Postcards Ch. 03

We separated far enough to kiss, which also took a while. After proper consideration, I gave her a wry half smile and nodded toward the bed. Sheila actually squealed as she jumped on it. I loosely tied the scarves on the bedpost and allowed her to slide her her wrists in. There may have been a some amusement at my knot skills. I didn't practice knots as much as Sheila did, but I did manage a blindfold from a small towel. That done, I picked up the ice bucket, with its wash cloth in hot water. Once I had started, it occurred to me that Sheila could have held the water. Maybe next time.

To say Sheila was ready is an understatement. I would do something about that presently. For the moment, I took the cloth and wrung most of the water out. Using care—and many refreshments of water—I washed everything between her legs and cheeks. The rough fabric elicited some squirms, but nothing more. When everything was done, I squirted a generous amount of shave gel on my fingers and lathered it up. This went everywhere I had washed.

I got up from the bed to fetch the shopping bag from the night before. I opened the box of fresh razor heads and changed the blades. Sheila listened closely, her breathing heavy but regular. Starting on the right thigh, I removed the foamy gel. Washing the razor often, I removed all her hair, except a small bumper above the cleft. Shaving is nice, but baby smooth is getting old fashioned.

There was one area I could not easily reach. Rather than struggle with it, I put a hand under Sheila's ass and lifted. Sheila, understanding my desire, raised both her legs and hooked the ankles behind her wrists. This allowed me to reach all the little hairs around her lower vulva and anus. The water was still warm, but very soapy. Rather than add soap to the cloth, I wiped her with it cold. Once all the white was gone, I had Sheila lay out. I rolled rolled the cloth and touched Sheila's chin. She opened her mouth to accept the cloth.

Had we more time, it would be the perfect set up for an afternoon of pussy teasing and tongue fucking. Instead the restraints and gag were symbolic. Still, I could do a little teasing. I stroked Sheila's anus with one finger, making sure to use a lot of nail, but no pressure. With my tongue I probed as deeply as I could, but I avoided the clit. There was no convenient timer, but I counted licks to one hundred.

When I drew back, Sheila gave a definite whimper. I blew on her and said, "Come." At the same time I shoved my finger into her anus and bumped her clit with the only thing handy—my nose. The results were gratifying, though unusual. Sheila settled, almost as if something had drained out. She lay limp for a moment, then rolled out of the posture, slipped her hands from the scarves and pulled the washcloth from her mouth. Her embrace was the real message, but she said, "If you are going to sail the yacht, you will need to learn some knots." What can I say? Sheila is an expert.

Sheila:

It was sweet, but almost embarrassing, watching Sean try to work up to a BDSM scene. Our first time he had everything laid out for him. Afterward, he said he followed the map I gave him. I combed through the video. Once I could strip away the emotion, to analyze my own responses, it was obvious what reactions he was cuing to. I must have been pretty desperate to respond so strongly. For Sean, it was easy. All the props he could wish for were close at hand. The real skill was taking charge. Sean is very good at pushing.

This was different. We had no setting, no props, no negotiations. Sean had no idea where to go with the scene. He settled on shaving. As a scene, it had possibilities. When we were back in New Jersey I intended to do it for Christine, though with refinements. Sean's scene wanted distractions. As it was, it was very close to vanilla sex, but I found I liked vanilla sex with Sean. He gave me a nice slow shave, followed by a nice slow pussy lick. Sean finished his tongue bath, poked my asshole and bumped my clit, I was able to come on command. That was emotionally satisfying. It was also a new sort of climax.

This orgasm melted through me like a warm wave. When I masturbate, the goal is usually to relieve tension. Occasionally, I resort to self bondage, but always to get a big finish. Even if I managed multiple orgasms, there was a sharpness to the climax. This orgasm was more like one of Sean's massages. It left me loose and relaxed, mellow and satisfied.

I spit out the awful tasting gag, rolled out of the posture, pulled my hands from the restraints and pushed off the blindfold, which takes more time to say than to do. Sean was anxiously awaiting his grade. When did I become his teacher? I told him to work on his knots. Sean would hear what I did not say. There were better ways than words to tell him I appreciated his efforts, clumsy as they were.

I rolled to my knees and pulled down Sean's pants. He had been so intent on me that he was still flaccid, but that changed quickly. Sean pulled back to step out of his slacks and shorts. By the time he stepped forward, little Sean was at attention. I chuckled at the irony as I took him in my mouth.

One of the advantages of having Christine is that she could do research for me. Between the internet, Jason and several of Jason's professional contacts, Christine had done a crash course on fellatio. I received daily reports by email. For me, it was book learning, but at least I knew the theory of the expert blow job. It would not be as patient as Sean's cunnilingus, but men are usually quicker to cum than women.

I started by licking around the head of his penis. Once I had his full attention, I licked my way down the front of his shaft and played with his balls for a while. Teabagging is such a rude way to put it. I have always been fascinated by men's balls. They are so sensitive, so fragile, yet so vital. In the studio, I mostly left them alone. Since I had Sean's balls to play with, I did, using only tongue and lips. From his reactions, Sean found it interesting as well. Presently I started to work back up the shaft, nibbling as I went.

Deep throating is a skill I had not perfected. I could take about half his length before my gag reflex drove me back. That being the case, I focused more on the head. I could rub the head with my lips while still sucking like a vacuum.

Almost before I became serious about the theory, Sean fountained in my mouth. Stupid girl. Pay attention to the boy. I swallowed the cum as I prepared to be apologetic, which would have been the wrong move. One look at Sean's face told me he was composing poems in my praise. Why did so little matter so much?

I began to understand the old spit vs. swallow distinction for like vs. love. I was prepared to do far more for Sean, while he was willing to accept any unambiguous offering. Strange how that worked, but I could see the basis of a long term relationship—each partner willing to do more than the other asked. Whatever our respective internal dialogs, it was time to cuddle. I crawled into Sean's embrace and was content for a while.

.

All things pass. I thought about our plans. Sean wanted to see the beach, then something else. Tears started to roll.

Sean:

When I fingered Sheila's ass and bumped her clit, I was hoping for a reaction. What I got was unexpected. Sheila's whole body seemed to sigh and relax, rather like a successful massage. Before I could bask in the glow, Sheila demonstrated how symbolic the restraints were. In one continuous motion she spit the gag, slipped the hand ties, pushed up the blindfold and rolled forward on her knees. The first thing to slow her down, for a moment, was my belt buckle. Before I had time to assist, Sheila had her hands on my floppy cock.

It may have started soft, but quickly rose to the occasion. Starting with the tip of my prick, Sheila slowly worked her way to the base. That much was standard stuff. When I was willing to take lovers, several had shown skill at fellatio. Sheila quickly left them behind. She licked my sack and sucked on my testicles, one after the other. I came close to coming, before she decided to move back up the shaft. That gave me a spot of relief, but only a spot. The expression in high school was suck-the-chrome-off-a-trailer-hitch. I didn't last two seconds.

It was bad enough that I quick shot, but Sheila was taken by surprise. She took the full load in her mouth, with only a little escaping to one side. Though her eyes widened, she swallowed without hesitation. I cupped her chin with my fingers and wiped the small spill with my thumb. Sheila sucked it off. There was nothing left but to say, "I love you."

In a heartbeat, Sheila was in my arms. For that instant, all was right with the world. I stroked her lovely hair and told her how special she was. With most women that would be part flattery. Sheila really was exceptional and I was one to know. What I don't know is how to deal with a sobbing woman. Sheila was soaking my shirt.

So we stayed there, kneeling on the bed, while Sheila had her cry. I may have little experience with tears, but courage I knew from watching Jo cope with school. I had some concept of the cost of keeping a good front. God knows Sheila dealt with a lot of shit in the last two weeks. What I had seen was bad enough. From what Jo told me, I had not seen the worst of it.

As the issues rolled through my mind, I was tempted to slap my forehead. In addition to closing a business she had spent a decade growing, Sheila had also moved out of her home. The first thing I did was drag her halfway around the planet. This was on top of symbolic things like her favorite foundation. Way to go Clarence. Toting that much baggage had to be exhausting. At least I could put her to bed.

I wrapped Sheila in the bed cover and lay her down. Then I pulled up my pants and checked out the room. Like a decent motel room, there was a coffee maker. I was glad to find it also had a variety of tea bags. When the tea was done, I took it to Sheila and got her upright. While she sipped on it, I tossed an undershirt on the bed and went to start a shower.

When I came to fetch Sheila, she hid her face behind the styrofoam cup. I could still see her smile. She had to be thinking of the two times I all but carried her to her apartment. That got me to laugh. I had also given her a shirt one of those nights. That eased my mind a bit. Sheila had commented on how well she slept those two nights.

So it proved. We curled up under the sheets and were dead to the world for several hours. The phone rang at 0800 (8:00 AM). It was our nanny/watchdog/driver Sgt. Johnson. Thirty minutes later we met him at the desk. He was bearing gifts and a change of attitude. The gifts were hot drinks and sweet rolls. I loaded my coffee while Sheila sipped her tea. Both of us were sizing up Sgt. Johnson, who had the decency to squirm.

One thing I have learned in negotiations, the first one to speak loses points. Sheila seemed to know such things from birth, because her question was entirely nonverbal. After about ten long seconds, Sgt. Johnson sighed and said, "Which version do you want, official or off the record?" I love it when they cut to the chase. Without bothering to check with me, Sheila stood and picked up her purse. She answered, "That would be, 'Off the Record.'" Sgt Johnson did not seem surprised.

We made our way to the official car. Bicycling is normal on Kwajalein, so nothing is far. However, speed limits are at a bicycle pace, so we spent about five minutes traveling to the Memorial. Sgt. Johnson talked the whole way, but it was summed up in his first statement. "They want to get you a security clearance."

I was not the one they wanted cleared.

Sheila:

Sean was incredibly sweet, though clumsy as his totem animal. I was touched at the lengths he went to give me what he thought I wanted. Simple sex would have done that better, but it would not have been as thoughtful. Once we were done, he held me, as he often does. I relaxed a bit too much. Once the tears started, there was no stopping them. I hate being a girl, but there it was.

Fortunately, this put Sean back in his comfort zone. Crying women he could handle. He made me tea and found me a cotton pullover shirt to wear overnight. After a quick wash, we went to bed. I slept like a rock. Something about Sean getting all protective helps me sleep.

Morning brought reality. The day was well started when the phone rang. As I would have guessed, it was Sgt. Johnson. We had thirty minutes to get ready. As Sean and I showered, he told me to wear my swimsuit under my clothes and bring a hat. That meant a lot of time in the sun, so I insisted he rub me with sunblock. When I returned the favor, I spent extra time on parts that rarely see sun. Sean did not seem to mind.

When we went to the lobby, Sgt. Johnson had tea, coffee and rolls. Something significant had happened. If the refreshments were not a big enough clue, his entire attitude had changed. Sean could see it as well as I could, so we waited. I had only time for a few sips before Sgt. Johnson caved. He asked if we wanted the official or the not-repeatable version. A lobby is not a good place for confidential discussions, so I stood to go. Sgt. Johnson looked at Sean, but Teddybear backed me up.

It was a short drive. Along the way, Sgt. Johnson told us many things. It added up to invasion of privacy. They had opened my laptop and gone through the contents. This was a military installation. Sean had given me warning. We had been "debriefed" the day before. Sgt. Johnson was very apologetic in saying I had no right to privacy. It still burned. Worse, they wanted a favor. They wanted me to apply for a security clearance.

Sean was watching me closely. On one hand, he was amused at how deep the shit was getting. On the other he was being very careful not to get in my way. Sgt. Johnson, to his credit, was handling me like a priceless Ming vase. It took no great genius to figure out that he was Military Intelligence. What must have seemed like a token assignment was giving him experience on hostile ground.

We were spared a blow-up by arriving at the chapel. Sean had flown me halfway around the world to see this, so it made an effective diversion. Sean pulled Sgt. Johnson aside, so that I could read the plaques in peace. It was quickly clear why. The chapel was a memorial for the 372 marines and soldiers who were killed in the fighting. The stained glass window was from the 50th anniversary of the battle. Like all chapels, it was a solemn place. Sean had done well to let me see it alone.

Outside the chapel was the actual memorial. This had more history. The number of casualties was light, because the Japanese were unprepared for a combined arms landing. Historically, this was the first US attack on Japanese home territory. It went very well. The next round of assaults, in the Solomon Islands, was much more expensive.

From the memorial, we walked toward two towering trees. Sgt. Johnson fell far behind, having a lengthy cell phone conversation. As we approached the trees, Sean took my arm. It was a cemetery for the Japanese soldiers. The memorial chapel was for 372 American military. According to the plaques, the dead, in this cemetery and one on another island, were not counted. The estimate was close to ten times the number of American dead. What shocked me was the last line. Only 51 Japanese were taken alive, out of an estimated 5000 garrisoned in 1943. I understood why Sean had been so affected.

As we turned to go, Sean stopped at the two tall trees. Taking the end of one branch, he held it out for me to inspect. It took me a moment to make the connection, then I gasped. They were Norfolk pines, which are sold every winter as live Christmas trees. These were outdoors and nearly a hundred feet tall. Hmmm.

Whatever Sean's intent, my black mood had broken. It was a good thing, because Sgt. Johnson had an invitation. Colonel Harlan and his wife wanted to meet us.

Sean:

I had to give Sgt. Johnson, whatever his real name, points for preparation and perception. First he brought tea with the coffee, then he knew enough not to press Sheila. I was a veteran. I knew how the military can be. Sheila was a small town girl with a closed circle of friends. On top of that, she was very private. She did not take well the news that her laptop had been searched. Fortunately, we had other things to occupy our attention.

I went into the Army after two years at Brown, largely to irritate my mother. After basic and advanced training, I was assigned to learn artillery at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. That was where I met Gerald. It had to do with an unexploded artillery round, in a place it should not have been. There were no casualties, but there could have been several. The investigation was grim.

During my interrogation, I was able to explain how the shell had arrived at its resting place, which earned me nothing but a nod. At the time I was miffed. When the courts martial were posted and my name not among them, I was much more grateful. Names on doors changed and things went back to normal for almost everyone.

For the rest of my tour, I was a trained seal. As part of my duties, I took every advanced class in sight. Occasionally, with little or no warning, I would be stuck on a plane and flown to West Fleabite. My job was to figure out the physical trajectories of various, often dangerous objects. That brought me, and Gerald, to Kwajalein. For decades, the Army used the lagoon for missile tests. Things went wrong and my skills were needed.

It was a long temporary duty (TDY), almost six weeks. My classwork was forwarded, so I had something to keep me busy while on duty, but there are a lot of hours in a week. My off duty time let me explore the island. It did not take long to find the memorials and the cemetery. Between them, they changed my life. Gerald watched it happen. Of all the people I had met since, I thought Sheila would come closest to understanding.

The memorial chapel was first constructed within a year of the battle. Through the years, it has received several upgrades, including a large stained glass window on the 50th anniversary of the battle. As a soldier, I thought it fitting, but wondered at the small number of casualties. Then I discovered the cemetery, though mass grave would be more accurate. No one knows how many Japanese soldiers are buried there. It is well over one thousand and could be close to three.

An estimated 1500 Japanese never had a chance to fight. They were killed by shell fire and bombing prior to the landings. The landings came from the lagoon. Most of the Japanese positions face the ocean. For the defenders, it was a nightmare. They were disorganized, outnumbered and outgunned, with their backs to the sea. Yet, they often fought to the last man. Out of close to 5000, only 51 were captured, many too wounded to hold a weapon. That sort of ferocity resonated with me.

Sheila used the chapel to calm down. Chapels are good for that. As I hoped, the memorial and the Japanese cemetery had their effect. The understanding in her eyes made all the cost and trouble worth the trip. It also gave Sgt. Johnson his opening. A Colonel and his wife wanted to pay a social visit.

I had no illusions why the Colonel wanted to talk. The intel guys had seen what Sheila could do with images. The government has a great many images. Sometimes they want the images analyzed. Richards Enterprises was about to enter the world of criminal investigations, spies and terrorists. Approaching in his civilian persona, the Colonel could represent civilian branches, as well as Dept. of Defense. His wife probably had different reasons for wanting to meet us. Fame is its own punishment.