I Won't Hurry You
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Historical, Oral Sex, Petting, Slow,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - I looked at her again. She was absolutely terrified and did not look at all like a street-smart hooker. She looked like a twenty-something-year old who was desperate.
Some Years Ago
"I won't hurry you," she said nervously.
She had stepped in front of me on the street, which forced me to stop walking. She was about five-foot-six, slender with medium breasts. Her hair was blonde—almost white—and her eyes were deep blue. Her skirt and blouse were blue and had seen better days. The top three buttons of her blouse were open showing a good amount of naked chest.
Her complexion, where I could see skin, was flawless and her teeth were a brilliant white. If she smiled, she would be a beauty,
However, there was no smile. She was nervous, almost scared, as she continued, "You can take as much time as you want, Captain."
"I'm a Lieutenant," I answered abruptly.
I was pissed and had been in that state of mind for almost three weeks—and now some hooker calls me a captain and wants some action.
The events leading up to me staring at a German hooker speaking English with a slight accent had taken five years. My asshole father had left my mom and me years ago never to return. My mom struggled to put me through high school and we both knew there was no money for college.
When I was a senior in high school they had a vocation day that I attended. A US Army recruiter occupied one of the booths. We talked and he explained how the Army would put me through college—at least tuition, board and books—with the "only" requirement that I take some required military courses during college, give the army a month of my time each summer, and then serve a four-year enlistment. And to sweeten the proposition, they would make me an officer.
It wasn't the greatest proposition in the world—the war was on and thousands were being killed, although it now looked as if we would be the eventual victors—but it was the only deal that I could get. I thought "The guy is probably lying through his teeth, but going to college is better than being the last guy shot in the war."
I signed on the bottom line.
College was acceptable—booze, broads, books, and the Army in about that order, although if I were lucky, at times the broads edged out the booze. The four years passed quickly, my grades were pretty good, and I was anxious to leave the academic environment that had become boring.
I had no complaints during those four years with the single, serious exception that my mom never saw me graduate—she died in my last year; other than some distant relatives on my mother's side of the family, I was now completely on my own.
Languages came easily to me. I had taken German during high school and then four years of French in college. My army counselor at college—Major J. C. Jackson, USAR (retired)—had periodic review meetings with me. At one session he said, "Dave, after graduation you're going to Officer's Basic School and then you'll receive your commission as a second lieutenant. With your facility with foreign languages I'm going to recommend that the Army use that talent in the intelligence field."
"Why intelligence, Major?"
"As I said, your ease with learning new languages is a definite plus in the intelligence field. But second, when the war ended the OSS, which was our foreign intelligence branch, was immediately disbanded. It didn't take long for our government to realize that they had made a mistake, so they created the CIA two years ago.
"The CIA has been slow to organize and train their agents. Army Intelligence stepped into the void, since it is now apparent that our need for foreign intelligence is a very high priority.
"So does that sound like a good career field for you?"
I said the obvious, "It's a whole lot better than being a grunt officer in the field with people shooting at you.
"Can I ask a question, Major?"
"Fire away, Dave."
"The war is over. The army is having a huge reduction in force, and yet guys like me are going into the army while many others are being forced out. Something doesn't make sense?"
"Dave, you're both right and wrong. During the war promotions came quickly in the officer ranks. At the end of the war the army released eighty percent of their enlisted personnel. When they looked at the officers they found a large imbalance. There were way too many field-grade officers—majors through Colonels—to command a vastly reduced military. However, it was the opposite for the company-grade officers—lieutenants and captains—their ranks had been depleted in the fighting and as soon as the war ended, those that survived rushed to return to civilian life. The result was that the army had too many field-grade officers and too few company-grade officers. That's why you're in the program."
"Why don't they just make the majors do the job of the lieutenants?" I asked.
He chuckled at my naiveté. "Dave, after a couple of years in the real world, you'll be able to answer that question yourself. Until then, get ready to have a gold bar pinned on your shoulder."
Officer's Basic School was easy—a repeat of my monthly sessions during each summer at college. The Army agreed with my counselor that I should be in Intelligence, so they sent me to a six-month Army language school located in California. Unfortunately, the language was Korean.
I politely pointed out to the army that I was pretty good in German and French to which I was not very politely told that "We aren't at fucking war with Germany any more, and the French don't know what war is."
Six months of intense language training in California had me pretty competent in speaking and reading Korean. I waited for my orders during the last two weeks of language school. The orders arrived and the army showed me what a wonderful sense of humor it had—I was posted to Germany!
I politely pointed out that I just had spent the last six months learning Korean. It was somewhat harshly pointed out that our German unit was short bodies and that Eastern Europe and Russia were now considered our biggest threat—the Berlin Airlift had just ended and our government now viewed Eastern Europe both as a political battle, and also as a military threat.
"What changed in the last six months?" I asked.
My argument fell on deaf ears and ended with the sarcastic comment that the single gold bar on my shoulder meant that a lowly second lieutenant should salute and say, "Yes Sir" to orders when they are received.
Three weeks later I was in Germany. I walked into the commander's outer office and found a staff sergeant reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. I explained that I was reporting in and asked if I should report now or come back later.
The Sergeant looked me over, chuckled and said, "Hang tight, Lieutenant. I think they want to meet you now and get it over with."
He walked into the next room and came out a minute later. He shook his head sadly and pointed to the open door. I marched in and saw a captain and a first sergeant sitting at a conference table on either side of a lieutenant colonel.
I took a position of attention, saluted since I was reporting for my new duty, even though we were indoors, and did the military thing, "Lieutenant Wheeler, reporting for duty, Sir."
My new boss was the Battalion Commander named Weldon. I remained at attention as he read my file. As he read, his face turned redder and redder. Finally, he looked up at me and asked, "How much Russian do you speak?"
"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"
"Following orders, Sir?" I suggested.
Barely keeping his temper in check he said, "We are a Russian intelligence battalion stationed in Germany. You have high school German that you haven't used in years and speak no Russian. The French hate us, but they don't fight, and Korea is down the road a piece. Do I have that right, Lieutenant? In other words, what fucking good are you to me?"
Since there was no good answer to that question, I remained silent.
Finally, realizing that I was a second lieutenant who probably could find his ass only after two or three attempts, he introduced me to my immediate boss, whose name was Captain Myer, and told the three of us to get out and get me squared away. He would try to get me transferred to anywhere outside his command, but he told me that the odds were that he was stuck with me.
As we stood outside the office, Captain Myer winced and said, "You caught him at a particularly bad time, Lieutenant. In the last month we lost our three most valuable intelligence officers to civilian life, and you're their replacement.
"This is First Sergeant Franklin. I've asked him to advise you how to take care of all the little stuff. When you're done, take the rest of the day off. I will see you in my office tomorrow morning at 0800."
As the Captain walked away I turned to Franklin. It was obvious he had been in the army for many years; I guessed him to be in his mid-forties. He looked like he just stepped out of a recruitment picture with his uniform perfect in every detail. His body posture gave the impression that he was tough as nails.
A master sergeant and a first sergeant have the same enlisted rank, but the difference is that the first sergeant is the life-blood of the company. First sergeants provide discipline and counsel to the enlisted men in the company; instructs other sergeants on their duties; advises the commander; and assists young company-grade officers, like me, how not to be an asshole or fuck up on the job.
A master sergeant you call "Sergeant," but a first sergeant is addressed as "First Sergeant." Once an unspoken agreement is reached you can also call him "Top," which signifies he's the top enlisted man in the company.
Concluding that the unspoken agreement was months away I asked, "First Sergeant, if you were a green second lieutenant who was on his first assignment, and who didn't know shit, what would you do to get squared away?"
I could tell he liked my approach—we both knew I didn't know shit and I was honest enough not to fake it.
He suggested in his very polite, sarcastic way—after all I was an officer and he was a lowly enlisted soldier—all the things that I should do.
Four hours later I'd signed my name fifty times, been assigned my room on the base, and received my new ID for this posting.
I reported back to Franklin. I know, officers don't report to enlisted men, but I wasn't the dumbest lieutenant in the world and I knew who really ran the operation, so I gratefully and with overwhelming humbleness, profusely thanked him for his help and advice. It was a sarcastic contest to see who could be more polite. It ended a draw, which got another chuckle from him.
He then gave me the security briefing. I was in one of two intelligence companies that made up the battalion, which was part of a brigade, which was part of the 2nd Armored Division that was stationed in Germany. However, if asked what I did, I was to say I was a supply officer with the armored division. I was to keep my mouth shut regarding the job, and any contact with a foreigner was to be reported to the office by using the Army form created for that purpose.
"Was I sufficiently clear so that you understood me, Lieutenant?"
I replied that his briefing was truly a work of art, and that I understood every word he said—even the three syllable and bigger words.
He chuckled again and suggested that I follow Captain Myer's advice and take the rest of the day off. We would meet at 0800 the following morning and see what work the Captain had found for me to do.
Thirty minutes later I left the base and found myself meeting my first German—a blond hooker who "wouldn't hurry me."
The recruiter who persuaded me to sign on the bottom line never told me the army had such a great sense of humor, which seemed to take particular pleasure in frustrating second lieutenants.
I looked at her again. She was absolutely terrified and did not look at all like a street-smart hooker. She looked like a twenty-something-year old who was desperate.
I paused and thought that it wasn't her fault my life was in the shits. I gently said, "I'm sorry; I'm not interested."
The despair on her face was frightening. On an impulse I said, "How much?"
She looked at me surprised. "Twenty dollars American and I won't hurry..."
I interrupted her. After four years at a party college I liked sex as much as anyone, but even I would feel bad taking advantage of this woman.
"Go put on a dress and meet me here in an hour. I'll take you to dinner and pay you $30. Is that acceptable?"
She stared at me and then gave a quick, nervous smile. "That is very acceptable, Lieutenant."
She turned to go and I said, "My name is Dave. What's yours?"
An hour later, after changing into civilian clothes, I returned to the same place on the street and found Elke waiting for me. She was wearing a blue dress that was presentable, but certainly not new. It showed her body better than the clothes she was wearing earlier. Her slim figure and blonde hair made her quite attractive... or maybe I was just horny. She gave me another quick, nervous grin when she saw me.
"Good evening, Elke," I said in German.
She replied, "Good evening, Lieutenant."
"Call me Dave."
We walked down the street for several blocks until we reached a small restaurant that I had spotted earlier. I asked for a table for two in German, and apparently I was understood since we were given a table in a private corner of the room.
"Elke," I said in German, "I've just arrived and my German is poor since the last time I spoke it was in high school. If you hear me pronounce a word wrong, or if I don't know the word I'm trying to say, I want you to help me."
"I will help the Lieutenant."
"I will help you, Dave."
"Elke," I continued in German, "Do Germans ever smile?"
"Yes, Dave. Why do you ask?"
"Because I have yet to see you smile."
My reward was a quick smile that, nevertheless, brightened her face and highlighted her blue eyes and high cheekbones.
I explained to her that my first military assignment was in an armored division and that my boss had told me to practice my German since we would have training operations in the future with the newly formed military of the Federal Republic.
"That's one of the reasons we're having dinner tonight—to help me speak German better."
She stammered, "Any other reason?"
"You're pretty," I replied.
She blushed. The red on her face contrasted with her creamy complexion and almost white hair.
The waiter came over and after asking what she wanted, I ordered the meal for both of us. Twice she corrected my accent and three times she had to tell me the right word that I was trying to say.
After the waiter left I asked, "Please tell me about yourself, Elke."
"Dave, my life is a very simple story. I grew up in a small town called Choiden near the border of the Russian Sector. My mother died when I was only ten years old. My father was a teacher of languages at a small university near where we lived. I married young a German soldier, but he was killed in a military accident. A year later my father died of a heart attack.
"There were no jobs in my town, so I came to the city to find work. Jobs are very difficult to find even in this populous area. I finally managed to find a job working in a local pharmacy four hours per day."
Elke was getting increasingly nervous now. She stammered, "I'm behind in my rent. He gave me two days to pay or I would have to leave my apartment."
Her face turned red and I could see tears on her cheeks as she looked down at the table. "I'm not a whore, but I've run out of choices."
I was embarrassed for her and also for me. I didn't know what to say, but was saved as the waiter brought our food. We ate quietly. It was obvious she was hungry as her food disappeared quickly.
We finished the dinner and the waiter came to take our dessert order. I completely botched many of the words and pronunciations. Elke gently corrected each mistake.
I saw the waiter look at her scornfully.
"Do you have a problem?" I asked sharply.
He assured me there was no problem and left to get our dessert order.
We were silent when he left until I asked, "You said your father was a teacher of languages. What languages do you speak and read?"
"Only four," she replied. "German, French, Russian, and English."
My interest perked up immediately. "How good is your Russian?"
"It is very good, Dave. My father's expertise was Russian since the university insisted the language be emphasized because of the proximity and the politics of the two countries."
"Can you write in Russian?"
"Of course—my father insisted."
Our waiter came with the dessert; we ate it and I paid the bill. I told Elke I would walk her to her apartment. As we walked down the street I asked, "Elke, how much money do you need to pay what you owe on your apartment?"
"About $40 American."
"How much do you need per month to keep your apartment, counting what the pharmacy pays you?"
"I think maybe $50 American."
I stopped walking and looked at her. "I will pay you $40 tonight and then pay you $50 per month if you would help me with my German and teach me how to speak and read Russian.
"The Russian would help my military career," I explained.
She stared at me in astonishment. "You would do this for me?"
"Yes, for you, and also for me."
She looked down. "I'm embarrassed. Was I begging that badly during dinner?"
I touched her arm. "Elke, I need help with my German and my career would be better if I spoke Russian. It's a business proposition."
She looked at me shyly. "I'm in a corner and have no choice, and I'm embarrassed at your generosity. I have to accept with thanks."
We started walking again and finally we reached a three-story building that was very old and in need of many repairs.
We stopped at the bottom of the stairs and I gave her $40. She looked at me.
"Thank you for the dinner, Elke. I will meet you at the same place tomorrow night at eighteen hundred—that's six o'clock Elke—for my first Russian lesson."
She stared at me and I could tell she was mad.
"I made a deal with you and you must come into my apartment so that I honor my agreement. I'm not a virgin and I will make sure that you receive pleasure."
I was surprised at her anger. "Elke, we made a deal for you to teach me languages. Our earlier deal was for you to have dinner with me—nothing more.
"You are a beautiful woman and I am physically attracted to you or I wouldn't be a man. I don't take a woman to bed for money, but because I like or love her. You owe me nothing."
She looked at me in surprise, "Really?"
"Yes, Elke, really."