It's Not What You Think

I just glared at her for the longest time. Finally she began to gather her things, getting ready to go.

"No. Stay," I said. There was a long pause, and she placed her purse on the floor near the chair she was in. "You saved my life, you know."

"What? Oh the blood thing. That's just something I picked up along the way. Something about 'an Intelligence Officer has to be ready for anything.'"

"Did they teach you brain surgery, too?" After my outburst I was calm again. "... but I meant you saved my life later, too. That's twice. With that email. Puts you one up on me."

"How'd I do that? I only sent you the one email." She looked puzzled. "I got busy with leaving the service and all."

"That email arrived when I had to decide if they were going to cut off my legs or not. I decided to give the hacksaw crew the okay. The other option was to let you visit a corpse, and I chose not to do that. So, I guess this is your fault." I said it light-heartedly, like the decision between a gruesome death from progressive gangrene and permanent disability with no legs was nothing to be taken seriously.

Her eyes widened as she listened, but she kept her own counsel. After a while, she'd apparently decided how to carry on. "Good thing you decided as you did. I've never visited a morgue. Don't want to, either. Oh, by the way, if the nurses ask, I'm your fiancée. It's the only way they'd let me in. From what you said in Abu, you didn't have one."

That shut me up. And my cock got hard. Nice to see that it still worked.

"Well, we better tell my mom. Have we picked a date yet? You got folks you want to tell?" I joked. "At least for a little while anyway."

"Yes, but no folks. ... A little while, anyway. But if you ever decide to fill that job opening, let me know, okey dokey?"

My hard cock lurched a little. How am I still attractive to someone like this? But it's probably just pity -- she can't really mean it.

"Why is a Lieutenant Commander getting out of the service? You weren't wounded, I take it."

"Oh... well, I guess you haven't been keeping up with the news," she replied. "The Admiral..." (there was never any question about which Admiral she was talking about: it was Admiral Hole) "... submitted his resignation about two weeks ago. They've cashiered his whole staff. Seems he had an affair with some newspaper woman who was doing his biography. I can't believe he was that stupid ... laying out the plans for the entire Central Theater in pillow talk. ... So, I am out of the Navy already."

Major league stupid. Make that Admiral AssHole. "So... I'm not going to get in trouble for making suggestive comments to a superior officer, huh."

She laughed. It was a good, honest laugh. It made her eyes crinkle up and her auburn hair ripple. Come to think of it, this was the first time I'd seen her hair not up in a bun; it was shoulder length and had shimmering blonde lights -- no they were darker highlights, almost brunette. Now they looked blonde again. I stared.

"... ... in Dallas?" she said somewhat confusingly. "Hello? Earth to James?"

"What?! Oh. Sorry. I guess I was day dreaming. I do that sometimes. Get lost inside my own head."

"I was just asking if you were going to take your terminal leave in Dallas? That way you could be fairly close to home. I know your mom is in Waxahachie. They have a very good VA Hospital outside Dallas. You have to get some more rehab, right?"

"Uh..." I said, ever the brilliant conversationalist. "Yeah. I guess. I hadn't thought about it. Probably a good idea. Dallas. Uh huh."

"Good. Maybe I'll see ya around in Texas. I've got a job offer from Carbunkle Oil Services, Inc. They're that big oil company that likes Vets. They don't think I got cooties from being an officer on the Admiral's staff," she said with a smile.

I knew of Carbunkle. They had great government contacts. And, of course, there was the rumor that they orchestrated the whole war on Iraq. The Vice-President of the U.S. was a former Carbunkle CEO.

We chatted back and forth, with only an occasional angry outburst from me, for the next hour. She checked her watch and made an excuse to be out of my company. Can't say I blamed her much. It couldn't be much fun to be around a bad tempered cripple with no real prospects, like me.

It was strange, that I could go from angry to regular to kidding around in a New York minute. It unnerved me. Was I manic-depressive now?

Later that night, the nurses changed shifts and the night nurse came in. "I hear you had a visitor. Your fiancée, right? From what I hear she was a real looker. You're lucky she could be here." She was all business, checking my bandages -- all was well there.

"Uh... yeah. I don't know why she even came. I'm a cripple now, not much use to any woman."

"I guess you're right," she said, massaging my sore and tired upper legs. "Why would a good looking woman be interested in a hero who saved her from a bomb blast and ..." her warm hand had drifted from my thigh to caress my dick. It responded. "... who was good looking himself. And whose equipment was still working." She stroked me softly. Her touch was soft. What she was touching was not so soft. It had happened in a few seconds.

"Hey! Don't do that. I'm not..." I spluttered.

"Shhh. I know you've got to be worked up from her visit. And I hate to see a good man -- in every sense of the word -- leave here with an attitude of failure." She tossed back the blankets and sheet and covered my cock with a washcloth. "You just lay back and relax. I bet you haven't had any attention ..." here she gave it a little shake "... in some time. You'll sleep better. Better than an Ambien."

She pressed back on my chest with her free hand and unzipped her blouse -- just to give me a good look at her cleavage. She had some nice knockers. Real nice.

I subsided and let her continue.

She made little encouraging coo-ing noises until I came, filling the washcloth. Then she used another warm, wet washcloth to clean me up, as I drifted to sleep.

She came in and administered the anti-sleeping pill almost ever night thereafter. I didn't mind at all.

*****

Cynthia returned the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. She came every day for nearly two weeks. She was fun and forgiving of my outbursts. She said it was normal after a wound like I'd suffered. I growled at her for that. I hadn't been 'wounded,' I'd been crippled.

Cyn -- that's what I called her when I wasn't furious at her -- said that I wasn't crippled. I could lead a normal life. Not 'normal' like the other 99.9% of the people lived. But I'd get a job -- a good job. Then she outright shocked me, when she said that she hoped that I could get married and have a good sex life and even father children.

Then, one day the Army said that I was ready to move on to my permanent home -- the VA hospital in my home town. Well... permanent until I could be living on my own. Or moving back in with mom. That was an appealing thought for a thirty year-old man.

I was astonished that Cynthia Johnson was flying to Dallas with me. She was still playing her 'fiancée' angle to stay at my side. I was beginning to half believe it. I couldn't figure out her angle in all this. She was young -- about my age, I'd guess, and I was vain enough to think that was young. She was good looking -- how's that for an understatement? She was attractive enough that she'd get admiring glances from any male between 15 and 60 who still had a pulse. She was smart and had secret abilities -- remember the blood transfusion with just what she happened to find on top of the coffee-house table? So, what was she doing hanging around me? I was a crippled vet with maybe a chance at some kind of life.

Okay, so maybe some of her optimism, and that of the counselor (I refused to call him a shrink, but that's what he was), was rubbing off on me. I had months and months of rehab to get through, no job prospects, no place to live, and no real future. Again, what was she doing with me? Surely she had better places to be, better men to be with.

*****

The Army's idea of comfortable transport from Germany to Dallas was terrible. Sit in a transport plane that wasn't really designed for humans, let alone crippled humans. Fortunately, my 'fiancée' made other arrangements, and suddenly I was in the first class cabin of Lufthansa. She said the Army paid for the trip and she had enough frequent flyer miles to handle the upgrades. So, now I was in her debt for that.

I was getting more and more uncomfortable about our 'relationship,' to the extent that we had one. Don't get me wrong -- under normal circumstances I'd be more than glad to be hanging around with a stunningly beautiful woman who was smart and funny, and was interested in me. These were not exactly normal circumstances, however.

The long flight made me realize that one of the things I'd miss about not having legs was I couldn't get up and 'stretch my legs'. If I wanted to use the toilet it would be a world class logistical issue. And, from what I could remember about airplane toilets, how could I get in and out and do my business in there? Like I said already, my life was going to be fucked up from now on.

The Docs in Germany had given me some pain pills. I wasn't in any real pain any more, the pills were for if I got too 'uncomfortable.' I didn't want to take them, however. There is nothing more cliché than a crippled Vet, in a wheelchair, hooked on pain pills. That was not going to be me. Yeah, I'd gotten over the worst of the depression and didn't want to be dead any more.

Now if I could just get over the extremely negative attitude I had. I knew I had it, 'cause I use to be a positive guy, when I ran the unit, and before that. Nothing got me down 'cause I knew that things would be all right. Now, I couldn't see that. It's not like I could snap my fingers and just change the way I thought. The negatives kept crowding out the positive things.

Take Cynthina for example. She was an amazing woman. Smart, beautiful, funny and fun. And all I could think was: why is she hanging around me?

Well, we got to Dallas. Mom met me -- us -- at the airport, even though the flight was about thirty minutes early. Guess she was tracking it in mid-flight. Was I hungry? We'd go to the Ruth's Chris restaurant for some gourmet sizzling steak. Which I knew she really couldn't afford. Thirsty? She suggested a beer, or a vodka, or bottled water ... or bottled water from Fiji. Or bored? A movie? A play? A ballgame? Tired? I should take a nap. For a week. Anything I wanted.

What I wanted was to have my legs back, and that she couldn't do. Sorry. I know it can't be much fun to read about all my negative thoughts all the time. But this isn't really for the reader. I wrote about it in my journal -- the shrink said I should use it to get my feelings out -- and it's overlapped to this account. I'm sure he'll have a wonderful time reading it, if I ever give it to him. Or maybe it's a her, here in big D.

What did surprise me was my mom's reaction to Cyn. Or maybe I should say lack of reaction. It was like: Hi. How was the flight? Oh, fine thanks. Shouldn't we get our luggage now?

Somehow they had obviously met and had a long talk. Skype maybe. That was good. And bad. I was beginning to feel that everything was all planned out by the two of them and I was just along for the ride.

Maybe that was for the best. I didn't have idea one about what to do next, except go to the VA hospital.

Mom had made other arrangements. I wasn't going to be staying in the hospital. I wasn't an in-patient any more. She had found me an apartment near the hospital. It was set up for handicapped access. Wide doors and hallways for the wheelchair. Everything in the kitchen was accessible to a wheelchair victim -- sorry. I should have said a differently able bodied person in a wheelchair.

It was a nice place. Convenient to the rehab center. Convenient to places downtown. I could go to basketball games and the American Airlines Center. All the creature comforts. I hated it because everything was set up for wheelchairs. I just wanted to be normal again. I'd never be that though.

Since the flight had arrived in the early morning, we had plenty of time left in the day. Mom and Cyn even took me around to meet the therapist I'd be dealing with. "No sense getting comfortable in that chair, buddy," he said. "You'll be up and walking with prosthetics soon enough."

Great. Another fucking optimist with a positive attitude. I just grunted at him. He laughed and said, "You'll see."

It was a long day and I'd about had it. Mom had to go back home, so she left for Waxahachie. Which left me in the apartment with Cynthia Johnson -- she with the mysterious agenda.

Turns out she didn't have a mysterious agenda, apparently. She hadn't made hotel arrangements, so she offered to sleep on the couch -- or on the right side of the double bed in my room. I just looked at her.

She put her hands on her hips and looked back at me. "James," she said. "We can do this now or later. We can do this the hard way or the easy way. I didn't follow you from Abu, to Germany, to Dallas, just because I didn't have anything else to do. You saved my life. I saved yours.

"I want to -- need to -- find out if the spark that was lit in Abu Dhabi is something that is going to turn into real fireworks, or if it's just going to gutter. I'm a singularly determined woman.

"I know that right now you're still filled with that 'poor me, I'm a cripple' crap. I understand and I'll deal with it for a little while. If you're going to keep on doing that, however, I'll move along."

All this time, she was getting undressed. The clothes were strewn around the living room. She was down to her bra and panties now -- a pale green ensemble that brought out the color of her eyes and made her auburn curls look just fine. The bra just barely kept her breasts in, or up, or whatever it was that it did. The panties were like boy shorts, but very brief and hung low on her hips. As she stood there, one hip was canted higher than the other; the panties were a little diagonal ... uh ... 'enhancement' to her sexiness. She still had her heels on. I hadn't noticed them in the plane. Maybe she changed. I didn't care. She was sexy as hell.

I was still trying to listen to what she had said, but I was a bit ... uh ... distracted. "Right. Uh... You might move along," I said, somewhat dazed, softly echoing her last. "You... uh... you can't sleep in your heels."

"I was hoping," she said with an alluring tone, "not to go to sleep right away." She took a step toward me.

Suddenly I wasn't nearly as tired as I was earlier. She came around to the front of my wheelchair and pulled on the armrests. It moved toward her, and she backed slowly into the bedroom.

"So... what'll it be. Do I go to the couch, or the bed?"

Well, I may have been slowed by the shock, but I wasn't stupid.

"Oh, the bed. Definitely, the bed."

I found out that the distance from my dick to my mouth was just the right to match the distance from her mouth to her cunt. And my stumps would give me just enough leverage to make her happy when I got inside her and pushed. And her breasts were very sensitive to suction from my lips.

The next morning, I further discovered that her mouth delivered the very best kind of blow job; I saw stars. And that there was about an inch of my dick left over when she found her gag point. And that I could still push up into her, when she straddled my hips. And that I just barely reached her cervix with the end of my cock when I was deep.

Shortly thereafter, I discovered that I could -- and did -- get to the toilet in time for my morning pee, with her laughing the whole time, considering that I had to get into and out of my wheelchair. I pointed out that she wouldn't think it was so funny if I'd used her as a pee-receptacle, if I hadn't made it on time.

I was shocked when she mentioned that that might be fun sometime.

I don't think I'll be turning in my journal to any Army shrink, thank you very much. I wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea about any kinky ideas that my fiancée had. Chapter 03

Over the next few days, we got settled into the apartment. That's 'we' -- as in both of us together. Somehow, we skipped over several parts of the mating dance: dating, boyfriend/girlfriend, being exclusive, etc. And moved right along to living together. We even skipped over getting to know each other.

Now, this is the 21^st century. People -- well, at least some people -- are more easy going about sexual relations. But Cynthia and I had gone from sharing a cup of coffee to living together, with only a short stop at a hospital where I was de-legged. I thought that was a little strange. Too fast.

Of course, I didn't complain. I was getting prime pussy, something with which I was unfamiliar. I wasn't a virgin or anything close. I was shed of that condition back in high school. But I had been in the army in a female-hating Arab country for several years -- that's my categorization, in case you didn't know -- any place that arrests women for getting an education and condones 'honor' killing, counts as female-hating in my book. I don't think I'll put that in my journal. But seriously, who else do you think would make categorizations here?

Anyway, point is, I hadn't had any volunteer pussy except when I was on leave. That was damn rare, and it was only bar maids and junior officers at the base's unofficial bar. So, Cynthia, being Cynthia, had my unequivocal approval as a live in sex toy.

And boy was she ever. Maybe she hadn't had any opportunities lately either. She liked sex. Period. Any way, any time. Regular (vaginal) was very popular with us. Oral of course, coming (excuse the pun) in a close second. We discovered that she liked anal when I was mounting her missionary style, once, and slipped. And, well... plunged into her back door. It hurt like hell, she said. It was dry, with only a little of her pussy juice for lube, and she didn't want me to evacuate the premises, so to speak. She said it would hurt if I pulled out. By the time she got over the initial pain -- and me, being mentally fortified by lots of internet porn showing women who loved it -- I suggested that we explore a bit. We did. She liked it a lot. So that became an option for us, with adequate lube, in future sessions.

The strangest thing happened, after our anal adventure. She began to love what I can only call 'rough sex.' I'd pinch and pull at her nipples. Once, when I had her on her back, above me (reverse cowgirl, I think it's called -- you know the position if you've seen porn), she was leaning back against my torso as I plundered her ass. I was stroking or maybe she was, and I slapped her pussy. She erupted. More, more, she said. And that began to be a regular thing with us. Me slapping her breasts, and her pussy, con mucho gusto I might add.

What she loved most -- I'd honestly say, more than even vaginal sex -- was me turning her over my lap and getting her ass cherry-red from spanking. She could have a nice cum just from that, and then she'd fall to her knees and begin giving me the most exquisite blow job. I rested my hand on the back of her head, just to feel the motion. One time, when she hit her gag point, she reached back, took my hand, curled in her auburn tresses, and pushed hard. I quickly got the idea, and pulled her nose into my pubes, and, of course, pushed my cock down her throat. She loved that, when she popped her head off and regained her breath.

Don't misunderstand. Those were the spicy moments in a gourmand's delight of 'normal' sex.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into several months. I was getting nearly continuous rehab at the VA hospital and was learning to get around with my new fake legs. I had, naturally, absolutely no sense of balance -- maybe it was like walking on stilts. I don't know, 'cause I never walked on stilts. Anyway, it was tough. And, of course, I was getting nearly continuous sex at home when Cyn wasn't at work at Carbunkle.