Chapter 1: The Homecoming
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, Mult, Consensual, Drunk/Drugged, Heterosexual, Cheating, Revenge, Rough, Group Sex, Black Female, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Tit-Fucking, Analingus, Violent, .
Desc: Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Homecoming - Dewey Desmond knew the transition from military to civilian life would be a challenge, but was unprepared for the shocks, surprises ... and some successes ... encountered as he made his way through the turbulent first ten years of the new Millennium, his path strewn with tragedies, triumphs, disasters and delights ... the latter female of course. Follow him to the conclusion of Over the Hills and Faraway; the journey of a life.
1700 hours, 2nd May 2002. Plaistow, London.
The spare key to 23 Kitchener Road was where it had always been 'hidden', under the third flower pot on the left of the front door. I opened the door, dropped my bags in the hall and made a beeline for the kitchen to put on a brew. Miriam wouldn't be expecting me for a couple of days, and a nice cup of tea, and me, would be two welcome surprises for her when she arrived home from work. As I made my way towards the kitchen I heard faint sounds coming from upstairs, which I thought were probably caused by the hot water system recycling or the TV aerial banging on the chimney. I started up the stairs to investigate in case the noises were due to a bird being trapped inside a bedroom. On reaching the landing the sounds became more distinct; bed springs rhythmically creaking, a headboard banging against a wall in three four time, grunts, groans and moans, in fact all the indications of heavy duty shagging taking place. I pushed open the bedroom door and discovered Martin Hodge fucking Miriam's brains out.
I don't know if any of you ever arrived home unexpectedly to find your wife in flagrante delicto? Even if you never experienced such an event you will agree it would come as a bit of a shock - right? Well, imagine if the bloke shagging seven shades of shit out of your spouse is her brother? Shock doesn't come anywhere near to the emotion engendered.
What I saw when opening the bedroom door is burned into my memory cells, probably never to be eradicated. My wife lay naked on the bed with her legs splayed wide apart and her knees up to her ears. Her eyes were screwed shut, her mouth half open, and her head shook from side to side in delirium, nearing the peak of her climax, as her brother pounded into her with the power of a steam hammer.
Martin Hodge was a brutish hulk of a man, at least six feet four inches tall and weighing in at twenty four stone. Rumour was he sported a ten inch prick, and from where I stood it certainly seemed to be true. My viewing position was slightly to the side of the copulating couple so I had clear sight of his massive, engorged, pinkish/purple, member plunging in and out of my wife's cunt. Hodge's buttocks lifted and slammed down with brutal force. He grunted like a pig with the effort, and Miriam squealed like a farrowing sow as the soft tissue of the innermost recesses of her vagina were invaded by the immense penis of her brother.
He withdrew from his fleshy lodgement, almost to the bell end of his truncheon sized todger, and gasped, "Here it comes, Sis." With a violent lunge he re-buried his cock deep into Miriam's cunt, his balls slapping against her arse.
Miriam came as he exploded inside her. Her eyes and mouth opened wide, the latter in a filthy outburst.
"That's it, Marty. Fill me with your prick and shoot your spunk into me. Yes. Yes. Aargh..." Her eyes registered me and her voice cut off in mid scream. Nonetheless she continued bucking and writhing, in the throes of her orgasm, against the thrusting body of her brother, as he, still unaware of my presence, continued to pump his seed into the eager mouth of his sister's vagina.
Eventually he finished and withdrew, then glanced over his shoulder to see what Miriam was staring at. He was in no way abashed. He rolled off her and sat on the edge of the bed, his semi-flaccid but still huge organ hanging down between his legs, with the mingled juices of the incestuous pair glistening on the swollen head and shaft.
By contrast Miriam snatched up a sheet and draped it over her tits, which I thought a bit stupid after what I had witnessed, plus the fact her ravaged, reddened cunt, with her brother's jism sliding down her thighs, was still in full view.
"Caught in the act! Oh well, it was only a matter of time. I've been giving Sis a seeing to ever since she started growing her tits." Hodge said, and casually wiped his prick on a sheet before pulling up his trousers. "I suppose I should apologise to you for spoiling Miriam with a big cock like mine. You never satisfied her with your little pisser. Same as your mum; I gave her many a good shagging over the years. Your ma loved my cock as much as Miriam does. Little dicks must run in your family. I expect your dad only had a teeny weeny willy as well."
Until now I had been frozen into a sense of detachment, borne of the stupefaction at finding my wife committing adultery and incest.
Hodge insulting my mum and dad finally jolted me out of my stupor, and I had an overwhelming desire to kill the shitehawk. I started towards him, ready to smash his grinning face into a pulp, but the past thirty six hours finally caught up with me.
Everything slowed down, and I moved as if wading through a sea of treacle.
He easily avoided the punch I swung at his head, and hit me with a bottle picked up from the bed side table. I went down like a sack of shit.
Dimly I was aware of them moving about, and then leaving the room.
Hodge planted a vicious kick in my ribs as he passed me stretched out on the floor, and it was thanks to Miriam I didn't get a worse kicking. He was a nasty piece of work and would have stamped me into a paste if left to himself.
"Leave him, Marty. He's done for." I heard her say.
'You're dead right there, girl, ' I thought ... and then I passed out.
Welcome home, Dewey.
Two days previous.'The Uzbek Hilton'; Uzbeki/Afghanistan border.
Excluding the six hour sex filled interlude with Leilah the past 48 hours had been the worst I ever experienced in my life. Getting informed you were being discharged from the army, after nearly 23 years' service, can quite spoil your day. It certainly ruined mine.
My night of passion with Leilah was a gift from the local warlord, Khan Yusuf Vakil, for saving the life of his son Ergash. He and I had been directing mortar fire onto a Taliban compound when we came under attack. A RPG exploded behind me, peppering my right leg and back with shrapnel and rock splinters., and I fell over Ergash, thereby saving him from similar wounds.
It was thought I had flung myself over his body to protect him. In fact I had been knocked unconscious, and didn't know shit from dirty pudding at the time.
After Leilah left the room I got out of bed and hobbled about getting my gear together. I was due to leave for Karshi-Khanabad at 0800 hours aboard a US Army helicopter, and a constant stream of visitors came to say their goodbyes and commiserate with me; I drank tea with the Uzbeks and whisky with the Brits and Yanks. All said, in their various ways, what a bastard the Ministry of Defence (MoD) was to stick to the rule which stated a soldier had to leave the army if not gaining a particular qualification by a certain age. In my case it had been to pass the Staff Sergeant Promotion exam by my thirty-eighth birthday.
I had been prevented from attending the course by foolishly getting myself wounded, and the next course was not due to be held until after June 12th 2002, the date I reached the grand old age of 38. So that was that, and out I had to go ... tough shit, Dewey.
What with the drinking, the effects of the pain killers for my leg wound, lack of sleep, plus recovering from the bout of sexual activity with Leilah, which had been extended thanks to the aphrodisiac she gave me, allowing me to keep my end up, so to speak, I was in piss poor shape when the helicopter lifted off.
I still had a pellet of the prick enhancer with me; Had I used it all I would no doubt have fucked myself to death ... as it was it only felt like I had.
Harry Ledbetter's hand was the last I shook before boarding; the expression on his face expressed what he thought of MoD's action.
"Believe me, Dave, we did all in our power to get your discharge annulled. The senior officers of the regiment, from the colonel in chief down, tried their damndest to get the Ministry of Defence to rescind the order; however the mandarins of the civil service wield more power at MoD than the elected Ministers or the Chief of the Defence Staff."
"I know you would have moved heaven and hell trying to keep me in the army, Harry, and I thank you for it."
I meant what I said. Harry Ledbetter had pulled me out of the shit more times than a few since we first met at 3RGJ in 1981. Loyal, reliable, and always ready to help, he was a mate made in heaven, and I thanked my lucky stars I had stayed with him on the bleak mountainside in the Falklands when the rest of our patrol went for help after he got wounding by a Claymore mine. From then on, what at first had been mutual liking and respect, became a close friendship.
My travel papers had me routed through K2, as Karshi-Khanabad was known, then on to Tashkent, Bukhara, Baku, Ankara, Istanbul and finally London Heathrow. Don't ask me why it had to be such a convoluted journey but I expect politics and diplomacy, or similar bollocks, were involved.
However, what had started as a piss poor day improved 100% when I got off the helicopter at K2 to be met by Lieutenant Colonel Cyrus Q. Howser of the US Army Quartermaster Corps. CQ, as he was known to all the UK training teams in country, was no more a Quartermaster than I was. In fact he was an intelligence officer, and spent as much time with the Uzbek fighters as the training team staff.
"What a cockamamie army you Brits have, to let go a guy with your experience," he said as he shook my hand. I tried to explain I hadn't gained the necessary qualification to be retained, but he interrupted me.
"Horse feathers, Des. Some lard assed civilian made a mistake at your department of defence, and is scared of getting his butt reamed if he came clean." He gave me a sharp eyed glance. "You ain't done something really bad, like humping your commanding officer's daughter ... or his mistress? I hear you have a rep with the ladies."
I shook my head. "No sir, it's the regulations..."
"Baloney! There's got to be more to it than that. I've been around the top brass in DC, and know there's either politics or egos at work when some dumb rule is adhered to when everyone and his danged hound dog knows it's a bum deal."
He fished in his greatcoat pocket and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam. "A little goodbye present from me, Des." He handed me the bottle. "And here's another. Harry Ledbetter told me you were leaving today and would be routed through K2, so I've arranged to get you on a USAF C-130 flying to Ramstein, in Germany."
I gazed at him blankly. "Germany?"
"Yeah, there are flights to our airbases in England practically every day from Ramstein. I've asked the guy in charge of Air Ops at Ramstein to get you on a flight. He owes me, big time."
I was still shell shocked by the turn of events. "Why are you doing this, Colonel? I'm not in the U.S army, and there's no reason you should stick your neck out for me?"
He laughed. "Don't worry; I'm not sticking my neck, or anything else, out. You're a darn good soldier and deserve some reward for saving the life of Ergash Vakil. His father is an area khan and a big player in the Northern Alliance, besides being the local warlord of the Khola region, and we now have his gratitude. There are lots of Afghans, and Uzbeks, who don't take kindly to us Westerners being in their country, and we have to back off from exerting too much obvious control. Yusuf Vakil will keep us in the picture at what happens at Northern Alliance meetings and Jirgas." He clapped me on my back and indicated the bottle I was holding. "You and Jim can get better acquainted on your flight back to the UK. Take care, son." He strode off, leaving me holding a bottle of bourbon and thanking my lucky stars I wouldn't have to risk life and limb flying across Central Asia in elderly, poorly maintained, former Aeroflot aeroplanes.
CQ's arrangements went as sweet as a nut, and I arrived at RAF Lakenheath, home to the USAF's 48th Fighter Wing, at about 0600 hours local time the following morning. I was pleasantly relaxed, but not drunk, after finishing off the bottle of bourbon. After a hearty breakfast, courtesy of the senior NCO's mess, I left in a USAF pick-up truck which was bound for the US embassy in London, but which made a slight detour to drop me at the gates of Merville Barracks at Colchester at 0900 hours.
"Ecky thump, Dewey," The battalion clerk, Sergeant Paige, hailed from Accrington and tended to relapse into Northern speech when surprised, "We didn't expect you until tomorrow at the earliest." He said in astonishment as I entered the 2nd Royal GreenJacket's Orderly Room.
"I got a lift with the USAF," I said. "Where the hell is everyone, Blanco? The barracks look like a ghost town."
"Three Para, and our rifle companies, are at Catterick. HQ Company is leaving in four days' time. A brigade group exercise got sprung on us, and The Old Man is doing his nut as he was due to go on leave next week." Blanco walked over to a filing cabinet and withdrew a manila folder. "I've got all your documentation here, Dewey. There are some forms to sign at the Quartermaster's stores, then you'll see the Resettlement Officer at Garrison HQ. When you've finished there come back here and see the Colonel, who will give you your service record and discharge papers."
I made my first port of call at the Regimental Quarter Master Sergeant's office. He was a grey haired old warrant officer who I remembered from the Junior Leaders Regiment as a sergeant drill instructor.
I signed various bits of paper, including payment for an unpaid mess bill when I flew out to Afghanistan in October 2001. My personal kit would be sent to my home address in Plaistow and my army kit handed in to the stores.
The RQMS shook my hand when all the paper work had been concluded.
"It's a bloody disgrace, getting rid of you, Dewey. What do those dozy wankers up at MoD know about the army? ... fuck all, that's what."
I shrugged. "Que sera sera, Q."
He sniffed. "That might be OK for Doris Day, Dewey, but not for the Greenjackets,"
The next person for me to see was the Resettlement Officer, whose main task was to steer ex-squaddies towards gainful employment, mostly in the security industry. To my surprise Smeggy Smethwick occupied the position. For a short time he had been my platoon commander when I had been a brand new sergeant in Celle back in 1991 and he a brand new 2nd lieutenant. Unfortunately my dalliance with a married woman on camp led to me being reduced to the ranks, otherwise I would be qualified for Staff Sergeant well before now. But it is no good crying over spilt ... err ... milk.
The Regiment had done its best to place me into a worthwhile career now my time in the army had come to an end, although I doubted if Smeggy had been responsible for much of the effort. Nevertheles, he gave me all the information on what had been planned for me. Thanks to the educational qualifications I earned when deployed on recruitment duties in Reading, and with me suggesting the possibility of going into teaching if my army service came to a premature end ... which it now had ... the regiment considered my future could be in Academia.
"University College London run teacher training courses, and we tried to get you enrolled for one staring in September of this year. Unfortunately the course was filled, so it will be next year, September two thousand and three, before you can start a Primary PGCE teacher training course at UCL's Institute of Education," Smeggy said.
"Primary school kids? I've no experience with youngsters."
He nodded. "Agreed, but once you gain the qualification, and have been teaching for a year, you will be eligible to take the..." He glanced down at the paper in his hand " ... the Post-Compulsory PGCE In-Service course, which is a two year part-time course."
"So what does that mean, post compulsory in-service whatever?"
"Damned if I know, Sergeant." He tapped the paper in front of him, "but it says here the qualification is an enhanced Diploma of Education, and allows graduates to teach children up to eighteen, and adults at technical colleges and adult learning centres and such like, prisons too."
I considered what he said. "Which means I will spend three out of the next four years training, and not getting paid?"
"The first course, Primary PGCE, is a year of full-time training; the other course is two years part-time. But you will need to wait over a year before you can start the first course." He pulled another sheet of paper from a folder on his desk. "Meantime we have arranged an interview for you with Air Security, a firm which provides security at London Heathrow, Gatwick, Stanstead, and London City airports. If recruited by them you would get a year's full time employment before starting the Primary PGCE, with the opportunity of working part-time for them when your studies permit."
He handed me a business card. "Ring this number, and speak to the gentleman whose name is written on the back of the card to arrange a meeting. I'm sure there will be no problem in you finding full time employment." He stood up, stuck out his hand and shook mine. "Good luck for the future in Academia, Sergeant Desmond."
I doubted 'Academia' would describe the places where I might be teaching should I succeed in passing the various courses. A rundown Comprehensive school on a 'sink' estate, where snotty nosed street Arabs ran riot, is a far cry from the 'Dreaming spires'.
I knocked on the office door of the Officer Commanding 2RGJ, Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Campion, or The Old Man' as all battalion commanders are known in the British Army. On his 'come in' I marched up to his desk and came to a military halt, only just avoiding saluting, as I was in civilian dress.
He indicated a chair opposite him. "Sit down, Sergeant Desmond. This is the most distressing act I've had to carry out in my entire service life. We tried everything to keep you on strength; the Colonel of the Regiment and the Colonel in Chief both pleaded with MoD to change their minds but to no avail. Those bloody civvies up there don't give a fuck for us in the army."
For him to use such language was extreme. His regimental name was 'The Bishop' as he did not permit swearing in his presence, which really brought home to me how much he had been affected by MoD's decision to get rid of me.
"It appears, Dewey, you are collateral damage in an inter-departmental dispute at MoD. I don't know what the row is all about, but will wager my pension it has nothing at all to do with anything military or regulatory but all to do with the egos of those twats ... politicians and civil servants ... who wield the power up in the den of iniquity known as the Ministry of Defence." He shook his head sadly. "The army has become far too politicised over the past decade if you ask me. Even our representatives on the joint committees are willing to lick the arses of the civvies to see what jobs and titles they might be awarded after leaving the army, thereby allowing the politicians and civil servants to ride roughshod over us. It's a scandal that our most senior officers at MoD didn't do more to get the ridiculous order rescinded."
He handed me a thick manila envelope. "This is your record of service, exemplary service I might add, and your discharge papers. You are on leave until your official discharge date of June the twelfth, and accredited back pay and various allowances are already in your bank account. At least we managed to get you a pension; those gentlemen at MoD were trying to get out of paying you any as you didn't complete twenty two years from the age of eighteen, but the Colonel in Chief demanded you got a pension, albeit at a rifleman's rate, the penny pinching bastards."
He stood up, and I hurriedly followed suit. He stretched out his hand across the table.
"Good luck, Dewey. You have been a credit to the regiment, and it has been an honour to serve with you. Don't forget the regimental association will always be available to you should the need arise." I shook his hand warmly and thanked him; he was a decent man, a good officer and a fine soldier himself.
Blanco Paige had ordered a taxi to take me to Colchester station, and after taking my farewell of him I sat in the back as the taxi drove me through the main gate, ending 23 years in a job I loved.
The finality of what had happened didn't hit me until I sat down in the London bound train and stared, sightlessly, as the Essex countryside speeded past the carriage window. What the hell was I going to do? How would I cope with the dreaded Civvy Street? I admit for a time I was in a blue funk, and tears of self-pity filled my eyes. Then my natural optimistic nature came into play.
Civvy Street needn't be all doom and gloom, I told myself. I'll have a bit of a pension, and there's my savings. The mortgage on the house is paid off and my wife is earning a good salary. I didn't know how much exactly but Miriam held a middle management position at OCSET, a national supermarket chain, and probably earned a higher salary than I did as a sergeant. I had application papers for a teacher training course, and if I passed the course, and after a year of teaching in a primary school, I would be eligible to take a higher qualification. Between times I could be employed in a security firm, which if not paying top dollar at least there would be some income. What with Miriam's salary, my pension, and whatever else I could earn, she and I should be OK.
The train arrived at Liverpool Street Station about 2 pm. There was no reason to rush home; Miriam would be working until 5 pm at the regional HQ of OCSET, a twenty minute walk from Kitchener Road. I got the tube to Plaistow, and decided to go for a pint in a pub near the underground station.
The Crown was not one of my regular boozers, although I had been in a few times over the years.
It was quiet in the lounge and the peroxide blond behind the bar wiggled her way over to me.
She was well into her 40's, and as a young girl had probably been voluptuous, but now she verged towards the chubby. Her lips were a crimson red, mascara ringed her bright blue eyes, and her low cut, off the shoulder, blouse showed her large breasts to their best advantage. I had a sudden memory flash of Annalise, the German bar girl who taught me how to really pleasure a woman, had been of a similar age, and dressed in much the same style, when I first met her.
"Yes love, what can I get you?" She had a pleasant voice, and I smiled at her, and the bosom she pushed forward for my inspection.
"A pint of Bombardier, with a Jim Beam chaser please, and have something yourself."
"Thank you, kind sir." She simpered, and fluttered fake eyelashes at me.
"You don't look like a bourbon drinker to me."
"It's a recently acquired taste." I said.
"I like a man with taste ... and taste a man I like." She winked, and then pulled my pint, suggestively grasping the pump as if wrapping her hand round an erect prick. She saw me watching, and rubbed her hand up and down the handle.
"I'm an expert at this: practise makes perfect."
"Yes," I said, "it seems you know how to manipulate stiff wooden objects."
She chuckled, and flashed me a smile which showed she must have been a desirable and highly shagable piece of goods in the past.
She handed me my pint. "I'll get your chaser," then shimmied her way over to the optics. I noticed she wore red 4 inch heels and fishnet stockings with a tight, tight, skirt split up the side, allowing her to walk, and also display tantalising flashes of white thigh and black stocking tops; a young boy's wet dream. On her return she carried my whiskey and her drink.
"Vodka," she said, pointing at her glass, "mustn't let the punters think I'm drunk else they'll try and take advantage of me ... if I play my cards right."
I paid her and took a hefty swallow of my beer.
She rang up the till, then leaned over the bar, giving me a ring side seat of her tits trying to climb out of her blouse. I got a whiff of cheap scent, talcum powder and warm woman.
"Not seen you in here before, have I?" She asked, noting where my eyes were fastened and smiling broadly.
"No, I'm a local lad, but I've been away in the Middle East for some time."
"Yeah, you look as if you've been in the sun. Have you got an all over tan?"
"That's for me to know and for you to find out." I countered ... the old ones are the best. She laughed outright, a sensuous sexy sound, not surprising coming from that magnificent bosom. It was good to be able to flirt with a tasty female without the worry of starting a Holy War.
Before she could reply someone shouted from the saloon bar.
"Oi, Maggie. Let's 'ave some bleedin' service dahn 'ere."
"You can hang on a minute, I'm serving this gentleman. We don't get that many in here and I'm prolonging the pleasure," she dropped her voice to a murmur, "I'm good at doing that." She flicked her tongue over her lips then gave me a lewd wink, before oscillating her way back to the other bar.
I downed my whiskey and took another pull of my pint. Five minutes later she returned, and leaning forward said, in a husky whisper. "Is there anything else you would like, anything at all?"
She made it obvious what was on offer, and I felt a bit of a heel for leading her on.
"It all looks tempting, but I've been travelling for thirty six hours and I'm jet lagged. I wouldn't be able to fully appreciate anything I was given, besides which there's a wife waiting for me at home."
"The story of my life," she sighed. "Anyway, I wouldn't want to come between a man and his wife ... unless it was a three-in-a-bed job of course!"
I laughed loudly, and she grinned, then was called again to the other bar.
I finished my pint and made my way out of the pub. She waved as I left. I waved back.
Feeling the need to get some air and clear my head I decided to walk the mile or so to Kitchener Road. A bad decision. I had been travelling for the best part of two days with meagre amounts of rest and food, but plenty of booze, and by the time I reached the house I felt light headed and exhausted.
I was glad to find the spare key to the front door of #23 Kitchener Road was where my mother had always kept it.