Postcards Ch. 03

We turned to the ladies. Glenda Harlan was shocked that attention was directed her way, but Sheila was the important one. She looked disoriented. I tried to memorize the expression, since I doubted I would see it again. As a clue, I pulled on a non existent goatee beard. Kitten picked it right up. Her question was simply Gerald's name, but Colonel Harlan was well briefed. He agreed before I could get the full name out. However, something else caught his attention.

It turned out to be Glenda. Her expression cycled between shock and disbelief while Sheila spoke to her, using loaded terms like "security" and "CID." Glenda started to speak three times before giving it up. Colonel Harlan was stunned to see his wife speechless. I told him how Gerald summarized Sheila's ability to pass compact information. He barked a laugh, as I hoped, then huffed a couple more before giving in to hilarity. By the time he stopped laughing, Glenda was quite concerned. Colonel Harlan comforted her by saying he could pass the buck, in good conscience, and was glad to do so. Then he tipped Glenda to the wedding. Ouch.

Once Glenda had a girl subject, she was on home turf. In no time she dragged Sheila off to meet the other officer's wives. Considering the amount of coverage, that conversation could last a while. Or not. Sheila could be very short when she felt the need. It left me to talk shop with the Colonel, which was a bit weird. During my time in the Army, I was a trained animal. I did my act on cue, but discussions never involved me. At most I would get questions on procedure or a specific detail. Gerald was the one talking to the Colonels and Generals, often very unhappy ones.

Back then, Colonel Harlan would barely have spoken to me, much less felt the need to chat or confide. That evening it was the opposite. Colonel Harlan was on the bottom looking up. There is a saying that Pentagon Colonels get the coffee. That is usually taken to mean that they run errands, but there is a second meaning—sometimes they are asked to leave because they are not cleared to hear the discussion. This was such a situation. Colonel Arnold Sanderson "Sandy" Harlan wanted to get the low down from me, former Staff Sergeant Richards, because he would not get it through channels. Shit.

How did I sum up the woman I married? I settled on the proposal. I started with the ring. Finding Earl Clancarty's bride's ring was a landmark in my life. I spoke of the process of getting a ring made for her hand, buying the dress and the lace cover. I tried not to mention costs, because Sandy blanched when I mentioned the first one. Still, it made a nice yarn up to the point I was going to ask the question. I described the restaurant and the appetizers, then fell silent, lost in my memory.

Sandy—when had Colonel Harlan become Sandy?—waited me out. I liked his judgment. When I was fully back in the room, he asked, "How did you pop the question?"

This was the point of my story, so I allowed myself a smile. "I didn't, not really. Sheila asked me what the job was." That required more explanation. Sandy was very impressed with my habit of making job offers off the cuff. I knew I was unusual, but never thought of it as a talent to be admired. I found myself explaining how I hired Curtis and later CC. That led to Justin and the catalog. A lot happened that week.

I worked my way back to the restaurant, resetting the scene. I continued, "I had given her two checks that day, totaling over $40,000. Sheila thought it was too much, so I explained—in detail—why it was worth every penny and cheap at the price. She just listened, turning ghostly white. She never moved, never made a sound. When I finished, she asked me..."

"What position?" Sheila and Glenda had come up behind us.

I could play along. "What do you mean, 'What position?'"

"CC said you had a position to offer me. What position?" Sheila remembered it word for word.

"Spouse." My answer was easy to remember.

Sheila said, "Then he went down on one knee and offered me a two hundred year old Irish wedding band, which will fit my pinky finger. He had this one made to my size." She showed Glenda her wedding band. Sheila doing girl talk, who'da thunk it? Still, even the Colonel was impressed with the claddaugh ring.

We talked a bit about the symbolism and the lineage of the original ring, which led to the dress. We must have spent half an hour telling stories about the wedding preparations, before talk returned to mundane issues. We would be flying back to Hawaii in the morning. Glenda was clearly taken with Sheila, so I extended an invitation to visit us if they were ever in our part of world.

Sheila:

I dreaded questions about our wedding. For a while it was easy, because Francine's name was magic. We were in an alcove of the officer's club, where several of the wives gathered. Glenda introduced me to everyone, then asked about the newspaper story on the wedding. There was a lot of talking until one of the younger women pulled up an article on her PDA. There was a picture of Francine and Siobhan. I explained that Siobhan did not feel comfortable in a dress, so she wore the suit and stood with her brother. Someone asked about the short woman next to Siobhan. I barely started to answer before the room filled with variations of, "Oh my God. That's Francine Martel." All of the smart phones came out.

For one of the few times in my life, I hated technology. Googling my name with Francine's turned up a lot of things that had not been in the papers. That was not bad. The ladies talked among each other about each new tidbit. Then someone tried looking for video. The screens on smart phones are tiny, but big enough to show my duet dance with Francine. It did not take long before someone found a laptop. The stream was jerky, the picture quality was mediocre, the sound was not even that good, but it still was unmistakably me dancing.

Suddenly all the attention was on one of the younger women, while her attention was on the screen. Glenda noticed my confusion. She quietly told me that the woman, Becky, was the music teacher at the high school and taught dance on the side. When the dance ended, Becky looked up and asked how long we had rehearsed. It caught me off guard and I could feel my face heat. I said we had spent a couple of days working together. It was true, though the days were almost fifteen years before.

Becky was not satisfied. She asked if I always did the man's part. That caused a stir and Becky had to explain that I was dancing the part of the Prince, to Francine's Sugar Plum Fairy. She turned to me and asked who had choreographed the modern version. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Glenda stepped in and told them all to give me some room. That left me with the floor. I fixed my mind on the press conference, where I showed naked pictures of myself. If I could do that, I could survive this. I started with Oskar Gruber's studio and worked my way through that night in Manhattan. I told them of the days we were short on boys, so I had played the Prince in practice.

When it came time to do the reprise, I remembered those sessions with Francine and channeled the Prince from the night of the performance. I had almost escaped, when I mentioned the company that loaned me Mikka. At the word "Bolshoi" the entire room went silent. At that point someone in the back found a reference to my night at Lincoln Center. I wanted a big rock, so I could die in privacy.

Fortunately, Becky knew enough to explain to the others, more or less. My breathing was returning to normal, when I heard the words, "Oh, much better." Everyone looked at me again. I figured Becky told them I was a better dancer than she was. I had jumped to the wrong conclusion. Becky actually said I was a much better dancer than Francine, which I would have protested had I understood.

In a way it was good. Glenda used the pause to pull me out of the situation. We retreated to calls of "Congratulations" and "So nice to meet you." Glenda pulled me from the room into a storeroom, off the kitchen. I had not realized that my heart was racing until I tried to center myself. Deep breaths. When things finally approached normal, I felt like I had just finished a workout.

Glenda apologized, "I'm sorry, my dear. I did not realize how shy you were. You cover it well." Shy? Martha's words rang in my ears, "It is so nice to see someone pull you out of your shell." Was I really that bad? Apparently so. Even Sean had commented on my layers of armor. I had let Sean inside. Now there was someone else. I reached for Glenda and pulled her into a family hug. She was surprised, but returned it in full measure. As we hugged, I felt a weight lift from my soul.

We separated and repaired our makeup. Glenda insisted that I say good bye to the other women. That proved easy enough. I told them that Glenda could forward me their emails and to make sure the one she had was current. Glenda nodded full agreement, which satisfied everyone. I planned to send a them all a nice behind-the-wedding folio. There was plenty of material.

In that pensive mood, we came back to Sean and the Colonel. Sean was telling him how I spoiled his proposal. In keeping with a theme of quashing Sean's lines, I jumped in with, "What position?" Teddybear never missed a beat. We said our lines to the end. Sean even went down on one knee again. It was a comforting memory, which I needed after my panic attack with the wives. I even enjoyed when Sean picked me up again, though he did not carry me away.

Instead, he set me back down, so I could explain everything. Sean was grinning like a fool as I walked Glenda through the events leading to where she had come in. Glenda was shocked that I was paid so much money for just a few days work. The Colonel backed Sean, citing Mark Twain, "The difference between the right word and almost the right word, is the difference between a lightning bolt and a lightning bug." From that perspective, I could see Sean's point. Glenda asked when we had eaten dinner. Sean and I cracked up.

I laughed until tears came, waving to get Sean to continue the story. I could tell this would be a favorite for years to come. By the time I was able to stick in my next bit—about texting Francine an engagement announcement, then pulling the battery out of the phone—Glenda and the Colonel were laughing with us. It was the perfect end to the evening. As I hugged Glenda good night, she promised to come up next time they visited the Capital.

As Sean shook the Colonel's hand, he gave me a sideways look. I was getting lucky. Glenda's low chuckle told me she understood exactly what Sean had in mind. I blushed. She leaned close and said, "You like your man aggressive and you chose well. It's why I picked Sandy." I knew there was a reason I liked her.

Sean:

For a dinner that had started very tense, things finished remarkably well. I could see that Glenda and Sheila had bonded. The nature of the trial would wait for another day. It was clear Sheila had pulled through it, probably with Glenda's help. Role playing my flubbed proposal seemed to be the perfect tonic. In retrospect, it really was funny.

The capper was when Glenda asked what happened to dinner. Sheila laughed to tears, but retained enough control to urge me on. I had seen Sheila out of control and did not want to go there again. The contrast to this night was dramatic and sexy. All the laughter left Sheila flushed bright pink. The sight pulled at something in my groin. Except for the one exceptional round in an airline commode, this honeymoon had been short on nookie. It was time to change that.

As I shook Sandy's hand, I glanced over at Sheila. She saw and understood. My Kitten rarely misses anything. I was a bit surprised when Glenda also picked up on it. She whispered something to Sheila, which made her blush again. In a heartbeat my shorts were much too tight. Sandy didn't miss that. I think Glenda could look forward to a nightcap as well. For myself, I thought in terms of a quicky against the wall, then a shower, followed by a more serious fuck. We could not get out of there fast enough.

Naturally, life intrudes. I wanted one more look at the monuments, both American and Japanese. In the dark, the stained glass window of the chapel was noteworthy. I still felt the towering pines at the Japanese cemetery made the heavier impact. I could not think of them without thinking of the $12.95 version I saw every Christmas. The irony was too deep for me to read.

As we pulled into our parking place, I looked down at my wife. She was curled up next to me like a cat near a space heater. I had decisions to make. The night before, I had tried to be Studly von Dominant. Sheila told me to work on my knots. I needed a different approach. This time, instead of worrying about how she felt, I would get my rocks off, then worry about the rest. My first impulse—a quick fuck—seemed to be a good one. Maybe that was a clue. I could fulfill my fantasies and tell Sheila about it afterward, as if she would not figure me out.

Whatever else was true, Sheila was going to be ready. When she and Glenda returned from meeting the other ladies, Sheila had been flushed. I knew that look. Something had set her heart racing. When she came down she would be horny as hell. The military calls it post action prick. The hormones for fear and sex are the same. Before I thought to check, Sheila's scent filled the car.

If I let her, Sheila would drape herself all over me. Under the circumstances, some directions were in order. That, I knew how to do. Using my best don't-fuck-with-me voice, I whispered, "You're acting like a cat in heat. Show some decorum or I'll walk you through a check out line at the PX. Then everyone will know what you are." Sheila sat up straight, but the pungency cranked up a couple notches. Poor Sgt. Johnson. He was going to have to explain why his car smelled of horny woman.

There are commercials showing a car. A spokesperson pulls an unseen cover away, revealing a different car underneath. On Sheila, my orders were just as transforming. In her usual flowing, unhurried fashion, she uncurled, placed her feet on the floor, hands in her lap and eyes forward. Only the scent remained the same.

When we reached our quarters, I walked around the car. Sheila had not moved. I opened the door and extended my hand. She grasped my hand and flowed to her feet, thereby setting a pattern for our married life. I extended an arm, which she took. I assured Sgt. Johnson that we would need no further assistance. As he drove off, I considered my wife. Alfred Hitchcock referred to Grace Kelly as a snow capped volcano. In the press she was an ice queen—cool, beautiful, distant. Privately she seduced her married leading men. It was a thought I would share with Sheila, some other time.

For the moment, I intended to use her as a fuck toy.

Sheila:

Saying goodbye to Glenda filled me with mixed emotions. We connected, but would not see each other before Sean and I left, if ever again. Meanwhile Sean was riding male hormones, so I foresaw sex in the very near future. A few minutes earlier that would have scared me, but my own hormones were beginning to take over.

In any event, the near future could wait a few minutes. The sun set and darkness fell almost as fast as we could get from the officer's club to the car. Sean wanted to see the two memorials after dark, which was worth the extra look. The back lit window of the chapel was memorable, but my enduring memory is of the tall trees at the Japanese cemetery, silhouetted against the horizon's fading glow. Sean never explained why he took me to Kwajalein, but I understood. Like Siobhan in Elizabeth, a life transition had taken place there.

All these things were going on while I held Sean's sleeve and snuggled close. As we left the cemetery my thoughts turned to him and what I wanted to do. Warmth flooded the lower half of my body. Sean's only reaction was to tell me to behave. Yes, Sir. I sat up straight while I savored the idea of calling him Sir on a military base, where he did not rate the courtesy. I started doing warmup stretches in my mind, to keep from fidgeting. It was not far to our new suite, but the speed limit was a slow crawl.

When we stopped, Sean immediately climbed out his door. He had not given me instructions to move, so I channeled Christine and sat still. Sean walked around the car, opened my door and extended a hand. That gave things a pleasing symmetry—I was obedient, while Sean was attentive and helpful. That would work. One more small piece slid into place. If married life was a jigsaw puzzle, I could start to make out the picture.

Sean gave me his arm. I held it while he dismissed Sgt. Johnson. We walked for a few minutes in the warm night, but Sean was merely prolonging his anticipation. If I read him correctly, he was going to have me quickly and harshly. My juices started to soak past my panties and make my thighs greasy. For control I turned each step into a four beat routine—Toe, up, heel, down, Toe, up, heel, down. One, two, three, four, Five, six, seven, eight. It worked well enough to get me to our door. Sean unlocked the door, then held out his hand. He did not want my hand in return.

In full view from the parking area, standing under a light, Sean wanted my panties. Rather than be coy and minimal, I did a Christine. Bending over slight to reach the hem, I raised my skirt. Holding it in my teeth, I put both thumbs in the silk shorts that Francine had provided and pushed them all the way to my ankles. When I reached bottom, Sean said, "Stop." It was not spanking position exactly, but it would do quite well.

Sean calmly pulled up my skirt with one hand and placed his other full on my left glute. Muttering, as he often does, he said, "Cheeky." and chuckled at his pun. Having felt the same about Christine, I knew what would come next. The question was how? Sean did not know his knots, but he worked out regularly. He understood warming up, nor did he disappoint.

I had asked for a spanking, so Sean wanted me ready to enjoy it. I had been saucy and impudent, so he kept me bent over in the entrance while he caressed and pinched my cheeks, moving up to little fingertip swats. He worked carefully, covering everything from thigh to top of the arch. He took long enough that I was starting to feel the position, which was a while. Most of my clients would have broken posture long before.

Sean must have realized it, because he stopped, with the heel of his hand on my tailbone. He started to muse under his breath. I caught phrases, such as "too public' and "sit on the plane" but nothing complete. While he thought, his middle finger stroked my anus. That, apparently unintended, stimulus was harder to take than the posture or his light spanking. I concentrated on breathing slow even breaths.

Fortunately, Sean is decisive. He made up his mind and gave my ass an echoing slap, which sent tremors through my body. I took it as permission to continue, so I stepped from my panties. Sean was busy opening the door. As soon as it swung open, he waved me through. Even before the door closed, his hands were opening his fly. He was going to have me against the front door. Anticipating his desire, I place my back to the door and raised one foot. Sean grabbed the ankle, placed it on his shoulder and plunged deep on the first thrust.

My world exploded. Sean slid in easily until our pubic bones bumped. It may not have been exactly what Christine gets from a pubic bump, but I saw stars. His hands went behind me, to pull me into the next thrusts. There were only three. With each I was on the edge, but not over it. On the forth thrust, Sean shot his load. Even as I mentally whimpered at not gaining release, I treasured the warm feel of his sperm. For some reason, I have always felt that was the moment when we conceived our daughter.