Images of characters can be found here:
forum.xnxx.com/threads/neapolitan-birthday-a-story-of-conquest.722461/
Friday night at the Fort Bragg Community Club, summer of 1986. The humid North Carolina air hung heavy even after dark, and the place was jumping, pool balls cracking, jukebox blasting Springsteen and Hank Williams Jr., cold beer in plastic cups flowing like water.
I was a brand-new second lieutenant Ranger, twenty-three years old, still wearing my BDUs starched so stiff they could stand up by themselves.
Even during the summer of ’86, An Officer and a Gentleman was still burning up the VCRs in every dayroom and barracks lounge on post. Richard Gere in dress whites scooping Debra Winger off the factory floor had half the female population of Fort Bragg sighing into their pillows at night.
You could feel it in the air, especially on Friday nights at the Community Club. The second a new second lieutenant walked in (hair still high-and-tight, brass still shiny, trying to look casual in starched BDUs), a ripple went through the room. Eyes flicked up from beers and pool cues. Whispers started. Some girl would elbow her friend and mouth, “Zack Mayo at three o’clock.”
It didn’t matter that none of us looked like Richard Gere (hell, most of us were still breaking out from stress and C-rat cheese). The fantasy was alive and well: the young officer who’d sweep in, see past the uniform and the attitude, carry you out of the fluorescent lights and into something better.
In addition to the dream of Gere, I had another advantage most didn’t. In the late 1980s, the Army was breathing new life into the storied Ranger regiments, forging fresh battalions from sweat and legend. I was one of the newly minted (a second lieutenant with the coveted black-and-gold tab still crisp on my shoulder), walking among the other shadow warriors of Fort Bragg. Even in a place where every man carried scars and stories, the short-tabbers like me wore a quiet aura, an almost mythic glow cast by the ghosts of Darby’s Rangers, Merrill’s Marauders, and the black-and-white photographs of Pointe du Hoc.
That aura worked like a charm in the dim haze of the clubs, on and off-post. The women who drifted through those doors (local girls, fellow soldiers in civilian clothes, nurses from Womack) knew the hierarchy as well as any sergeant major. They could spot the difference between a grunt, Special Forces and a Ranger in the time it took to order a rum and Coke. The scroll on the shoulder, the quiet confidence that came with knowing you’d already survived something most never attempted; it carried weight.
A subtle nod, a flash of the tab under the bar lights, and conversations started themselves. Eyes lingered longer, smiles came easier, and invitations to dance arrived without the usual games. The legacy of those who’d gone before us opened doors that rank alone never could.
It wasn’t arrogance; it was inheritance. We were just the latest to carry the torch, and on those smoky North Carolina nights, it burned bright enough to light the way straight to trouble. The best kind of trouble.
I was leaning against the bar with a couple other lieutenants when I spotted her across the room. Michelle Thompson, the woman whose legend paled to the real woman. Tall, athletic blonde sergeant from a neighboring unit, bent over the pool table lining up a shot. Rumors swirled around the post that she was in Playboy and did modeling on the side. Her woodland camo pants hugged long legs, BDU top a tad tight, sleeves rolled once.
When she stretched for the eight-ball, her shirt pulled across those full, pert D-cups, sports bra doing its best to keep everything in place. She sank the shot, straightened up laughing, and high-fived her buddies. One of them caught me staring, said something, and Michelle turned. Our eyes locked. She gave me this slow, knowing smile that hit me like a round downrange. It was well known that more men crashed and burned trying to pickup Michelle than did during all of WW II.
I shifted down the bar a few steps, angling for a better view and a little breathing room from my buddies. Thirty seconds later she was walking straight at me under the guise of refreshing her beer, hips rolling just enough to make the whole room tilt.
She stopped close (close enough that coconut sunscreen and warm beer wrapped around me like a secret).
“Evening, sir,” she drawled, Ohio midland soft and slow, the “sir” dipped in honey and mischief.
I let the grin come on its own. “Sergeant Thompson. Didn’t know you played pool, too.”
She arched one perfect brow. “Oh, do you know a lot about me, Lieutenant? I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
“Just that you sink the eight-ball prettier than most people breathe.”
She laughed low, took a slow pull from her beer, eyes locked on mine the whole time. “I’m from Dayton. We come out of the womb with a stick in one hand and a beer in the other.”
She tilted the bottle toward me. “Question is… you any good, Lieutenant, or do you just like watching?”
I let my gaze drift down (slow, deliberate) then back up to those green eyes. “Watching the glory and beauty of heaven has its own rewards.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Tell me, sir… do you undress every woman you meet with your eyes?”
“Only the ones worth the view.”
A quick flash of teeth. “Then it’s hardly a compliment if you say it to so many.”
I leaned in just enough that only she could hear. “Being a beautiful woman is compliment enough. I’m not foolish enough to think I can improve on perfection.”
For half a heartbeat she had nothing (actually speechless), then the smile broke wide and real, the kind that knocked the wind out of you.
And just like that, the music, the clack of pool balls, my buddies laughing somewhere behind me; everything blurred into background noise.
It was just her, that smile, and the electric certainty that the night had already changed direction forever.
We leaned against the cigarette-scarred wall outside so we could actually hear each other, backs to the cinder block, shoulders almost but not quite touching. Conversation spilled out like we’d been trading stories for years instead of minutes.
She teased me about my brand-new butter bars still shiny enough to signal aircraft. I fired back that her BDU top looked suspiciously tailored (because no regulation shirt had ever fit like that by accident). She laughed and admitted she’d paid a Vietnamese lady on Hay Street twenty bucks to take it in slightly at the waist.
Every story got a bigger laugh; every laugh pulled us a half-step closer. She talked with her hands when she got going (long fingers, short nails, faint scar across the knuckles from rucking and push-ups), and every time she gestured her shoulder brushed my arm and stayed there a second longer than physics required.
Many people walked past as Michelle leaned against that wall with me, trading jokes like we’d known each other since high school, I could practically hear the movie soundtrack swelling in half the women’s heads watching us. The new lieutenant and the untouchable blonde, that most men only hoped for a glimpse of, laughing too close, sharing a beer, disappearing into the parking lot together.
She knew it too.
The banter slowed, the space between us shrinking until the rest of the club felt miles away. We just stood there, caught in each other’s eyes, the air thick with everything we hadn’t said yet.
I broke the quiet first, offering my hand like we were meeting for the first time all over again. “By the way… Michael Johnson.”
She slipped her fingers into mine (warm, calloused from push-ups and ruck marches, but soft in all the ways that mattered). “Michelle Thompson,” she said, giving my hand a slow, deliberate shake, green eyes dancing.
I let my thumb brush across her knuckles before I let go. “I know.”
Her smile came slow, knowing, a little dangerous. “Of course you do, Lieutenant.”
At that point she stole my cover, plopped it on her own head two sizes too small, blonde bun poking out the back like a challenge. “Think this makes me look officer-like?”
“Makes you look like trouble with a capital T, Sergeant.”
She handed it back, fingers lingering on mine. “Good. Trouble’s more fun.”
The club crowd thinned, music got slower, and we still hadn’t run out of words. She told me about her training and previous assignments. I told her I was prior enlisted and took the green-to-gold route to become an officer and this was my 5th post. She bumped my hip with hers.
“Guess we’re both just passing through, then.”
“Yeah,” I said, meeting her eyes, “but some stops are much better than others.”
Her smile went softer, less guarded. “Smooth, Lieutenant. Real smooth.”
Somewhere around the third beer she finally nodded toward the parking lot. “You offering a gal a ride home, Lieutenant?”
I didn’t even pretend to think about it. “Get in the car, ‘Paula’.”
She responded, “aren’t you going to carry me, Zack?” The thought crossed my mind, as the roleplay would’ve ensured a wonderful night, but erred on the side of caution and said, “next time.”
Five minutes later we were in my black Trans Am Recaro, headed toward her barracks, until she rested her hand on my thigh and murmured, “Airfield road’s darker.” I guess I didn’t need the roleplay after all.
We parked on an overlook near the drop zone, engine ticking as it cooled, crickets loud outside, distant C-130s droning overhead. She climbed over the console into my lap without asking, knees wedging against the door and the seat back, her BDU pants rough against my thighs. We kissed like we were trying to devour each other, as she whispered, “I’ve wanted to do that all night.” Our hands continued fumbling with buttons but never quite getting anything important off because we were too impatient.
I rolled her back into the passenger seat and slid my hand down the front of her unfastened pants, past the waistband of her cotton panties, and found her already soaked hairy pussy.
I first pushed my fingers inside her. Michelle’s head fell back against the headrest, a low moan slipping out as I curled two fingers and stroked that swollen ridge. After a few minutes, maybe less, and her hips jerked hard.
“Oh, fuck … wait,”
The first gush hit like a water balloon bursting. A thick, hot jet shot past my fingers, splashed against the dash, and absolutely drenched my forearm. Another pulse followed immediately, then another, each one stronger than the last. It soaked straight through her cotton panties, through the open fly of her BDU pants, and poured down the passenger seat in a steady stream.
Michelle’s eyes snapped open wide, shocked. “Holy shit… that’s never,” She looked down at the dark, spreading stain on the upholstery, then at my dripping hand, cheeks flushed crimson. “I’ve squirted before, but Jesus Christ, not like that. That was… insane.”
She laughed, half-embarrassed, half-turned-on, thighs still trembling. “You’re gonna need a new car, sir.”
That’s when she twisted toward me, yanked my belt open with impatient fingers, and freed my cock. It sprang out hard against my stomach, and her breath caught.
“God damn,” she whispered, wrapping her long fingers around the shaft, eyes going huge. “You’ve been hiding this the whole time?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She leaned down in the cramped space, mouth already open, and took me in one greedy slide until I hit the back of her throat. Her tongue swirled, hungry, desperate, saliva dripping down the length while she moaned around me like she’d been starving for it. One of her hands pumped what her mouth couldn’t reach; the other was still jammed down her own ruined pants, rubbing her clit in frantic circles.
She popped off just long enough to gasp, “I need this inside me right fucking now,” then climbed over the console, knees knocking the steering wheel, boots scraping the ceiling as she fought her way into the back seat.
By the time I followed, she already had her BDU pants and panties shoved down to her boots, shirt and sports bra rucked up over those perfect tits. She grabbed my cock again, lined me up, and sank down in one slick, greedy drop.
The second I bottomed out she cried out, back arching, and I felt the next flood start building almost immediately, hotter and heavier than before.
“Fuck, it’s happening again,” she whimpered, half-laughing, half-sobbing as the words against my neck. “You’re gonna make me ruin your whole goddamn backseat
The car rocking on its shocks, windows completely fogged. Michelle was riding me hard in a half-crouch, knees jammed between the roof and my lap, BDU top still bunched under her arms, sports bra shoved up over her tits so they bounced with every grind. Her pants and panties were tangled around one boot; the other boot was wedged against the opposite door for leverage.
I had one hand braced on the ceiling, the other clamped on her hip, pulling her down to meet every thrust. She was so wet the sound was obscene, wet slaps echoing in the tiny space, her juices already dripping off my balls and pooling on the seat beneath us.
Her breathing turned ragged, almost panicked.
“Oh God, oh fuck … it’s … again … already,”
Her whole body seized. I felt it start deep inside her: a sudden, hard flutter around my cock, then a rolling clench that got tighter, tighter, until she froze with me buried to the hilt.
For one heartbeat nothing happened.
Then the dam broke.
A thick, forceful jet shot out around my cock, hot as fresh coffee, spraying in a hard arc that hit the back of the driver’s seat with an audible splat. Another pulse immediately followed, stronger, soaking my lower stomach and running in rivulets down both our thighs. A third, even harder, actually pushed me halfway out of her before I thrust back in; that one fanned out in every direction, drenching the seat, my shirt, even splashing up onto her own stomach and tits.
Michelle’s mouth was open in a silent scream, eyes rolled back, every muscle locked. She couldn’t make a sound for the first few seconds it lasted, just these sharp, wet bursts in perfect time with the spasms milking my cock. Four, five, six heavy pulses, each one leaving her shaking harder, until finally she collapsed forward against my chest, gasping, laughing, stunned.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” she panted into my neck, voice hoarse. “I’ve never… that much has never come out of me in my life.”
She lifted up just enough to look down between us. The entire backseat was glistening, dark patches spreading everywhere, droplets still sliding down the door panel.
She bit her lip, half mortified, half proud, and gave a shaky laugh. “You broke me, Lieutenant. I’m actually broken now.”
She was still trembling from the second flood when I felt it hit me, that white-hot coil at the base of my spine.
Michelle’s pussy was hypersensitive now, every tiny shift of my hips making her gasp and jerk like I was shocking her. The inside of her felt swollen, velvet-soft but fluttering uncontrollably, and every time I dragged my cock out and slammed back in, she let out this broken little cry that went straight to my balls.
“Too much… fuck, it’s too much,” she whimpered, but her hips kept chasing mine, greedy even through the overstimulation.
I couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t think. The way she clenched every time I bottomed out, the wet heat, the way her juices kept pouring out around me… it was destroying me.
I swelled inside her, thick, thicker than I’d ever been, stretching her even more. She felt it instantly.
“Oh my God,” she sobbed, eyes flying wide. “You’re getting bigger, I can feel it, I,”
That did it.
Her whole body locked up again, back bowing so hard her head hit the roof. Her pussy clamped down like a fist, spasming in violent and fast, and another hard gush burst out around my cock, drenching us both. At the exact same second, I lost it.
I drove up into her as deep as I could go, the head of my cock kissing her cervix, and exploded. Thick ropes of cum shot out of me in heavy, endless pulses, flooding her already-soaked pussy, mixing with her slick until I could feel it leaking out around my shaft with every thrust.
Michelle screamed, actually screamed, into my shoulder, nails raking down my back through my BDU top as her orgasm detonated again. Her walls milked me in brutal, rhythmic waves, pulling every last drop out of me while her body convulsed like she was being electrocuted by pleasure.
I kept hammering through it, riding the edge of pain and ecstasy, grinding against her cervix until we were both shaking too hard to move. When it finally ebbed, we collapsed together, chests heaving, her still impaled on me, my cum and her squirt pooled warm beneath us, the backseat an absolute disaster.
She laughed weakly against my neck, voice wrecked. “I can feel you dripping out of me… and I’m still coming. Little aftershocks. You ruined me, sir. Completely fucking ruined me.”
We stayed locked together for a long minute, too spent to move, the only sounds our ragged breathing and the soft drip-drip of everything we’d made onto the upholstery. The car smelled like sex, sweat, gun-oil from our BDUs, and that sharp, sweet tang of her.
Eventually Michelle lifted her head, hair half out of its bun, blonde strands stuck to her flushed cheeks. She looked down at the disaster between us (my cock still half-hard inside her, cum and squirt leaking out in slow pulses every time either of us shifted) and let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“I’m gonna need a shower and a priest,” she murmured.
I kissed her forehead, tasting salt. “I’ve got TP in the glove box. We’ll manage.”
Moving was comedy. Every attempt to separate made her hiss or groan; she was swollen and hypersensitive, I was raw, and the seat squelched ominously. Finally, I eased out of her (she whimpered at the loss, then sighed when a fresh trickle of our mixed fluids followed). We wrestled our clothes into some kind of order: her panties were a lost cause, so she just yanked her BDU pants back up commando, hissing when the rough fabric met her tender skin. I tucked myself away, wiped my hands on my undershirt, and dug out the roll of TP.
We cleaned up as best we could in the dark, passing tissues back and forth, giggling like teenagers when they instantly turned useless against the sheer volume of mess. She used some to dab at her inner thighs, then gave up and just leaned into me.
“Come here,” I said quietly.
I pulled her across my lap, her long legs draped over mine, back against the door. She curled into me immediately, head on my shoulder, one of my arms around her waist, the other stroking slow circles on her back through the wrinkled BDU top. The windows were still fogged; the night outside was quiet except for distant jets taking off.
For a while neither of us spoke. I could feel her heartbeat slowing against my chest, feel the occasional tiny shiver run through her when an aftershock hit. Every few seconds her pussy would flutter and another warm trickle would slip out of her; she’d huff a soft, embarrassed laugh and burrow closer.
“You okay?” I asked, lips against her temple.
“More than okay,” she whispered. “I’m… floaty. Like my bones melted.” She nuzzled my neck. “Nobody’s ever made me come apart like that. I didn’t know I could.”
I tightened my arm around her. “You were incredible.”
She was quiet for another minute, then said, voice small and soft, “Can we just stay like this a little longer? Before we have to be soldiers again?”
“Yeah,” I said. “As long as you want.”
So, we did. The airfield lights blinked lazily in the distance. Crickets sang. Somewhere a C-141 rumbled down the runway and lifted into the night. Inside the ruined Trans Am, Sergeant Michelle (tall, athletic blonde, still half-undressed and glowing) let me hold her while the tremors slowly faded, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest, my lips brushing her hair every time she sighed.
Eventually she tilted her face up and kissed me, slow and sweet, nothing urgent left in it, just gratitude and warmth.
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured against my mouth, the honorific soft now, almost affectionate.
“Anytime, Sergeant,” I answered.
We both knew it wouldn’t be the last time.
We continued to cuddle in the wreckage, her curled against my chest, my arms wrapped around her, trading soft kisses while the aftershocks rippled through her. The windows were fogged solid, the car reeked of raw sex, and we were both glowing.
The spell broke when two sets of headlights appeared far down the airfield service road, moving slow, white light on top. MPs.
“Shit,” Michelle whispered, suddenly very awake. “That’s definitely patrol.”
We scrambled. She yanked her soaked BDU pants the rest of the way up (the entire crotch and ass were dark, almost black in the moonlight) and clinging cold now that the heat was fading). I buttoned up, wiped my hands one last time on a useless tissue, and climbed back into the driver’s seat. The car reeked: sex, sweat, her sweet-sharp squirt, my cum. No amount of cracked windows was fixing that tonight.
I started the engine and eased onto the road just as the MP Blazer got close. We passed them doing exactly the speed limit. The MP in the passenger seat looked over, saw two soldiers in rumpled BDUs, and gave a lazy two-finger salute off his helmet. They kept rolling toward the overlook we’d just fled. Close call.
Michelle exhaled shakily and started laughing under her breath. “I swear my heart stopped.”
By the time we reached the main post the wet spot on her pants had spread so much the fabric squeaked when she shifted. She kept one hand pressed between her legs like that could hide it.
“I look like I pissed myself, front and back,” she groaned. “CQ’s gonna take one look and call the first sergeant.”
We pulled up to the payphones by the PX, glowing under its little dome light. She hopped out, dropped a quarter, and dialed the barracks main number. The CQ answered. “Yeah, this is SGT Michelle Thompson, 3rd Platoon. Can you get SP4 Jessica Ramirez for me?”
We waited, windows down, hearts still racing. A minute later Jess came on the line. Michelle kept her voice low. “Jess, come let me in the back door, please. I’ll owe you big.”
Jess laughed so hard Michelle had to hold the receiver away from her ear. “On my way, you little tramp.”
I dropped her off in a dark area and moved out of sight, close enough to listen. Jess jogged up in PT shorts and a ponytail, took one look at Michelle, hair wrecked, lips swollen, pants obviously soaked front and back, huge satisfied grin, and burst out laughing. “Girl, you look like you fell in a lake. A very happy lake.”
Michelle flipped her the bird, still grinning, and snuck a quick wave to me before the two of them slipped in the back door of the barracks.
Later that night, safely in her room, Jess cornered her. “Spill. Every detail. Who was he?”
Michelle told her everything, the parking, the backseat, the absolute flood she’d never experienced before, how good it felt, how she was still tingling, just left out my name and the fact I was an officer. In 1986, officer-enlisted dating wasn’t against the regs yet, but it was the fast lane to getting smoked by the first sergeant or “counseled” by the company commander. So, we kept it secret.
That whole weekend, every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face when she came in the backseat, heard that breathless laugh when she realized how soaked my upholstery was. But I didn’t have her number, didn’t even know which company she was in, I only knew the battalion. So, I did the only thing a desperate second lieutenant could do: I started asking around.
Monday afternoon I cornered two of my platoon sergeants in the motor pool. “Hey, either of you got the number for the 108th?” One of them smirked without looking up from the dipstick he was wiping. “Why, you trying to call Thompson?” I played dumb. “Who’s Thompson?” He snorted. “Who’s Thompson? Only the walking wet dream of every swinging dick and half the females on this post, sir.” The other guy laughed. “Good luck. Word is she’s already hooked up with some field-grade. Don’t waste your time. I bet the phone in the HHC barracks constantly rings for her.”
The rumor stung more than I wanted to admit, but I kept digging. By Tuesday afternoon I finally had the 108th’s HHC CQ number scrawled on a scrap of paper.
1730 hrs. I dialed, heart hammering like I was calling in artillery.
A female voice answered. “108th Headquarters, Specialist Hayes.”
“Evening, this is Lieutenant… uh, can I speak to Sergeant Michelle Thompson?”
Long pause. “Who’s calling?”
Without a second’s thought, I said, “Just tell her it’s Zack.”
Another pause, then the clatter of the phone being set down, footsteps, distant voices.
Sixty eternal seconds later: “What took you so long?”
Her voice, low and amused, melted every ounce of tension in my body.
I laughed, half nervous, half relieved. “I had to bribe half the division for the 108th’s CQ number. Couldn’t exactly stroll into your orderly room asking for the post’s most famous sergeant.”
She snapped back with, “Famous, huh?”
“You know exactly how famous you are.”
She laughed. “Fair. So… you calling to talk, or you calling to feed me? Because I’m about to walk to the mess hall.”
“I’ll feed you,” I said quickly.
She replied, “Where and when?”
“Now,” I said, no hesitation. “Shoppette in fifteen. First row, I’ll park farthest from the doors. Just walk up and get in the car.”
I was there in ten, engine idling, checking the rear-view every three seconds. Finally, I saw her: ponytail swinging, PT shorts, gray Army T-shirt, that somehow looked sexy on her, and that walk that made the whole world slow down. She opened the passenger door, slid in smooth as silk, and pulled it shut.
“Hey, stranger,” she said, buckling up like this was the most natural thing in the world.
I put the car in drive. “Chinese sound good?”
“Chinese sounds perfect.”
She reached over, trailed two fingers down my forearm. “Drive, Lieutenant. I’m starving, and not just for chow.” I’d been smart (or lucky) enough to rent a little three-bedroom cinder-block house on Yadkin Road, just outside the gate, cheap enough on lieutenant pay and far enough from post that nobody asked questions.
Fifteen minutes later we were in my kitchen, paper bags of Chinese food dumped on the counter, lids still closed. The smell of soy sauce and fried rice hung in the air, but neither of us cared.
I stepped in close, cupped her face, and kissed her slow and deep, tasting the faint mint of her gum and the promise of everything we’d been starving for since Friday. My hands slid down her back, dipped under the elastic waistband of her gray PT shorts and the thin cotton panties beneath, and found the warm, smooth curves of that perfect heart-shaped ass. I squeezed, pulled her hard against me, and felt her breath hitch against my mouth.
Michelle broke the kiss just long enough to grin. “Starting with dessert, Lieutenant?”
“No,” I murmured against her lips, already hooking my thumbs in the fabric. “We’re working up an appetite. And for dessert I’m giving you a hot, fresh creampie.”
I sank to my knees right there on the linoleum, dragging her shorts and panties down in one slow, deliberate pull. The cotton clung for a second to the slickness between her thighs before peeling away. As the fabric slid past her knees, her scent hit me: warm, tangy, unmistakably her, the same intoxicating smell that had soaked my passenger seat three nights ago. I inhaled like a man who’d been underwater too long, then pressed my mouth to the soft skin just above her blonde landing strip.
She shivered, hands threading into my hair.
I lifted her onto the kitchen table, pushed her gently onto her back, and spread her wide. She was already glistening, swollen, ready. I dove in like I hadn’t eaten in years, tongue flat and broad, licking from entrance to clit in one long stroke. She gasped my name, hips jerking. I pinned her thighs open and devoured her: sucking her clit, fucking her with my tongue, curling two fingers inside to stroke that spot that made her crazy. Within minutes her back arched off the table, thighs clamping around my ears, and she came hard, a sharp cry tearing out of her as the first hot gush splashed my chin, then another, and another, until the table beneath her ass was slick and the tangy scent was everywhere.
I stood, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and stripped in record time. My cock sprang free, aching, already leaking. Michelle looked down at it, eyes dark, and laughed breathlessly.
“That thing looks big enough to hold me up all by itself.”
I scooped her off the table; she wrapped legs around my waist, arms around my neck, and I carried her straight to the bedroom like I was Richard Gere and the hallway was a paper mill.
I laid her on the bed, climbed over her, and slid home in one slow thrust. She was molten, still fluttering from the first orgasm. We fucked like we were trying to make up for every hour we’d been apart.
The second climax hit her missionary, legs over my shoulders, my thumb on her clit; she came with a low, rolling moan, pussy rippling around me, another flood soaking us both.
The third time I flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and took her from behind, deep and relentless. She buried her face in the pillow, muffling scream after scream, until the final one broke her completely: she went rigid, ass pushing back against me, and I slammed in to the hilt and let go, pumping thick, hot ropes deep inside her as she convulsed around me, milking every drop while her own squirt pulsed out around my cock and ran down both our thighs.
We collapsed sideways, still joined, panting, laughing, shaking.
Eventually we crawled back to the kitchen naked, found the sesame chicken, and fed each other cold bites straight from the carton, trading lazy, sauce-sweet kisses between forkfuls.
Michelle licked a smear of sauce off her thumb and grinned up at me. “So, this is the top-secret officer bachelor pad the whole post whispers about.”
I kissed a drop of soy sauce off the corner of her neck. “Welcome to headquarters, Sergeant. Current population: you, me, and one very abused mattress that’s never going to recover.”
She leaned into me, warm and sticky and perfect. “Good. I like it here.”
We stumbled back to the bedroom, still naked, still buzzing, and collapsed sideways across the wrecked sheets. I pulled her into my arms, her back to my chest, legs tangled, skin sticky with soy sauce and sex. The room smelled like us.
I kissed the damp hair at her temple. “So… random question. People keep telling me you’re dating some colonel or major. Should I be worried?”
She snorted, rolled over to face me, and traced a lazy circle on my chest. “I started that rumor myself about six months ago. Works like a charm. One mention of a mystery field-grade and suddenly half the creeps back off.” She shrugged. “It’s flattering when guys notice, but ninety percent of the time it’s exhausting. I got tired of turning down the same three lines every Friday night.”
Then her expression softened, green eyes serious. “I wish I could just walk into the club holding your hand and tell everybody, ‘Back off, I’m his.’ Maybe someday the Army will get its head out of its ass.” Ironically, it went in the opposite direction many years later.
She brushed her thumb across my bottom lip. “For the record, you’re the only guy on this post I’ve slept with. Ever. Just so you know, in case any more rumors float by.”
I kissed her palm. “You don’t owe me explanations, Michelle.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I just wanted you to hear it from me first.”
We lay there a little longer, trading slow kisses, until the clock forced us to move. I watched, half hypnotized, as she stood and pulled on her panties and PT shorts. A thick trickle of my cum slid down the inside of her thigh before the cotton caught it. She caught me staring, smirked, and deliberately let another drop fall before tugging the fabric into place.
“Souvenir,” she said with a wink.
At 2230 sharp I eased the Tran Am to the curb two blocks from her barracks. She leaned through the open window, kissed me slow and deep, tongue tasting like sesame oil and sex.
“This weekend?” she asked against my lips.
“All weekend,” I promised. “Friday, 1730, same spot. Bring a bag. The big one.”
Her smile could’ve lit the whole post. “Yes, sir.”
Then she was gone, ponytail swinging, disappearing into the shadows like smoke.
I cranked the radio, rolled every window down, and drove home grinning like the luckiest idiot in the entire 82nd Airborne.
Because I was.
For the next few months we were experts at payphones, notes left under windshield wipers, and meetings in places nobody looked twice. Every time we got together, my poor Trans Am took another beating, and every time, Michelle squirted even more than the last.
Worth every sneaky minute.
The routine settled in fast.
Friday evenings I’d park my freshly detailed Trans Am (I’d spent an entire Saturday at the self-serve car wash trying to exorcise the smell of Michelle, two weeks earlier) two blocks from her barracks, usually behind the shoppette or the AAFES gas station. In a useless attempt to blend in, she’d stroll out in civilian jeans and a loose sorority T-shirt, blonde hair down for once, carrying a small green Army duffel that looked exactly like every other soldier’s weekend bag. Only Jess knew what was really in it: lace underwear, a couple of sundresses, and enough civilian clothes for three days of not wearing a uniform.
Jess would watch from the second-floor window, smirking, giving Michelle a thumbs-up as she disappeared around the corner. Jess had already guessed “some butter-bar with a house off post,” but Michelle never gave her my name. Smart girl.
I’d pull up, she’d toss the bag in and slide into the passenger seat like we’d done it a hundred times. Ten minutes later we were through the All-American gate, windows down, Springsteen or Van Halen blaring, her bare feet on the dash, singing at the top of her lungs.
The second the front door of the house closed behind us the clothes came off (sometimes before we made it past the living-room). We had the whole place to ourselves: big bed in the master bedroom, shower big enough for two, kitchen where we actually cooked, and a fenced backyard where we’d lie naked on a blanket in the sun when the neighbors weren’t home.
Those long weekends were a blur of sex in every room, on every surface. She still marveled every single time at how much she squirted with me (soaking my mattress so often I finally just bought a second mattress protector and kept it folded on the floor for quick changes). We’d go from slow lazy morning sex, to her riding me on the couch during the afternoon, to hard and fast against the washer while it was spinning. By Sunday night the house smelled like us, the sheets were wrecked, and we were both walking a little gingerly.
Sunday evening I’d drop her back at the same corner. She’d sling the duffel over her shoulder, give me one last long kiss through the open window, and saunter off like she’d just spent the weekend at a friend’s place in Raleigh. Jess would be waiting at the back door again, arms crossed, grinning.
“Welcome back, Flood Warning,” Jess would tease.
Michelle would flip her off, cheeks pink, and disappear upstairs to do laundry and try to walk normally for PT formation Monday morning.
Six months of that: secret weekends, payphone calls (“I’m at the shoppette in ten”), notes under wipers, and a growing pile of soaked sheets in my hamper.
Through the months, I learned a lot more about her. Her name was Janice Michelle Thompson, but the first time someone called her “Janice” in front of me I did a double-take.
“Wait… your name isn’t Michelle?” She laughed that low, smoky laugh. “Janice is what my mama yells when I’m in trouble. Michelle is what everybody else gets. Took you long enough, Lieutenant.”
The Playboy rumor floated around the division like smoke you could never quite pin down. Someone swore they’d seen the issue (College Girls of the SEC, 1983 or ’84), someone always claimed something else. Another guy had a buddy whose cousin definitely jerked off to her photos constantly. Copies of her swimsuit catalogs were easier to find: a well-worn Hawaiian Tropic booklet made the rounds in the motor pool, pages stuck together, corners folded on the shots where she was arched on a surfboard in a white one-piece cut high on the hips, wet blonde hair whipped across her face, nipples just barely hinted under the fabric. Another was a Jantzen ad (emerald bikini, leaning against a lifeguard tower, green eyes staring straight into the lens like she already knew every dirty thought you were having).
She never flaunted it, never denied it, just let the legend do what legends do. That was Michelle: the prettiest woman in any room, fully aware of it, and completely uninterested in ninety-nine percent of the male population. You didn’t hit on Michelle Thompson. You waited, hoped, prayed and if her eyes lingered on you for half a second longer than polite, you still didn’t make a move until she did. She picked. Always.
So, when she finally picked me that night at the Community Club, it felt less like luck and more like winning the lottery while getting struck by lightning.
Months in, we were lying in my bed in that little house off Yadkin Road, sheets kicked to the foot, ceiling fan barely keeping up with the July heat. I finally asked.
“So… those Playboy pictures. Real or urban legend?”
She rolled onto her stomach, propped her chin in her hand, and gave me that half-smirk that always made my pulse jump.
“Want to see for yourself?”
Of course I said, “sure.”
She told me she would bring it next weekend. Although we spent most our time together nude, and I knew every inch of her body intimately, I counted the seconds to the next weekend so see that spread.
As soon as she entered my house the next weekend the photos were a second thought, we tore off each other’s clothes and ran to the bedroom. As we laid there recovering, I asked about the photos. She dug through her overnight bag, pulled out a battered magazine (actually 1983 “Girls of the SEC” issue), and tossed it onto my chest like it was junk mail. I flipped to the marked page, heart thumping.
And… anticlimax.
She was on all fours on a white seamless backdrop, shot from a three-quarter rear angle, hair cascading down one shoulder, looking back at the camera with that same cool green stare. The pose promised everything and delivered almost nothing: the side of one breast visible but airbrushed to soft shadow, nipples completely erased by the retoucher, the curve of her hip and the line of her back doing all the heavy lifting. Gorgeous, yes. Objectively one of the sexiest women in the issue. But tame by even 1983 standards.
I looked up at her, confused. “This is it?”
She laughed, flopped back on the pillow, and stretched like a cat. “Told the photographer if he wanted full-frontal, he’d have to pay sorority-tuition money. He blinked first.” She shrugged. “Got a nice check, paid off my Camaro, and dropped out two semesters later to join the Army before the dean figured out, I wasn’t coming back.”
She reached over, tapped the page. “You’re the only guy who’s ever seen those shots and looked disappointed.”
I tossed the magazine aside and rolled on top of her. “I’m not disappointed; how could I be?”
She wrapped her legs around my waist, nails dragging lightly down my back.
“Careful, Lieutenant,” she whispered against my mouth. “You’ve got the real thing now. No airbrushing required.”
And that was Michelle in a nutshell: Playboy spread, swimsuit catalogs, most of the division drooling over grainy photocopies, and she still walked through the world like none of it mattered, waiting for the one man worth her time to catch her eye.
It had to make a guy wonder, with all the thousands of choices why me? While cuddling after another afternoon of explosive sex, I asked, expecting a quick short non-answer. Instead, she actually had a well thought out response. She said, when she looked across that crowded, smoky club, she didn’t see another pair of shiny butter-bars trying to impress her with rank or money or the same tired lines every other guy had been recycling since jump school.
She saw the one guy who didn’t push, didn’t posture, didn’t try to corner her with bravado. The one who met her quick wit shot-for-shot, who smiled like he was genuinely enjoying the sparring instead of just angling for a win, who looked at her like she was the most interesting person in the room (not the hottest piece of ass on post).
“I’d turned down captains, sergeants major, even a couple of married light-colonels who thought they were being subtle. They all wanted the fantasy: the Playboy sergeant, the untouchable blonde everybody talked about. You were the first one who looked like you actually wanted Michelle, not the legend.”
She said I made her laugh for real, not the polite “get this guy away from me” laugh she’d perfected. That when I said she was beautiful; it didn’t sound like a line; it sounded like I’d just noticed the sky was blue and was stupidly happy about it. That I listened when she talked (really listened), and somehow, in five minutes of trading smart-ass remarks, I made her feel seen instead of hunted.
“And,” she added, tracing the scar on my ribs from a bad jump, “you had kind eyes and a great ass in those BDUs. A girl’s got to have standards.”
So why me, out of thousands?
Because I didn’t try to catch her. I just stood still long enough for her to decide I was worth jumping into the fire for.
She told me months later, curled against my chest in that same wrecked bed, that even she didn’t understand why she surrendered so quickly that first night:
“I had rules, Michael. Iron-clad. Nobody (nobody) got past second base on the first night, let alone into my panties for a homerun in the backseat of a Trans Am like some horny private on her first weekend pass. I’d built a damn fortress around myself and you waltzed through it in under two hours with a smile and some smart-ass banter.”
She laughed, shaking her head at the memory.
“Saturday morning, I woke up sore, sticky, and absolutely certain I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life and handed the keys to the kingdom to another trophy hunter who’d brag to his buddies and disappear. By Monday I was kicking myself. By Tuesday afternoon I’d already rehearsed the speech I was going to give you if you ever called: ‘Nice try, sir, but it was a big mistake and I’m not that easy.’”
Then she looked at me, eyes soft.
“When the CQ yelled ‘Michelle, phone call, some guy says his name is Zack,’ my heart did a full PLF. I damn near sprinted to that phone. The second I heard your voice I was grinning like an idiot, because you weren’t ghosting me. You were just a clueless lieutenant who didn’t have my number.”
She leaned in, bumped my shoulder.
“You have no idea how rare that was. Guys spent months trying to get what you got in one night, and then you went and proved you actually wanted the girl, not just the story. That’s why I was giddy as hell when you finally called.”
She paused, smirking.
“Also, why I jumped in your car fifteen minutes later without even asking where we were going. Fortress was already rubble, baby. You’d blown the gates off with one phone call.”
Continued with “Neapolitan Birthday, Pt 2 – Three Complimentary Flavors”
To support future stories, consider making a small contribution:
buymeacoffee.com/mike_huntmaster
© Copyright Michael Huntmaster, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Michael Huntmaster, with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Read
102 times |
Rated
0 % |
(
0 votes)