Over the Hills and Faraway, Book 5. Paying the Piper
Chapter 21: Married Life
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 21: Married Life - 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.
December 2003 – November 2008: London.
Bertram Weston gave us a Canary Wharf penthouse apartment as a wedding present. When I say 'gave' it was actually another tax avoidance scheme, where we paid a mere pittance of a rent to some holding company in the Bahamas and Weston was then able to claw back a large proportion of any tax he had paid in the UK. I have no idea how it works, but it seems all millionaires have similar arrangements, and pay virtually sod all income tax.
Bertram Weston also introduced me to his tailor in Saville Row; a snooty bugger by the name of Jonathon Disraeli – supposedly related to the Victorian politician – who cultivated the style of dress and mannerisms of the famous man. Jonathon was a right pain in the arse, but a shit-hot tailor and fashion guru none the less. My interview with him bordered on a prenuptial contract negotiation. He asked me 'who my people were', and when I replied 'the Greenjackets' the soft sod went to look up the family in Burke's Peerage.
He also wanted to know my salary scale, and occupation. The salary scale obviously met his criteria, but when it came to my career I became rather reticent. "I'm bound by the Official Secrets Act, Mister Disraeli, and if I told you what I do for a living I would have to kill you."
He didn't bat an eyelid. "Yes, of course. We clothe several gentlemen who have similar employment." He laid a finger against his nose."MI5 or MI6 I suppose?"
I placed my finger likewise alongside my nose. " MFI, actually."
He nodded sagely. "Quite so, I understand." The daft prat!
I also had an introduction to a boot and shoe maker in Gerrard Street, who took more measurements of my feet than Disraeli had of my entire body.
From these measurements a pair of wooden lasts would be made, and then my hand made shoes could be constructed.
With all this expenditure on clothes and footwear it was just as well I received a large bonus in early 2004. British Aerospace had landed a huge contract with the Saudi Arabian government for aircraft and weaponry. MilSys had several subcontracts within the main contract and the Pro and Pubs division got rewarded, my share being enough to pay for the suits and shoes.
Dougie Green smiled at my amazement when I saw the size of the bonus.
"Contrary to what the Boss says, war is good for something," he said.
"The boss? The CEO of MilSys?"
Dougie laughed. "The Boss, as in Mister Bruce Springsteen. He sings 'War. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.' However, I must disagree with The Boss, as war is extremely good for armament manufacturers, the media in all its usages, politicians and pundits, and of course members of Pro and Pubs at MilSys."
I took to the high rise, high living, life style like a duck to water. Suki and I worked hard, partied hard and shagged each other senseless.
Every man dreams to be rich, and have a sexually rampant, drop dead gorgeous wife, and I lived the dream. We attended all the places where folk of our salary/profession/life style went, and rubbed shoulders, and, had I any energy left after Suki fucking my brains out, could have rubbed other parts of my anatomy with some of the most beautiful women in London.
I suppose we were C list celebs; Suki had photographers snapping her at any public function we attended – the paparazzi probably thought I was her minder so my phizog rarely appeared in the glossy fashion magazines, or Hello and OK.
For my 40th birthday Suki bought me a car; a £120,000 Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet sort of car. To be honest she bought it mainly for herself; I am no petrol head, and seldom used a car to get about London. The tube, black cabs, and buses suited me well enough. However, she wanted to celebrate me turning 40, when men are supposed to suffer a mid-life crises, and rather than see me buy a Harley Davidson, and probably kill myself, she reasoned the Porsche would fulfil any boy racer fantasies I might have – which I didn't and don't.
She also made the surprising comment: "A Porsche turbo is a well-known knicker dropper of a car should you get the urge to try a new bed playmate."
I assured her she was more than enough woman for me, which was the truth.
She smiled knowingly. "Boys will be boys, Dak, and as long as she was no more than a shagging partner I wouldn't mind ... I might even try a threesome."
She handed me the car keys, slipped me a length of tongue, and then went into the kitchen to get a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge.
I stared after her with my mouth hanging open, She was having a laugh, wasn't she?
In March of 2005, Suki was transferred to a new division of the company, Aerial Tracking Services, which manufactured the electronic controls for something called 'drones', which I thought were bees but turned out to be unmanned flying vehicles. The circuit boards were made, and the control programming carried out, on a industrial park outside Slough, and she spent four days a week on site and one day at MilSys HQ in Aldgate, the same building in which my department, Pros and Pubs, was based.
The Porsche became her transport to and from Slough, via the M4. I don't know if the car was an underpants dropper on males, although I imagine it caused them to be envious, and probably gutted, when an attractive female, at the wheel of a macho Porsche 911 Turbo cabriolet, raced past them on the motorway.
With her extra salary – Suki was the senior project leader at Aerial Tracking Services – and my bonuses bumped up salary, we lived high on the hog.
We had practically no outgoings other than utility bills and council tax, so the bulk of our spending was on self-gratification and self-esteem.
It became the norm for us both to work hard during the week and party hard at weekends; we mixed with the jet set, or at least with the turbo prop set, and I had more come-ons than The Boxer. It seems the high life begets promiscuity, and had I not already been shagged out of my senses by Suki I could have been by C and D list celebs, the female of the species I hasten to add.
It became clear how young men, suddenly thrown into this hedonistic life style, went overboard, and when I now read of some Premier League footballer getting arrested for doing drugs, or under aged girls, I do have some sympathy – not a lot, there is something called self control — but had I not been married to Suki there's no doubt I would have dived into the deep end of the swimming pool of carnality and been dragged under.
As it was, we attended parties which were little better than sex and drugs and rock 'n roll orgies, although we always left before they developed into full-on Roman style decadence. Suki again raised the prospect of us having what she termed 'flings', i.e., extra-marital sexual adventures with other, even multiple, partners. She laughed at the shocked response showing on my face.
"Really, Dak, you are so Victorian. We are living in the twenty-first century; morals and life styles are now much freer and relaxed."
"I couldn't be relaxed if I knew you were being shagged by some other bloke. Could you accept me shagging other women?"
"Yes, if it was only recreational shagging, and not emotionally based. And we both were open about who we were shagging."
I shook my head, non-plussed by her sanguine reply. "But why would you, or I, want any other sex partner? Are you bored with me after only a few years of marriage?"
She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me softly. "I love you to bits, Dak, but I don't want us to get into a rut with our sex lives. In the future we may need something extra to fire up our boilers. Swinging would help keep us fresh, and open to new experiences." She pulled away from me. "Although we are married we don't own each other ... not our bodies nor our souls. We love each other, and any other partners we may have in the future would be purely for sex. One can have sex without being in love with the person. Don't tell me you were in love with every woman you had sex with?"
She had me there, but I wasn't happy with her suggestions. She saw my distress, and kissed me again. "Let's not talk about other partners for now, but think about what I have said."
We went to bed, and I brought her to a little death, and she brought tears of happiness to my eyes — and I put her words about extra marital sex completely from my mind.
It wasn't all beer and skittles – or should that be champagne and polo – during these years. Living cheek by jowl with someone soon sees the good and bad side of them, and Suki had some traits I tried to ignore.
She had a large helping of her mother's snobbery as well as her beauty; and she also had the arrogance of the intelligent towards those not so well endowed with brains.
Suki sneered at people from humble beginnings who had pulled themselves up the social ladder, and had I not been her husband I would have been a target for her disain. In fact she tried to keep herself detached, and untouuhed, from what she referred to as plebs, chavs or oinks – the working class. She disliked me attending football matches, especially with Baz Butcher, who she met once and dismissed as 'a barrow boy spiv'. I informed her, in no uncertain terms, I was from the lower classes, and going to football matches was an important part of my heritage – all bollocks of course — but like most intellectuals she regarded cultural traditions as sacrosanct, and in time came to regard me and my mates attending football games in the same vein as Plebes attending chariot races in Ancient Rome.
My one evening a week, and weekends away, with the Territorial Army also met with her disfavour, so I cut down the number of weekends I went away with the company to two a month, then one a month; eventually I resigned from the TA, in order to keep the peace at home.
The one trait which really concerned me, and one I hadn't discovered until we had been married for over a year, was her drug taking. She wasn't an addict, but would sniff a line or two of cocaine at the parties we attended.
"Don't be a party pooper, Dak," she would chide me after taking a toot, "have a snort and join the rest of us in the twenty first century."
I always refused; drug taking had been a court martial offence in the army, and a dishonourable dismissal if discovered. I grew up convinced even one sniff would make me an addict, and wouldn't even take a puff of cannabis.
There were other events, not connected to our marriage, which saddened and distressed me during these years. The first was discovering Eddy Two Bears, the First Nation Pikani I had met when at BATUS in Canada, had died.
A visiting delegation from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were attending Arms Week, an annual get together of armament manufacturers and their customers, held at Harrogate in Yorkshire. Among the delegation was a First Nation constable.
I knew there were very few First Nation members of the RCMP – Eddy Two Bears had been one of the first of his race to be enlisted – so I made my way over to him and introduced myself, using my Pikani tribal name.
"Hi, I'm Des Flying Horse of the Greenjacket clan of the Pikani."
The bloke gave a wide smile, and held out his hand. "John Red Hawk, Porcupine Clan of the Siksika."
After a few minutes of chat I asked John Red Hawk if he knew Eddy Two Bears, and it was then I learned of Eddy's death. He had been drowned while attempting to save the lives of two children who had capsized their canoe in the swollen Fraser River near Chilliwack.
"He dived straight into the river when he saw the kids struggling against the current, and managed to rescue one, but was swept away when he went back in to reach the other." John shook his head sadly. "Eddy Two Bears was a role model for us Blackfoot; in fact I joined the RCMP to emulate him, and it was during my basic training I heard of his death."
"When did this happen?" I asked.
He pursed his lips in thought. "It was around Christmas of Ninety Four, over ten years ago. Eddy and his wife were visiting her parents in Chilliwack over Christmas. Jade Two Bears was pregnant when it happened, and her son is now ten years old."
"Eddy and Jade were married?"
"Yes, they came back from some field trip in the Rockies in August of Ninety Four and were married a month later."
"Do you know where is Jade living now?"
He thought a while. "I believe she is at some research institute in Alberta."
I was about to ask him if he knew anything of Dawn on Still Waters when he was called away, and I never got the chance to talk to him again during the rest of the week. I was desolated to hear of Eddy's death, but it was in the manner of how a man of his character would go, attempting to save a life.
I realised then why I hadn't heard from either Eddy or Dawn since 1994.
With Eddy gone Dawn had no means of contacting me. We had parted without exchanging addresses, supposing Eddy Two Bears would keep us in touch and informed.
That night, in my hotel bedroom, I had a flashback to the Falklands, with the Argentinian I had killed transmogrified into Eddy Two Bears, who, as I plunged my bayonet into his body, asked. "Why do you kill me, Des Flying Horse? We are brothers."
I woke up sweating and screaming.
When a country sends its young men to war the number of causalities such an action might produce is one subject never debated in public when deciding whether to start hostilities. The debate prior to the invasion of Iraq in October 2003 was long on weapons of mass destruction, and human rights, but no mention of how many of the invaders would die or be maimed for life.
Those sorts of statistics doesn't go down too well with Joe Public the voter.
Not long after the land invasion of Iraq, the few British who were killed in action, or had suffered terminal accidents, or had been killed in what the press call 'friendly fire' but which the military refer to as 'blue on blue', were flown back to the UK via RAF Lyneham, which was from where they had flown out to Iraq in the first place.
The small town of Wootton Bassett is a few miles outside the airfield perimeter, and the good people of the town, with no prompting from anyone other than their own sense of decency, stood in a respectful silence as the hearses bearing the repatriated bodies drove through the High Street.
As the body count increased more people became aware of this little ceremony of respect, and families of the deceased would place wreaths and flower on the hearses, which stopped in the High Street to allow the tributes to be made.
Veterans belonging to the local branch of the British Legion, and various other ex-servicemen's associations, including the Greenjackets, would parade with their standards, lowering them in salute as the cortege passed.
I became aware of the event purely by chance when driving back from a visit to British Aerospace offices in Bristol. The east bound M4 motorway had been closed due to a spillage of oil from an overturned tanker, and the diversion took me through Wootton Bassett. As I drove along the High Street I saw people carrying flags and standards gathering on the pavement, and noticed the standard of the Greenjackets Association among them.
I pulled over and parked the car in a pub car park, then introduced myself to the standard bearer, and the half dozen Greenjacket veterans standing alongside him, who gave me the details of why they were parading.
I have forgotten how many hearses passed along the High Street that day, or which arm of service/regiment the deceased belonged to, but from then on I tried to be in Wootton Bassett each time an aircraft brought back the bodies of UK servicemen, and women, killed in Iraq, and then later in Afghanistan.
The government did not publish any details relating to the repatriation of bodies, but as the news of the ceremony in Wootton Bassett spread the media arrived, and then the more glib and phoney of the politicians would turn up for photo shoots and sound bites – which the respectful and reverential spectators despised. Now I was in the loop I would get a date and time when a cortege would be passing through the town, together with a list of the names of the deceased. One day the list of names included two from the 1RGJ.
Naturally I went to pay my respects, although not recognising the names of the two Greenjackets being returned; a Rifleman Edwards and a Sergeant Cartwright.
It was only when I talked to one the Greenjacket veteran, who informed me the sergeant was Jason Zachary Cartwright, it dawned on me the body belonged to Jazzer Cartwright, the young soldier who I had persuaded to return to his unit after he went AWOL to marry the woman, a whore by the name of Greta, he thought himself in love with.
If confirmation was needed, when I saw a buxom blonde girl, accompanied by two young children, I recognized her as Ushi, a barmaid from the Copper Kettle in Celle. Jazzer had subsequently fallen in love with her after I had persuaded him to return to his unit, and must have married her and then begat the two fair haired siblings. I had pangs of remorse as I saw Ushi, tears streaming down her face, place a bunch of flowers on the hearse carrying her husband's body.
Her two children, eyes wide and tear stained, held each other's hand and watched their father's corpse being driven slowly through the ranks of spectator; some bowing in regard and tribute, others saluting, and the standards and flags dipping in salute.
I admit tears filled my eyes, and sorrow filled my heart, as I considered how my action in 1991 had led to this sad sight in 2005.