his legs drawing instantly together, eliciting another urk as the chain caused the chair to squeak once again.

"Are you sure that you want to send this?"

Bradley let the words play twice in his head, but still didn't get it. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely think.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said," Hughes furrowed his brow, "are you sure that you want me to deliver this letter?"

Bradley tried to compose his posture, remembering the predicament he was in. He was still a soldier, and he needed to convey strength if this had any chance of working.

"I, yes. Yes, I am sure I want to send this letter. This is my petition for a pardon from the President of the United States." He coughed and adjusted his tie, impressed with himself, and confident that Hughes probably couldn't hear the quivering in his voice as well as he could himself.

"I understand. It's just that you have been given a lengthy sentence in a military prison, Private Manning. This could represent your last communication with the outside world. You may be granted visitations or letters or phone calls in the future, but we don't have to. If the United States Government decides, then nobody will know what happens to you while you're with us."

"How do you know?"

"I know, because I run that prison, Private. I will be there."

Bradley thought he must be hearing this wrong. Was Hughes threatening him? What does he care if I request a pardon? What was going to happen if he did send the letter?

Bradley decided not to ask these questions, again searching for strength within himself as the answer: the pardon would never be granted to a weakling. It has to be earned. A soldier does not do things halfway.

"Yes. I am aware. I want you to deliver this letter to the President."

With that, Hughes picked up his briefcase from the floor and set it down on the table. He rolled the combination numbers into place with his thumbs and clicked it open. Bradley could not see inside the briefcase, but Hughes had paused, not putting the envelope inside, looking at something in the briefcase.

"What is it?" Bradley heard himself say, then immediately bit his lip.

"It's a secret. Private." Hughes shifted his stare directly into Bradley's eyes. He still had the face of a kind man, but now something had changed, and he was cold. Not angry, but cold. Forceful.

"Sorry. I'm sorry."

"You like to share secrets, don't you, Private Manning?"

"No. No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I did that. I'm sorry I hurt America!" Bradley repeated what he had said on the stand a week before, only this time he meant it.

"It's okay. The secret I have here is not mine. This is your secret, Bradley."

Hughes's voice just then, with Bradley finally hearing him say his first name back to him, shook the walls of his heart like Jeff Gunderson's voice through the walls of the house during those overnight stays.

"M-my se-secret?"

Hughes took the object out of the briefcase and set it on the table.

It was a wig. A wig of long, blonde hair. Bradley hadn't seen it in over a year.

"Where did you get that?!" he blurted, knowing the answer anyway. It was in his trunk when he was arrested, along with—

"And this."

Hughes took a tube of lipstick from his briefcase and set it on the table with aclack, next to the wig. He shut the briefcase.

"Why do you have that? What are you doing?" Bradley could feel himself growing angry. Or was it excited? Both? His heart pounded.

"Like I said, Private: nobody will know what happens to you here."

Bradley snatched the wig and lipstick off the table, hiding them in his lap.

"That doesn't mean you can torment me! This is my business, this is who I am!" A single tear welled up in Bradley's eye. He brushed it away, hiding the lipstick in his fist as he did.

"It's your secret."

"Yes. Yeah, it is."

"Can I ask you something, Private Manning?"

He just stared back at Hughes, knowing that he would ask whatever questions he wanted no matter what Bradley said.

"What is a secret if it's been leaked?"

"I don't know."

"But whatever it is, it's not a secret anymore, is it?"

"I guess not."

"But you like secrets..." Hughes leaned in, resting the knuckles of his tight fists on the table. He was so close Bradley could smell his cologne. "...why would you want to ruin them?"

"I...I didn't. I didn't want to."

"Then why did you?"

"It was... Jeff."

"Jeff?"

The barest hint of anger colored the tone of the question. Bradley realized his error, and bit his lip again, staring down at the wig and lipstick in his hands under the table, too afraid to look up at Hughes.

"I mean...Julian."

"Ah, I see. He made you do something you didn't want to do?"

"He didn't make me. I wanted to give him what he wanted."

Hughes nodded his head, a baritone mmm-hmm resonating from his mouth.

"I see."

Hughes leaned back, standing restful again, and Bradley saw out of the corner of his eye that the coldness had left his face, thankfully. He was so handsome, and even more so with the warmth back in his cheeks. Bradley looked back down to the wig, as if to make sure it was still there. Still hidden.

The minute-hand ticked.

Bradley took a deep breath, waiting for Hughes to pick up the letter and leave. It seemed the torment was over, if that was what it was supposed to be. As difficult as the visit had been, Bradley realized when he stowed the wig under the table that his cock had been rock-hard since the moment Hughes had opened the door.

"Why don't you put it on?"

Bradley craned his neck up, thinking he had heard Hughes wrong.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your hair. Why don't you put it on for me?"

Bradley couldn't move. This felt unreal. Why would he ask that? To mock him? What would that prove?

"What? I mean...why?"

Hughes reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a box of Marlboro Reds and a lighter, and lit one. He took a drag, savored it, exhaled, and drew another before answering.

"Because I want you to, Bradley."

Bradley realized that his jaw had dropped, and shut it, swallowing the spit that had suddenly welled in his mouth. With quivering hands, he shifted the lipstick to the base of the chair, between his legs, and lifted the wig to his head.

This part, he had done and practiced as much has he had saluting, and executed it with the same precision: the stitching of the wig nestled along his own hairline, and clung to the nape of his neck, resting just so. He parted the bangs, drawing one lock behind his left ear.

He didn't need a mirror to know how it looked. He was Chelsea now. He could feel it.

She looked back up Hughes, batting her eyes like he had practiced so many times in the mirror, and swore that in that moment she heard him gasp. He still had his composure, still a soldier, but she could see the thick vein in his neck pounding, pumping, and she smirked at the satisfaction of seeing Hughes reach up to loosen his collar, gulping.

"How do I look?"

Hughes took another drag, taking her in.

"The lipstick, too." The cigarette bobbed in his mouth.

Chelsea slid the tube of dark red lipstick from under her thigh and pulled off the cap. She licked her lips and twisted the base of the tube, and she focused on the arch of product as it emerged from the opening of the tube; this was a ritual that she had particularly missed over the last year in the brig. She pressed her lips together, prepping and savoring the moment, and saw Hughes moving his arm. She shifted her hand just an inch, unblocking her view.

Hughes had his fly unzipped. His free hand –the other still working the Marlboro in his mouth—was tucked inside his briefs, stroking.

Chelsea was afraid to speak, as if not wanting to risk waking from a dream. But she remembered again about strength. Nothing done halfway.

"Take it out."

"Are you sure?" said the voice of a man who was unused to asking permission for anything.

She just nodded, and resumed putting on her lipstick. Hughes shifted his wrist, pushing down the waist of his briefs, not taking his hand off his cock as it came into view: half-hard and growing, clean and cut.

She'd spied Julian's before, when he was asleep in their hotel room. It was thick, and even more so as it was uncircumcised. That was the only other cock she had seen up close.

Hughes was just as thick, but longer, and clean-cut as the rest of him was. He was staring wide-eyed at her as she applied the lipstick, panting as he worked his cock, and by the time she finished her bottom lip, he was hard all the way hard. She pressed her lips together, the finishing touch, and kissed at him from across the table.

Hughes rounded the table, stroking the head of his prick, a single drop of pre-cum slickening his grip. He took another drag off the Marb.

"Are you going to tell anyone about this?" Hughes's body shook, but his voice stayed steady and deep.

Chelsea shook her head at him, and put her hand on his hand as it pumped his cock, begging to take over.

"Our little secret, eh Chelsea?" He took his hand away, and as Chelsea heard him say her name, the first time she had heard anyone say it aloud, she took him in her mouth.

She had never sucked a cock before. And when she had imagined it, as she had so often, it was never this big. She struggled to fit it in, but Hughes's head hit the back of her throat when she was barely halfway, and it elicited a moan through his golden voice.

Chelsea took it out, gasping for air, and ran her tongue down to the base of Hughes's massive cock, hoping her ample spit would help it slide down her throat further, while pumping and twisting her hand on the tip. Then she took a deep breath and went again.

Halfway. Then further. She ordered her jaw to open wider, and her gag reflex not to respond, reaching both hands around to Hughes's ass and shoving him into her face.

But she still couldn't take it all. With three inches of cock left to swallow, she halted, and bobbed her head back and forth on the length of the shaft she had managed to cram in her mouth, pumping the base with her hand.

Hughes dropped his cigarette, and it rolled to a stop on the tile. He let his head droop back, unable to maintain his soldierly posture under this assault.

"Oh, fuck.... Chelsea, suck my cock you fucking whore..."

She felt his fingers running through the hair of the wig, her hair. They froze for a second, and she worried that he might have felt it was the wrong thing to say to her. She worried that he might not say it again. So she opened her throat and shoved his throbbing, rock-hard cock all the way down her. She felt the trim hair above his cock against her nose, but all she really needed to prove to herself she had taken it all was Hughes's reaction, arching his hips into her, and pressing his palms against the back of her head, burying his prick to the hilt.

"Oh my fucking god! Take it all, slut!"

She held her lips open there, as he fucked her throat. She could feel his cock, already so hard it was steel, begging to throb. She dared, finally, to draw a quick breath in between his thrusts, not wanting him to stop to accommodate her.

"Oh fuck, Chelsea, Chelsea, of my god, oh my god..." His voice finally broke, his breaths too fast, thumping along with her heart and the throbbing of his rod in her mouth. She could taste the pre-cum as it begin to leak from him. The thrusts quickening even more.

"I'm gonna, I can't—"

She didn't need to hear him say it, she could feel him about to explode, and felt his hands drop from behind her head.

Chelsea drew back, only half of his length in her mouth; she didn't want to deepthroat him when as was cumming. She didn't want to just dump it straight down her throat. She wanted to savor him.