Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Yeh, I had some shitty things happen to me growing up, but hell, I lived over 'em. Lived over a four year hitch killing terrorist too. So now it's time for at least a little fun.
My Mom and Dad had been jokers. Always full of it and seeming to live only to make each other laugh. Bill Sprat had been born to a wealthy father and mother and apparently they were his model for getting along with women. He learned to make girls laugh and it always helped their panties slide off, sooner or later.
Sally Waterman's parents weren't po folks either. She and Bill dated off and on before Bill decided Sally could make him laugh too. After they graduated from University they purposely got Sally nocked up, for a laugh.
They had planned to marry all along, but they just thought it would be such a hoot to start the family first. Neither of their parents thought it was a damned bit funny, but the wedding went ahead rapidly and Sally was only about four weeks early with her delivery.
Of course it left me to be born with a broken arm, from trying to hold on as long as I could so we could try and make things look decent. Things rocked along almost normally until I was fourteen years old.
Of course Mom and Dad were always playing little jokes on me. Some were funny and some weren't, but I could tell they loved me better than teacakes and of course I loved them back, even with their, often weird, sense of humor.
Their last joke on me hadn't been a damned bit funny though, and I'm sure if they'd had the chance they would have apologized. They'd been off partying, leaving me home alone. What the hell, I was fourteen and old enough to look out for myself.
You guessed it. Dad was just a little drunk when he started home and Mom was even drunker. It wasn't the first time they'd come home under the influence. The trouble was they didn't make it home this time. All I can do is thank God they didn't hit anyone else and hurt them too.
After the singing and slow walking I moved in with my Dad's parents. We had all been fairly close, and the only reason Dad's parents took me in was because they were about ten years younger than Mom's. I still went over to see Mom's parents often and even spent nights with them lots of times.
Sometimes when bad luck gets its hooks in on you it just doesn't let up. In what I considered a payback by fate for something I didn't do, both sets of grandparents had been off on an outing together and were killed in a horrible crash, with a drunk driver for fuck sakes. Of course my grandparents weren't drunk, but the other guy had been and that was that.
I was eighteen by then, and old enough to see to myself, but it was a shitty deal all the same. Money wasn't a problem because they all had insurance and the drunk driver had been pretty wealthy. Our families' good lawyer made sure I got my share of the leavings of this drunks estate and I was well set up from my Grandparents estates anyway, since I was the only one listed on any will.
Still, it was a dirty trick for fate to pull on me, an all around shitty deal. I'd like to say I took it like a man, but I can't. I was devastated since I'd got started clinging to my Grandparents when my parents bit the dirt so early. I wasn't a titty baby or anything, but I did care for and depend on all of them, and it was just fucked up losing them all at once that way.
One of the worst things about it all was dealing with the school counselor. I know she was trying to help, but she'd call me in every day or two to ask me how I felt about things and other shit. I considered it a checking my pulse sort of thing. She finally told me she'd decided I needed to take a semester off to get my thoughts together, and I hit the ceiling.
The semester she wanted me to take off was my last one in high school, which meant I'd have to show up next August for another school year. I stormed out of her office, climbed into my pickup, and headed straight to my lawyer's office.
Now, I know what you're thinking. Going from a school counselor to a lawyer is exactly the wrong direction to jump. Maybe most of the time, but my lawyer had been my parent's and all my grandparent's lawyer too. He was a smart old bastard and already rich, so he didn't need any of my money.
I explained the problem to him and in two days he had a court order to make the counselor leave me alone and he was threatening the school district with a lawsuit.
Of course the school board didn't like being told what to do - small town politicians always think their shit don't stink, but he'd already burned their asses for a couple of hundred thousand over past misbehavior of a principal and they were loath to tangle with him in a lawsuit situation, especially since they didn't give a rat's ass whether I got counseling or not. The rest of my school year and my graduation went off without a hitch.
I ended up going to the lawyer for advice afterwards too. I had plenty of money to go to college, but I didn't feel like doing it at the time. When I asked, he advised me to join the armed services.
"There's not a war going on now and one isn't likely in four years. It's a good time to sign up and live on your Uncle Sam's dime. You'll probably never need a GI loan, but it won't hurt you to qualify for one and you can get some training and learn a little about life along the way.
He talked me into it and off to the recruiter I went. I finally signed up and took a shitload of tests. With my scores it was basically my choice of what I wanted to do, within reason, and so I decided to join the Navy and give SEAL training a try.
The recruiter took one look at me and said, "With your size you might have a good shot."
He was referring to my physical size of six two and weight of a damned near fatless two-fifty-five I guess. I'd always been a big boy, and I wasn't even old enough to get fat yet.
He gave me all kinds of options for showing up. I could have as long as six months to get my shit together before showing up for basic training.
"Hell, I was ready to go before I walked in. My paper work at home is in order and in the hands of my lawyer. I packed a grip. I'm ready to leave from here," I said.
It turned out here wasn't where I had to show up, but he told me where and gave me three days and a voucher for a bus ticket. I at least decided not to show up early, but three days later I was mustered in and on my way.
And I really was on my way. Tom had already given me a hint about how to conduct myself so I listened when someone talked and hopped when they said jump. There were a few natural born fuckups in my group for basic training, but I ignored them. I was big enough they didn't spend much time trying to fuck with me over things either.
Since I had joined up right after high school graduation I was through with basic training and off to more advanced fields of learning the way to make sure I didn't die for my country. The instructors were clear on that point. They wanted us to make the other poor sons-of-bitches die for their country.
To me it was pretty much fun and games. We had a lot of PT at first, but I didn't need it since I'd always kept myself in great shape. Hell, I could outdo most of the drill instructors and I'd been marching since the eighth grade in the high school band. I was actually a little appalled at how sloppy military type marching was.
Things were rocking along, and I was getting set for my final generalized training. I'd just got a three-day pass and orders to show up for my next phase on September 12, 2001.
I was up about eight am on the eleventh and was fixing myself a pound of bacon, six fried eggs, and a mess of cathead biscuits when I turned on the television and saw the whole world had gone to shit just a few minutes earlier. I finished cooking and ate, all the while watching the twin towers burn and then fall. I called in and they said I might as well head on down if I didn't have anything better to do.
"We don't have any orders yet, but you can bet your ass training is going to be expedited."
Damned if it wasn't. Six months later I was a newly minted SEAL, first stop, Afghanistan. I spent the rest of my four years in the service there and nearly a year extra waiting for relief while they tried to talk me into reupping.
Hell, I'd already killed all the terrorists I wanted to, and even if I didn't have anything pressing to do back home, I felt sure I could find better uses for my time. If they still needed me in a year or so I might even join up again, but for now I wanted a break.
In the service it was common knowledge W was fucking the war up by the numbers. To top it all off he'd just been elected for another round of screwing up the works. If they needed troops so bad they could draft Dickhead Cheney. Maybe they could teach him to shoot the enemy instead of his hunting partners.
I did feel a little bit of pride landing at DFW and walking down the concourse in my uniform, what with people stopping to applaud me and all. Hell, they didn't know I was quitting and besides, I'd killed seventy-seven of the fuckers with the Barrett I'd just turned in and the combat knife I'd got to keep. Somebody else could go play in the sand for a while.