No Going Home

As the wars wound down the Department of Defense decided they simply couldn't charter for individual flight's full of returning soldiers. It was understandable. There just weren't enough soldiers to justify their own birds.

So that's how it came to pass that I was boarding a standard Lufthansa flight for the second leg of my trip home from Afghanistan. We were stuck in Camp Virginia, and Ali Al Salem Kuwait for a week, out processing and just waiting. An insane wait. Seven days with nothing to do but wait for your turn on the next flight home.

After 7 months downrange with too much death and destruction and no rest, no beer, and no pussy I — and every other soldier there — was raring to get home. Unfortunately, I was headed home to a precocious youngster and a very pregnant wife. The R&R seven months ago had obviously been good to me, but I knew that 'the wife' was struggling with sleepless nights and a big belly. I'd be lucky to get a welcome home blowjob.

There were sixty of us getting on the flight from Kuwait International Airport to Frankfurt, Germany. From there we were supposed to immediately switch birds and take the next leg to Philadelphia. Then from there it was to be open season and we'd all go our separate ways via our own commercial air. Well, that was the plan anyway.

At the Kuwait holdover base we got a brief from the plane commander. Even though we would be travelling on civilian planes there had to be some unlucky bastard 'in charge.' I was a ranking officer but an older Master Sergeant (MSG) drew the short straw. He read a long laundry list of do's and don'ts. He reminded the soldiers that there was no drinking on the planes until they were released in Philadelphia. An audible groan went through the mass. He also told everyone to change into civilian clothing, as we were to be flying incognito.

It was silly, really. Sixty (mostly male) soldiers, with shorn hair and wearing cargo pants and polo shirts stand out as much as sixty soldiers in uniform. Nevertheless, we welcomed the change into our civvies. An hour later we boarded the bus for the terminal. Another thirty minutes later and we boarded the plane with regular tickets in hand, spread about the cabin. Rank has its privileges and I got lucky when I got upgraded to business class seats at the front of the cabin. I got even luckier when a fetching young lady approached and pointed to the window seat next to me.

********

I guessed her age around 23, about 20 years younger than I. She stood a diminutive 4 foot 11 inches or maybe 5 feet tall to my 6 feet 2 inches. Her hair was covered with a hijab in keeping with local Kuwaiti tradition but she was obviously European or American. Her pale face was set off by sea green eyes with a wicked glint. She smiled and said "excuse me, please" with a notable Irish lilt. Oh my, this was going to be an interesting flight.

She was small breasted, but wide of hip. My favorite combination. In keeping with Fight Club, I wondered briefly if I would get "ass or crotch." She chose crotch, shuffling past me while facing me. I rose briefly so she could squeeze past me. Even half standing, my eyes were level with hers. She gave me a megawatt smile as she slid past and sweetly said "Thank you for being a gentleman." Her perfume was intoxicating. I recognized it immediately, Jean Paul Gauthier's 'Woman.' It was my favorite. A choice my wife often wore. I hadn't smelled it in months, when last I got a perfumed letter from home. The odor immediately stirred my senses, memories of better times. I tried not to drool.

I complimented her on her perfume choice as she settled her carry-on underneath the seat. She smiled again and said "Oh, you like it...I hope it's not too strong."

I laughed, "No, it's wonderful. Hi, I'm Jack."

She giggled "Well, then I am Jill."

I looked back and laughed, "No...not really?"

She giggled again, "No. Not really. But it's perhaps easier than my given name, Shevon."

"Oh, you mean S-I-O-B-H-A-N?" I asked.

Her eyes went wide, "Yes, how do you know that?"

"Oh, I know a lot," I teased.

"Hmmm," she smiled, "perhaps I'll be fortunate enough to see how much you know." Her accent was as entrancing as her perfume.

The conversation had taken a definite turn with that flirtatious comment.

Playing to her barb I responded "Well, it's a long flight. We shall see."

As the flight crew prepared she took to packing away some of her things. Then she removed the hijab. Now it was my turn to be surprised. One might expect lovely, Irish, crimson locks, but her, just-less-than-shoulder length, feathered hair spilled from the charcoal covering in luscious lavender. It was an otherworldly dye job. She looked like a fairy come to life. Her elfin features made her look a good bit like a younger Paige Davis...the lady who used to host the Trading Spaces home improvement TV show. But with very purple hair. I loved it.

I could see why she wore the hijab. That kind of hair and beauty would attract some unfavorable attention in Kuwait. As she folded up the hair cover, the Gauthier perfume washed over me in another wave. I got an instant erection which was fortuitously covered by the tray table.

I couldn't be blamed. I hadn't had real female companionship since leaving home. Most of the women I dealt with in Afghanistan would sooner cut my balls off (the natives) or avoid me (the fellow soldiers). And the Army Combat Uniform (ACU) and body armor doesn't do much for the most beautiful of women.

Siobhan didn't have that problem. Under the hair cover she had been hiding a crisp French cuffed, man's white shirt unbuttoned to just the top of her décolletage — what little she had. An oxblood red leather corset rode beneath her pale but enticing A or small B breasts. She wore black skinny jeans that hugged her ample ass. Matching oxblood leather half boots with small but sharp heels finished off her sleek outfit.

As I surveyed her outfit from the corner of my eye, my cock leapt in my pants again. It was hard to keep "Lil Jack" in check. It might really end up being a very long flight.

We bantered back and forth for awhile as the plane readied for takeoff. A few soldiers cheered as the wheels left the tarmac. So much for 'incognito' I thought. That was still understandable. We were leaving the third world and headed for Europe and then home. A little revelry was justified and to be expected.

Siobhan asked "What's all the excitement about?"

Because we were at the front of the plane, she hadn't realized that many of the occupants looked a lot like me in hair and dress.

I whispered "There are lots of soldiers on here headed home. Shhh, it's a secret."

"Oh," she gamely whispered back, "Like you?"

I blushed a bit and half-whispered "Yes, like me."

Her eyes flashed "I like a man in uniform...but you're not wearing one." She frowned.

I frowned too. "Sorry, OPSEC...operational security."

She smirked "well, I'm not an American...but thank you for your service."

My thoughts turned dirty...thinking, but not saying 'I'd like to service you.' Instead, I answered the way I always did, "Thank you...it pays the bills."

We chatted for awhile. She told me that she was a Belfast artist — no surprise there — trying to sell some work to some Kuwaiti royalty. Apparently, the guy who lured her down to Kuwait wanted more of her than her art work. No sale. I could certainly understand his logic. But, I put on my best 'gentleman' act and feigned being chagrined and said "Guys these days...whatchagonna do?"

She pulled out an iPad and showed me some of her work. It was extremely good. Oil paintings, very dark material. A bit Goth, a bit Steampunk, again not that surprising, given her appearance and mode of fashion. She showed me the stuff she was working on now...a series on Dante's Inferno. 'Obvious Gothgirl is obvious.' I thought to myself. But, actually, that was just my kind of stuff.

I grew up as the closet Goth, that wasn't. I dressed like the Preps, but I listened to The Cure, Nine Inch Nails, Depeche Mode, Ministry, Sixteen Volt...whatever. I wasn't really a disaffected youth, but I acted like one in private. In a previous life this girl would have been perfect for me.

She asked about my background. As talk turned to me and my family, waiting back at home, my thoughts of raging infidelity turned to guilt. I was, after all, married with child(ren). But I loved everything about Siobhan. Her look, her carefree attitude, her clothes, her artwork. I imagined a Business Class bathroom trip ending her joining me in a fevered attempt to join the Mile High Club. My daydream was all 'clawing at clothes and hot flesh, and deep penetration.' But, just as quickly, I tried to forget about the idea. Mostly unsuccessfully.

We ate our meager airplane food dinner and continued chatting. Business Class is a lot better than Coach — real silverware! — but that's still a low bar. Finally, the cabin lights were dimmed and we both drifted off to sleep.

An hour or so later I woke with a start. This time it wasn't a wet dream but a nightmare. Another nightmare. The flash of the Improvised Explosive Device (IED) going off, the heat of the blast, the screams, the blood and lifeless limbs, the flurry of activity as we raced to saved the injured and defend our position. I shook it off in a cold sweat, breathing heavily. Siobhan startled, looked at me from the dim moonlight of the open window shade.

She asked, concerned, "Are you okay?"

I brushed her off, a little too cavalier, "Yeah, sorry, just a bad dream."

We settled back into the chairs and fell back asleep. Awhile later I woke again. She had shifted sides, curled into a half ball, and settled her beautiful amethyst hair in the crook of my arm, her face against my chest. The perfume rose from her sleeping form like a cobra...biting into my psyche. Anyone else would have been a bit taken aback at the boldness of this stranger. I, instead, let her sleep like a babe in my arms. I reached my free hand up to brush the indigo hair from her face. Her cheeks were like ivory. The peaks of her collarbones between the shirt collar and the soft curve of her breasts were directly in my line of vision. Her scarlet lips moved with each resting breath. Again blood flushed to my nether regions, spurring me to action. My cock filled, despite trying my damnedest to remember baseball scores — and I hate baseball. 'What's another day of blue balls,' I thought. I stared at her glowing face for a few minutes, wishing and wondering, before I settled back and we slept again.

We both awoke later as dawn rose through the plane windows. She shyly apologized as she disengaged from my arm and slid back into her seat proper.

I told her "No problem, it was nice to feel...to feel something, someone, soft for a change."

Over breakfast and coffee, she asked me about the war, the fighting, what it was like? Off the cuff I responded, "Well you know more than most, it's just like Dante's Inferno." We talked some more. I explained my mission, what happened, about the soldiers and civilians we had seen killed or injured. I admit I got carried away, and a bit lost. Despite my pithy comments about Milton and Dante, no one can really understand. I stopped when I saw the single crystalline tear leak from her aqua eyes, down her porcelain cheek.

I apologized again, but she counter-apologized and said "We shouldn't speak of such things. I'm sorry I made you talk about it."

I lied and said "It's not a problem."

We continued to chat, enjoying one another's company as the flight prepared for landing in Frankfurt. The skies outside turned grim as we worked our way down in altitude. 'This is your Captain speaking' informed us that the weather was 'sehr schlect' (very bad) down on the ground. We had been cleared to circle for another half hour in hopes that the weather would clear in Frankfurt or we might be forced to divert. Central Europe was getting slammed by an Arctic system unlike they had seen for decades. Just my luck. There was lots of snow, sleet, and ice. The tarmac was loaded with planes trying to get out before they would be stuck, and the skies were loaded with aircraft trying to get down before they ran out of fuel.

The flight crew informed us that cancellations were piling up quickly and we might not make our connecting flights, if they were leaving at all. A chorus of groans and senseless chatter rose from the passengers, but there wasn't much that could be done. Mother Nature is truly a bitch.

It was 12 pm Central Europe time by the time we landed. It took us almost an hour to make it from the runway to the terminal. It was hopeless, and the soldier contingent already guessed we weren't going anywhere today. Frankfurt had 8 inches of snow on the ground and snow was falling at a rate of an inch an hour. We were pretty much stuck. Fortunately, the MSG plane commander was working with the local U.S. military to find us accommodations at a local hotel.

Rhein Main, the adjacent U.S. Air Force base that shared runways with Frankfurt International, had long since closed. In fact, I was in Germany, long ago, as a lieutenant, when it closed. But military liaisons at the airport made sure we all got rooms at the Grandhotel Hessicher Hof. This was far better accommodations than we could normally expect. Fortunately, the Army's idea of "never leaving a fallen comrade" apparently extended to providing top-notch accommodations — at least when none other were available. We'd have to get our bags from the carousel, meet the military shuttle bus, ride over to the hotel and bivouac there for the night. With luck the weather and runways would clear by the next morning.

I called home but it was still so early in the States I left a voice mail. 'Sorry honey, delayed again in Frankfurt. You know the deal...I'll see you all when I see you. Love you all.' As I grabbed my duffle bag from the carousel, Siobhan juggled a cell phone, a bag, and two large cartons — obviously some of the unsold paintings she was hawking in Kuwait. I walked up to help her as she hung up in frustration.

"Shit" she said under her breath.

I dragged her bags together and asked her if she was ok.

"All the rooms are booked, as you can bloody well imagine. Looks like the airport lounge is where I'll be staying tonight," she sighed.

I told her, "Nonsense, come with me. I'll either get you a room or you can stay with me."

"Oh, aren't you cheeky," she laughed.

"Well, it's not like that." I said...while thinking the exact opposite.

We finagled our way on to the military shuttle. The young Private First Class driver wanted to give me some trouble about Siobhan. First, I told him she was my wife, and he laughed at me.

"Like you would be so lucky," he said.

Siobhan blushed behind me, "Jack...if it's too much trouble...never mind me."

I gave her the "shhh" sign with a finger across my lips as I reached for my wallet.

A flash of my ID card — again, rank has its privileges — got us both on the bus. I slipped him a twenty and thanked him for his trouble. The bus driver was a lot more accommodating once he got some beer money.

She sat next to me graciously and wrapped her arm around me gracefully.

I looked at her bewildered for a moment and she answered back "I'm supposed to be your wife right?"

I smiled back and said "Yes, yes you are." I thought to myself, 'Irish eyes are smiling' on me.

********

When we finally made it to the hotel I was actually able to get her a separate room. At least I could maintain the pretense of good intentions. I helped Siobhan to her room with her baggage. Our day had passed far too rapidly, with all the delays lunch had long passed us by. Siobhan was so happy not to be sleeping at the airport she insisted on buying me dinner.

We stopped at her room and she suggested that we both get cleaned up and changed and I should meet her in the lobby at six pm. I concurred and humped my gear to my own room. After unsuccessfully trying to call home again I planned to take a very necessary 'cold' shower.

I brushed my teeth, shaved, and then did a little much needed manscaping. I trimmed the hair above my cock short and shaved it completely off my balls and taint...just in case. Tackling that job got me flushed; 'Lil Jack' was deep red-purple, overly excited and in need of release. I hit the shower. In the midst of a truly long and hot shower— my first in many months— I jacked my cock for the 100^th time since leaving home so long ago.

Standing beneath the blast of super-heated water I closed my eyes. I imagined Siobhan's tiny body in the shower with me, her pretty plum hair slicked down her neck. First she sucked me to hardness. Then she slid behind me to massage my cock and balls as her tiny diamond hard nipples grazed my back. She kissed the scars on my back, her tongue dancing on my spine as she reached around to fondle me. My long, hard shaft drooled precum as she worked it with her little hands. I turned, pulled her up to me, grabbed her by her thick thighs and lifted her up to me. Her hands wrapped around my neck. She probably weighed less than my duffel bag; my strong biceps held her up, with hands simultaneously holding and spreading those soft curvy ass cheeks. Our mouths met, tongues intertwined, and then I gently set her back down onto my shaft. Her shaved cunt accepted me slowly, until I pressed both our bodies against the shower wall and rammed it home. Her mouth went open as she looked skyward; she shook with her first orgasm...and ribbons of cum jetted from my cock and hand onto the shower floor. 'Well, that was short-lived,' I thought.

A two-minute fantasy in the shower was nice, but left me wanting so much more. But I wasn't sure I had the guts to go through with it. War was straightforward — go there, kill bad guys — in some ways easy even. Women, notsomuch.

I lay on the bed for an hour. Relaxing. Relishing the feel of real sheets, a real bed, and real central heat on my naked body. My body clock was all jacked up and I probably fell asleep. But I was fortunate to wake up in time to dress for dinner. Unfortunately, I didn't have much to wear. I had another pair of khakis and a casual button down shirt. Not much need for fashion in Afghanistan. All I had was enough to get me home in an emergency. ACUs would not do.

I got dressed, and primped a bit. I couldn't hide the wisps of grey in my hair. As I combed through my hair with my fingers my wedding band flashed in the mirror like a beacon. I was starting to rethink this whole dinner thing. I called Siobhan's room but got no answer. So, on schedule, I went down to the lobby level to look for her at the main restaurant.

I peeked into the Sèvres restaurant to see if she was already seated. No such luck. I asked the maître d if he had seated a pretty girl with lilac hair already. Again 'nein.' It was ten after six o'clock and I was beginning to wonder when I heard her Irish brogue come up from behind me.

"You looking for someone, mister?"

I turned to see a dark angel approaching. Siobhan had far out-dressed me. With the exception of her hair color, she was almost the spitting image of Paramore's punk princess Hayley Williams in "The Only Exception " music video. Just like Hayley, Siobhan's purple hair was French braided with wisps of bangs across her forehead. Her lips and eye shadow were dark, almost black with just a hint of red. Her neck and shoulders were bare and beautiful. She wore a black strapless leather dress that showed off her almost translucent skin. Unlike Hayley's dress, there was no big bow and this one ended well above the knee. Siobhan also showcased her legs in Cuban nylons with a trace of red at the feet and pencil thin red lines all the way up the backs. Her black heels were shiny patent leather, taller than the ones she wore on the plane. She held a small red clutch purse. She was like a Luis Royo Malefic vision come to life.