Serving the Troops

She and her husband used to watch the soldiers out jogging. "He's cute," she would say, and her husband might agree, might disagree, might--if he knew the man by reputation or personally--tell her something about the object of her interest: "Yeah, but he's an idiot," "Yes, and smart, too," "Ugh! He's ugly and mean!" It was fun, a way to entertain themselves while they walked their dog.

Now her husband is gone, 2,000 miles away, give or take, and she watches the soldiers jog every morning. She walks the dog to the exercise field and around it and then back home. Some of the soldiers she knows; they wave back and forth, and sometimes the ones who aren't busy come over to chat by the fence. It reminds her irresistibly of high school when they do, and so she has to fight not to giggle while she talks to them.

She is attractive; not a beauty, but with her infectious smile and that air of barely suppressed merriment, she grows more and more delicious as the men talk to her. When she walks away she is lovely indeed, with long shapely legs and full breasts, a trim waist and a high, erect carriage. The men look for her every morning, although she doesn't know that; she just knows that she likes men, and they have always liked her, too, for friendship if nothing else.

But it's difficult right now. Her husband is gone, has been gone for a few months, and won't be home for many more to come. She is lonely and, frankly, horny. So is he, but he's not really in a position to do anything about it; she, on the other hand, is surrounded by young men in excellent shape, many of them at the peak of their sexual drives, eager to chat and impress her. She is older than many of them, sometimes by as much as 10 years, but, I do enjoy looking at them, she thinks, and sighs, and walk on, her silly beagle dog gamboling at the end of his leash ahead of her.

The last time her husband called she told him these thoughts, making a joke of it. "Well, why not?" he had said, to her surprise. "Just be, you know, careful, and discreet... but why not." She had stuttered and stumbled for a moment, unable to think of any reply; said "Oh boy," and left the topic.

But wow, why not... It was not as though she would ever leave her husband. He was hers, inextricably bound into her and with her, and she knew the same was true for him. But damn, she misses sex. Masturbation, even with her toys, just couldn't approach the real thing. She misses the sweaty, messy part of sex, and the tender cuddling of it, and the pure sensuality of skin on skin. She is starving to be touched.

Her thoughts are interrupted. "Hey, Mrs. Kaye," says someone. It is a sergeant she knows well; he's married, and she is friends with his wife. He is jogging in place; he is not alone. Beside him is a new soldier, also jogging in place steadily. "This is Lieutenant O'Brien," says the sergeant. "Just got here. We're sponsoring him. This is Elizabeth Kaye."

The soldier nods politely at her, grave and civil. When their eyes meet she gets just a little flash of heat, and she looks away after a moment, her smile slipping just a little--she was looking at him a little too long, but he is worth the looking. "Oh really?" she says to Sergeant Moore. "Well, bring him by for dinner. Come tonight, if Marie can come, too." She smiles at O'Brien. He is tall, with black hair and dark, intense-looking eyes. Heavy brows, beautiful bones in his face, in nice shape as most of the soldiers are... his shirt is sticking to his chest just a little in the humid morning air. "How about it?" she asks him.

His voice is steady and not winded from his running. "It would be my pleasure."

"Sounds good to me," says Sergeant Moore. "Why don't you call Marie and set it up?" He begins to move away, followed by O'Brien. "See you tonight, then."

"Nice to meet you," says O'Brien. His voice is nice--low and courteous. They are gone, and she starts walking again, the dog zipping around her.

O'Brien. She wonders what his first name is. Wonders if he's a "why not" kind of guy.

His first name is Patrick. "A good Irish name," he says after dinner with a faint smile. "Like Elizabeth Kaye," he adds, and they all talk about that for a while--they are all descended from the Irish in some degree or other, isn't that amazing? Patrick O'Brien doesn't talk much, doesn't laugh much. Smiles in all the right places. Smiles in all the right ways.

And watches her. Throughout the evening, she moves barefoot around her apartment with the pleasurable glow of a woman who is being watched by an attentive man. It lends her more grace than usual, and if she is warm, it is not just the summer air or the two glasses of wine.

Her three guests finally get up to leave around 11 p.m. It is finally dark outside--these long days take forever to fade--and they will have a pleasant walk back to the base. The Moores live in base housing; O'Brien has a room in the barracks. Elizabeth lives just a block from the gates to the base, "on the economy" as they say here.

The Moores walk out the door, and Patrick follows. His hand slides down the door onto hers--accidentally? who knows--and she almost gasps. Her lips part and she shoots a glance at him. His dark eyes are right there, waiting for hers but unreadable; he seems ready to say something, then shakes his head and smiles just a fraction, and all of her guests are gone.

She closes the door but--unthinking?--leaves it unlocked. Moving around the living room, straightening things up, she is in a hurry. She just wants to get finished so she can go to bed and have a really good, hot fantasy about young Lieutenant O'Brien. She pulls all the curtains closed and turns off all the lights but one small lamp.

Does she... hear something? No. Well... maybe? Not wanting to, thinking she is an idiot, she crosses to the door; hesitates; opens it.

He comes in just as hesitantly, one tentative step forward. He is alone now, the Moores are long gone.

She takes his hand--oh, that electric shock, contact--and pulls him inside. As soon as the door closes behind him they are on each other, hands, mouths, arms and elbows and the urgent pressure of body against body. They turn and he pushes her back against the door.

His mouth on hers is seeking, hungry. Lips, teeth, tongue--she opens her mouth, sucks on his lower lip and then tastes his chin and neck. His face is slightly rough--it's been a long time since this morning's close shave--and the dark bristly roughness of beard on his narrow face excites her as he kisses her neck, bites her earlobes gently. His hands tangle in her soft brown hair, move over her shoulders and back, press her against the door so he can kiss her mouth again, deeply, fiercely.

They are almost silent except for the moist sounds of their kisses, the ragged sound of breathing as they explore each other with their mouths and hands. He is kissing her throat and she leans back, willing him to go lower, where her nipples are standing at attention, hard and sensitive and wanting to be touched. Finally she grabs his hand and places it firmly on one breast, and in an instant he changes the mood. Now she stands still, except for the occasional shudder, as he undresses her.

He unbuttons her cotton shirt slowly, kissing everything he sees, and when that is gone, her bra follows quickly. He looks at her naked breasts as though they are the fruit of Eden, and she grins a little at his expression, then gasps as he leans forward and runs his tongue around her right nipple. Her nipples prickle and harden even more as he sucks and licks them; his hands cradle them tenderly even as his teeth close ever-so-gently and she gasps again.

Now he moves lower. Kneeling, he kisses her belly and unzips her shorts. As they drop down she kicks them away and waits for her underwear to follow. Her pussy is wet and she wants to feel his tongue licking her so much... But he doesn't take her panties off immediately. Instead, he pulls them to one side and looks wickedly up at her face as he--oh sweet Jesus have mercy--slides two fingers deep into her wet pussy. With the other hand he is pulling her panties up and to the side; there is a narrow band of silk pulled tight across her clit and he works his fingers in her and pulls the panties tighter and tighter until she moans and bucks against the door, her eyes closed, fingers clutching his black hair.

He lets her rest for a moment and pulls her panties off. But now she is sinking down, kneeling too, and facing him. She picks up his hand and licks her juices from his fingers. He watches as though paralyzed, and then she leans forward and kisses him deeply, her own taste all over her mouth. She unbuttons his shirt and kisses his chest--smooth, oh yes, just the way she likes it--biting his nipples gently and then pushing him back to lie on the floor. She leans over, her hair falling like a curtain around her face. Her breasts swing tantalizingly over him as she unzips his jeans and, as he helps by lifting his hips from the floor--pulls them off. He doesn't seem to have been wearing underwear, and she cocks one eyebrow at him. He looks sheepish and she smiles.

His cock is large, lying hard and heavy against his leg; he sits up just a little so he can see her as she kisses his taut belly, kisses his hips, his thighs--everything but his dick itself. Just as he is ready to go mad with it, she slides her mouth over his cock and takes it deep into her throat in one smooth motion. He nearly comes right then, but prevents it (with difficulty); he wants to get inside that pussy with more than two fingers. She moves her mouth up and down his shaft, and he gets--although it seems impossible--bigger. Harder. Thicker. She licks him all over, shaft, head, flicking softly with her tongue and then taking him all the way in again, then moving down to suck his balls and roll them gently in her mouth.

"Wait, stop," he moans, she knows he is right at the edge. She moves back and stands up; he follows as she leads him into her bedroom.

On top of the covers he lowers himself onto her. He pauses, the head of his cock nudging gently at her swollen lips, and she pushes herself up and open, taking him all the way inside in one hungry motion.

He starts slowly. He moves his body rhythmically, steadily, in long, smooth strokes. She can feel the shaft stroking her pussy, and his head splits her wide open each time he moves down again. She wants it faster, harder. Her eyes are closed, and she urges him on, panting, but he refuses. She is moaning, begging, and she opens her eyes to see him staring down at her, his dark eyes hot and intense and merciless as he continues his long, smooth stroking, up and down his shaft, thrusting strongly and slowly. She can see his reflection in the mirror that hangs on the closet door, the muscles in his ass clenching again and again as he strokes. Go faster! she moans again. No, he resists, he won't. Please, she is begging, her eyes shut tight again, her voice high and frantic, harder, harder harder harder. No, he says stubbornly. No, this is it. Can't you feel it? His voice is hoarse and she is as tight, as hot, as wet as she has ever been. He strokes and strokes and strokes and oh my god she is coming, her body arching against his as he lets himself come, too, jetting his hot cum into her pussy as deep as he can as they both shudder and cry out, coming coming coming coming.