Chapter 1

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Heterosexual, First, Petting, Slow,

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A soldier with the NATO mission to Bosnia finds more than an opportunity for promotion.

I don't like formal military parades, but it's a fact of life for every soldier. Later today, the army were to hold the official passing out ceremony of those who'd graduated from the School of Military Engineering. Likely, fully half of this year's recruits would be on deployment in Bosnia by Christmas. It would be unthinkable I not be there - even if I had the choice.

Almira glided in from the bedroom with my number 1s - freshly dry cleaned and pressed to perfection. My EIFOR insignia was emblazoned in the regulation position, the upper right arm - pale blue with the circle of stars of the EU. On the chest were the rows of service ribbons accumulated after 12 years of service in the Bundesheer. Almira was smiling as she hung up the uniform for me. She liked me all dressed up like a peacock - liked being a soldier's wife - liked living here in Aachen in the married quarters of a military base.

She was still in her night gown - a silky confection in white that clung to her body like a glove. I watched as she shimmied into the kitchenette to brew the morning's coffee and smiled as I observed the curves of her bottom sway as she walked. I felt the familiar stirring in my loins and wondered whether we had enough time for morning sex. She turned as if reading my thoughts and her pretty, dark eyes sparkled with mischief.

"You want breakfast?" she asked in her heavy Balkan accent. "You must get ready. We need to be there before two."

"Plenty of time," I smiled - my eyes fixed on her chest with the pert breasts I'd been nibbling on just a few hours ago.

"You must shower," she replied. Almira made every suggestion sound like a command. Her German classes had not yet equipped her with the nuances of the language. On the other hand, my two dozen words of Bosnian were shameful after two years in the country.

"Perhaps you can join me?" I suggested, hopefully.

Almira flashed me an old fashioned look. "I have to get my dress ready," she told me. "Walschen, we have so little time."

'Walschen' was my nickname from when I was little. My real name is 'Walter' and 'Walschen could be interpreted as either 'little Walter' or 'little whale.' I was chubby as a kid and 'Walfisch' was a taunt I'd acquired at school.

"C'mon, Mirie, we have 4 hours. There's no need to panic."

"You always say that and then we have to rush because you want to lie around until we run out of time. Can't you be ready on time at least once?"

"I don't want to lie around. I want to take a shower with you. That's not the same thing."

"Then you want sex!" she sighed. "All the time when we are running late you decide you want sex."

"That is a crime?" I grinned. "To want to make love to my beautiful wife?"

"No, but there's a time and place. We had sex last night. You want it all the time."

"Of course," I smiled, getting up. I walked over to her and put my arms around her slim waist. She sighed again in resignation as she submitted to my roving fingers. I gently turned her around and pulled her silken clad gorgeous body into an embrace. I kissed her long and thoroughly and her body shuffled in arousal.

In my mind flashed a pastiche of images of our most erotic moments in two years of marriage. Nights and days spent in an aura of heady sexual energy. Her lithe limbs gripping me like a limpet - breaths intermingling, moaning, writhing. I thought of our honeymoon in Sardinia and our wedding night in the Hyatt hotel in the town. It was full of American servicemen, I recall, loud and enthusiastic. Always polite, they would address everyone as 'sir' or 'ma'am' or practice German from a phrase book. They were due to take some advance training at one of the technical schools associated with the Bundeswehr School of Military Engineering - part of the NATO personnel exchange program.

It had been an exciting year for me, 2006. First, in February, I was confirmed a full Captain, or 'Hauptmann', and posted to Aachen as a senior engineering instructor. It was a much coveted position and I was very lucky to win it. No doubt my service in Bosnia was of immense assistance in my application. There are few lines of advancement for a field engineer in the German Army and many seek civil employment instead. The Aachen posting allowed me progress with my career and remain in the service I'd grown to love.

In 1997, when I enlisted, I'd little thought to make the army my career. Like many specialists, I was only interested in the training the army had to offer - free, and the best around. The army not only trained, fed and clothed you, you could go on to University and complete a degree at their expense. For most, after a two year probation, recruits then sought jobs with construction or manufacturing companies. That was my intention, also, had not the Bosnian deployment intervened.

The second big event that year was my marriage to Almira. It had taken over a year of form filling and two visits to Sarajevo to face the Byzantine bureaucracy of both the EU High Representative Authority and the Government of Bosnia-Herzegovina. Bosnia classified everyone according to 'ethnicity, ' even though they're all basically the same race speaking languages so similar they're really dialects of the same language. All that really divides them is religion. Almira was classified Bosniak/Srbska' and, in that part of the world, that's a big problem.

The events that occurred between the years 1992 and 1994 defy rational explanations. Civil wars are never pleasant things, but the slaughter and brutality of the Bosnian conflict suggests decades old suspicion and hatred between three distinct communities. The scholar would be nonplussed to discover that little of that occurred - and certainly not on a scale that would explain such viciousness.

By viciousness, I mean wholesale massacres of men and boys by the thousands - the systematic rape of 48,000 Bosniak women over two years - ethnic cleansing and the displacement of 2 million people. First the Croatian HVO drove Bosniaks from their homes with tanks. Later, it was the 'Republika Srbska' Forces turn to exert control over virtually 90% of the country driving Moslems into pre-designated 'enclaves' to be brutalised, murdered, raped and raped again.

In 1995, following extensive bombing of Serbian forces by mostly American aircraft, the NATO led IFOR poured into Bosnia to separate the warring sides and to expose to an astonished world just what had been occurring. The extent of the abuse came as a shock - not unlike the astonishment that followed the opening of the concentration camps in 1945.

IFOR became EIFOR and a mission of the European Union. Our contribution of combat soldiers was scaled down and engineer and medical companies were sent, in co-operation with the Dutch, to help rebuild infrastructure and man hospitals. My turn came with the second deployment in June 2001 when I was based at Inglostadt with Engineer Battalion 108.

Sarajevo, Priiedor, Banja Luka, Gorazde, Tuzla, Mostar and Zenica evoked strange feelings in me as the names had a faint echo of the concentration camps of the Hitler war. These Southern Slavic town names had their own grizzly histories to tell, however, of mass rape, massacres and forced removals.

Once they'd contained settled communities of Croats, Serbs and Bosniaks living, more or less, side by side, attending schools together and worshipping at Churches and Mosques in much the same way as Catholics, Protestants and Moslems do in Berlin or Munich. From time to time, I guess, there'd likely be some inter-communal strife perpetuated by crazies, as there are here in Germany. But extremists shouldn't be allowed to set the tone for a community. When those extremists gain political power and make the agenda, then the disaster, which was Bosnia-Herzegovina, would likely be the result.

I-Bn-108 was first based in Zenica - pronounced Zen-ITS-a, in that peculiar habit the Slavs have of altering consonants. We were mainly tasked with reconstructing roads and bridges that had been temporarily repaired by previous EIFOR units. There are thousands of bridges in this country - some very ancient - and many are feats of unbelievable engineering skill. Bosnia, dominated by the Dinaric Alps, steep and forbidding, would be impossible to negotiate, accept by helicopter, if it wasn't for these construction wonders.

Zenica is set in a deep river valley by the fast flowing Bosna on the main road leading to the Croatian port of Split. Like Mostar's the bridge had been seriously damaged by Serb tank shells and repaired with steel beams by the Dutch. Some of I-Bn-108's personnel were tasked with assisting stonemasons brought in from various EU countries to restore the bridge to its sixteenth century magnificence.

Further up in the mountains was the village of Biljanovic - perched on the western slopes of Mount Scit. (Yes, the 'c' is soft and sounds more like 'sh.' It was immediately dubbed 'Scheissenberg' {Shit Mountain} by German and Dutch alike) Biljanovic was reached by a narrow road featuring dizzying gradients and was in constant need of repair due to frost damage. It was while we were engaged in this when we received a special request from some Dutch peacekeepers.

On the Western side of the village lies an idyllic little valley of soft grass with a trickling stream. In peaceful times this may have been featured on a tourist brochure, but now, some of those verdant fields had been killed off.

There was a farm there and a small stone cottage. The family had run sheep and there'd been a kitchen garden and a milking cow. In the barn they'd kept horses and a tractor. This is impossible country to farm without horses or motorbikes and these had been long plundered by rampaging soldiers during the war.

Biljanovic had once contained several Serb families in this mainly Bosniak village. Almira's mother, a Bosniak, had fallen for her father, a Serb, when Marshal Tito reigned supreme in Belgrade. When war began in 1992 Biljanovic first became reluctant hosts to the HVO, who seemed to have left them pretty well alone, then Serb units, who didn't. Almira's Serb father was protection against her mother, and the young Almira, being taken to one of the Serb rape camps. Not so the family's Bosniak neighbours. All Moslem families in the Biljanovic area were either murdered, driven out, or fled. Serb units encamped themselves on the family's farm and availed themselves of their livestock.

Almira's father, Alijan, had strong instincts for survival and endeavoured to get along as well as possible with Republika Srbska Forces. Their units had picturesque names, such as 'The Young Wolves, ' or 'The Blue Hearts.' Alijan had no particular affiliations, but he knew what had happened to his neighbours and was determined that wasn't going to be visited on them.

'The Young Wolves' were often roaring drunk from moonshine they distilled themselves. One day, near Christmas 1993, several of the Wolves decided they needed feminine company and the only women within reach were Almira and her mother. Their drunken demands were more than Alijan could take and soon an argument developed outside their cottage. Guns were produced and Alijan retreated into the house.

These stone cottages in Bosnia are proof against everything except artillery and bullets began to pelt against the granite walls as Alijan bolted the thick shutters. He, like most men, had been a reservist in the Yugoslavian army and, like most reservists, still kept his service rifle. The Wolves were now shouting and laughing as they blazed away at the cottage, but they were stopped short by a single shot from the farm house.

Gossip later suggested it was Almira's mother, Toli, who fired that shot, but, regardless, it hit one of the Wolves between the eyes. The fellow crumpled in a heap to the utter astonishment of his comrades. It took a burst of automatic fire from Alijan's AK-47 to wake them up and impress on their drunken brains they were out in the open. Hastily, they retreated leaving the corpse behind and continued the pointless duel from a distance.

Clearly, though, the family's position was no longer tenable and they joined the thousands of refugees fleeing to UN safe havens throughout Bosnia and Croatia. Fortunately, they chose, not Sarajevo, but the arduous and longer route to Split in Croatia.

The journey would likely be a book in itself, and I know few of the details. To Almira it was a blur of mountain peaks, hiding in forests as armour rolled past below them and the biting cold. Once, a young girl of 9 or so was shot in the stomach as they watched from the trees. The soldiers then left her writhing in pain in the middle of the road until a car came along and stopped. The Serb soldiers then shot the occupants dead and took the car, saving the last shot for the girl. Alijan went and fetched the girl from the road and gave her a proper burial in the woods. Around her neck, Almira recalled, was a set of enamel prayer beads - each hand painted, likely by the girl herself. There were 45 in number - to assist her in reciting the Prophet Mohammed's name the prescribed 90 times a day. Alijan, an Orthodox Christian, knelt weeping over the girl, just two years younger than his own daughter, and blessed the beads before burying them with her.

Bosnians are a tough people and, no sooner did NATO troops enter the country, Almira and her family followed on their heels to recover their farm. What they encountered, however, was a burnt out and devastated cottage and farm. Everything of any remote use had been stripped or destroyed. Some sheep still remained, but only because they could go places no human being could follow. Other stock were shot at long range and their bodies left to rot on the mountainside.

Biljanovic was slowly recovering as Bosniak families returned. There was precious few of them, now, and many of the women were withdrawn and silent in shame. Alijan had heard something of what happened to them and felt pity for their families.

The Bosniaks soon began searching for people to blame for their sufferings. Alijan was the only Serb for hundreds of kilometers and soon Almira and her family became the subject of abuse and harassment. A Dutch NATO unit was stationed in the village and if it wasn't for their presence, Almira was sure they'd have been murdered in their beds. Despite that, however, the flat pasture near the cottage, where once there'd been the greenest of grass, soon began to wither and die. The culprit turned out to be a range of potent herbicides, each one banned in most countries in the West, but, in Yugoslavia, were still used to the present day. A soil test was done by the Dutch and sent for testing to Sarajevo. The result confirmed the stuff would likely be potent for up to a decade. Clearly, the fields were unusable unless something was done to remove the chemical.

And so it came to pass that it was me, as a young Leutnant, who was sitting in the cab of the KDV grinding up that steep mountain road. Behind, it wasn't a tank sitting on the flatbed, but a Hanomag bulldozer. The plan was to scrape off a good 200 milimetres of top soil and pile it up for disposal. We then had to cover it lest the wind blow the toxic melange back over the field. Later, we were prepared to re-sow the pasture and assist the family to restock.

We had a saying in those days that went something like, 'we build shattered lives with bricks and mortar.' The idea was that, by repairing their homes and businesses, we were giving back to the Bosnians some sense of normalcy. Hopefully, that translated into a relief of the feeling of retribution that must touch virtually every home. By setting people like Almira, Alijan and Toli on their feet we'd hoped they had few reasons to want to perpetuate the sort of devastation that had occurred during those three years of fighting.

The theory was sound, but our resources weren't always able to cope with the scale of the tasks. My command in Biljanovic was a small one, just myself and a Feldwebel on a bulldozer. It was hot and dusty at that time of year and the dust wasn't anything you'd want to ingest. We each took turns on the dozer, shrouded in cumbersome NBC suits and masks. We sweated like pigs and could only stand it for an hour at a time. What seemed like a task involving no less than two days, became a week of utter discomfit. That Almira and her family had endured far more, kept us honest in our complaints.

Alijan watched us most days from the porch of his ruined house. He continually smoked pungent tobacco from a long churchwarden. He walked with difficulty and the Dutch told me he had a bullet in the leg that had gone mostly untreated. Likely, the slug was still there, but he refused to leave his family for the hospital.

Toli cooked on a camp stove provided by the Dutch out back of the cottage. Her cast iron range had been ripped out by her neighbours before the Dutch arrived. She brought Alijan's meals to him on the porch before retreating. Both women ate out of sight behind a screen of bleached calico. She covered herself in a long scarf, but her furtive glances in our direction bespoke suspicion and resentment. Despite our good intentions, we felt like interlopers and wanted nothing more than to finish the task and drive back to Zenica.

Almira was twenty years old at the time, but I barely laid eyes on her for two days. Both women spent most of the day scrubbing the soot off the walls of their burnt cottage. Whatever Alijan's task was, I wasn't sure, but probably he thought he was protecting the womenfolk from the unwanted attentions of two German soldiers. Neither Feldwebel Wishnewski nor I had the slightest interest in causing offense to these women. Our own disciplinary system would finish whatever Alijan chose to leave.

We brought plenty of fresh water with us. Likely, the chemicals that had poisoned the fields would've leached into the stream. This we shared willingly with the family - leaving cans each morning on the porch. Thanks were not offered, as Toli warily collected them and hauled them back behind the cottage. Similarly, food was delivered every two days by Unimog from Zenica. We made camp by the transporter and set our stove and tent where we figured we'd get the best shelter. It was basic, but I was able to bake fresh bread - something I take pride in.

On the afternoon of the second day, I decided to take Alijan some of my bread. As I approached, he looked apprehensive, even as I proudly displayed a fresh loaf in my hands. At his feet lay his AK-47 and I could see a moments indecision in his eyes as he thought about picking it up. His eyes travelled to my G-36 slung over my shoulder and I cursed myself for not leaving the weapon behind. It is against regulations to leave your weapon unattended and this is drummed into you during basic training.

Alijan accepted the bread, however, with something approaching a smile. He bellowed for Toli and she came running to take the gift. I then had an inspiration. Carefully, I unslung my assault rifle and offer it to Alijan for his inspection. He ran his eye over it and peered down the barrel. I thought at one point he was going to fire it into the air - an act that would cost me a disciplinary hearing. But he nodded, sagely, and handed it back. He then invited me to sit with him.

Alijan knew some English - enough to get by - which suited me as I hadn't come to grips with the local language. His English was peppered with loan words from his native tongue, but it wasn't too hard to decypher.

"You Germanski?" he began.

"Ja, da, er, yes," I stammered.


"Berlin, but I'm based in Ingolstadt."

"Ah! East? West?"

"West," I said, "But we're all one people, now," I replied.

"Ah! Religion?" I had to confess I lacked any. He looked at me in surprise. "You believe in no God?"

"I guess not," I shrugged.

"You lucky. God would not like what his people do in his name. You believe my wife's God is any different? I tell you, he's one in the same - Moslem, Christian - is all one God and we should be together in his name. What God tells his people to murder children and rape women? God abandoned his people here in these mountains and we acted like savages. Now we are being taught how to love again by unbelievers. When you are gone again, you think the grass will grow?"

"I think so," I told him, completely missing the metaphor.

"I hope so," he said, sadly. "For our sakes, I hope so."

I began to sit with him each day, between shifts on the tractor and my other duties. He introduced me to Toli and she even sat with us a spell - only at the back and rarely speaking. She was knitting a shawl for her daughter, she said, for the day she would find a husband.

Alijan spoke rapidly in Bosnian to his wife and they argued briefly. Later, Alijan explained he'd told her there wasn't a man alive in this country who was fit to wash his daughter's feet. He said she should go to Sarajevo and become a doctor. Once qualified, she should leave the country and go somewhere where they respected women and paid a decent salary.

Toli retorted that he was only thinking of the money she'd earn so she could send it back and he wouldn't have to get off his porch. Alijan chuckled and winced in pain.

"Your leg?" I said. "You should get it seen to."

"Is nothing."

"How are you to farm?"

"I have good Germanski soldiers who will shear my sheep."

"Me? I know nothing about sheep. Berlin has no sheep."

"Ah, but I will show you. You good strong boy. You leave your army and come work for me."

"Ah, danke, but, I..."

"Hehe. You think the farm is not for you? How can you leave these mountains for your cities? The cities are full of humanity - there is no life to be found there."

The man enjoyed poetic paradoxes. We boxed around for a while until he accepted I wasn't going to become a sheep herder.

By the fourth day, Almira came and sat with us at the back by her mother. I barely noticed her at first, for she was quiet and covered with a scarf. I had no idea I was being appraised as a future husband for she hardly uttered a word. But, soon I was being questioned by Alijan about my life in the army, my marital status, and my hopes for the future.

"Your family?" he asked. "You have brothers, sisters?"

"A sister," I told him. "She married an American officer and lives in Washington."

"Your father is army?"

"No. He is an automobile engineer - works for VW-Audi in the design office."

"Ah, good money?" he said, looking back at the women.

"Very good. We have a comfortable life. My father prepares race cars in his spare time. Sometimes I have a drive. We compete, sometimes, in the German Touring Car Competition."

"You win any races?"

"Ah, no, sadly. We cannot match the factory teams with full time, professional drivers."

"Then why bother if you can't win?"

"Fun," I shrugged.

"Fun?" he said, as if it was a foreign concept. Here's we driving cars around race tracks while he and his family were fighting for their lives. I guess 'fun' might be a hard concept to understand for these people.

By the fifth day we'd cleared maybe two thirds of the field. A pile of toxic earth now stood at one end, waiting for the dump truck to come and collect it. Our logistics was letting us down, as we discovered we had no means of containing and disposing of it. Until this problem was solved, we had to slow down the operation. Zenica merely advised us to 'sit tight' until they figured out a solution. Until then, we had little to do except sit with Alijan on his porch.

We had plenty of flour and I recommenced my bread making operation. Apparently, a husband who knew their way around a kitchen was a rare and valuable commodity. On the sixth day I found myself at the back of the house helping the women while Alijan bent the ears of my Feldwebel. I noticed Almira more and more, albeit under the wary gaze of her mother.

She was uncommonly beautiful for a peasant daughter. The war had left her unravished and, for all the hard life in these mountains, her face showed little sign of fatigue. I smiled at her and she'd drop her eyes in a blush. Our eyes met more and more as the day dragged on and I had to remind myself of the social conservatism that pervades this area of Bosnia. To look too hard might be dangerous for our position here.

Toli asked me about hospitals and whether I could recommend one that could see to her husband's leg. She explained it was awful to watch him in so much needless pain and it was only out of family duty did he endure it. I told her I could arrange treatment in Zenica if only he'd agree and she promised to nag him till he did. A day was all it took, with the assurance the German Army would protect his family while he was away. I promised I would see to that and he added he trusted me.

"Only you," he said, "and you will not allow anyone to harm them." The menace was obvious, and I assured him they'd come to no harm. A day later, a car came for him and took him away.

Toli and Almira watched him go and thanked me for what I'd done. It was nothing but a call by satellite phone, but it meant so much to them. Likely he'd be gone no more than a week.

With the departure of Alijan, the attitude of the women changed. They were now more relaxed around Wishnewski and myself. They even came and sat with us on the porch - not behind, but alongside as equals. It was obvious, now, that Toli was soliciting a husband for Almira and even began checking out Wishnewski, who had the added asset of speaking Polish.

My Feldwebel was merely the standby candidate, I concluded. I was the Officer, of suitable age and, apparently, from a well to do family. I didn't seriously think of marriage until after I'd graduated. My ideal wife, I imagined, would be a graduate like me, German, and someone with shared interests with whom I could converse over the dinner table. My concept of marriage was compellingly upper middle class, I suppose. I certainly never imagined getting married to a woman from Bosnia, a Moslem, with no particular education.

I'd never dated much at University and even less in the army. My focus was on gaining a degree. I'd planned my life and determined my path from an early age. Some things were changed, of course, such as remaining in the army, but, otherwise, I'd been resolute.

I found the situation embarrassing, and I wasn't sure how to handle it. There's little mention in the Army Rules of Conduct about how to deal with a Bosnian mother who wants to marry her daughter off to you. When Toli suggested we all go for a walk around the farm, I agreed, not wishing to give offense.

Almira took station beside me, while Toli and my Feldwebel walked a little distance behind. Quickly I discovered the girl had no English or German. My few Bosnian words were totally inadequate so I began pointing out things we could see and gave her the German names. Feldwebel Wishnewski filled in a few gaps, as Polish is a related language to Bosnian and he could understand some of what Almira was trying to say.

"She wants to know what it's like in Germany, Leutnant," the Feldwebel explained.

How could I answer a question like that? How do you describe cities, parks, traffic, cinemas, the gadgets of living in an urbanised environment with 2 dozen words of Bosnian to a girl from the mountains?

"Big, crowded, mostly flat - Rhine river with barges and ships - Harz mountains - Black forest - Oktoberfest."

Wishnewski rattled off the Bosnian words until he came to the last.

"Oktoberfest?" Almira repeated.

"Munich - where tourists get drunk and fall into the fountains - party!"

"Ah, party!" She understood 'party'. "Men, drunk, sick, crazy, beast."

"Beast?" I raised my eyebrows and looked at her. Her eyes had glazed over and she was looking up to the flanks of Mt Scit.

"You drink? Party?" she asked after a pause.

"A beer with a meal, sometimes. I don't like bars and clubs. I don't like drunks and loud music where you can't talk..."

"Is true," Wishnewski confirmed. "The Leutnant doesn't go out to bars and I've never seen him drunk."

I looked back at him and he wore an enigmatic grin. He was getting at me, but in such a way he couldn't be reprimanded.

"Good!" Almira smiled. 'Good' was one of my two dozen Bosnian words and needed no translation.

Seven years later, that same Almira lay clamped beside me on our bed at the military base at Aachen. She was naked, flushed in post coital bliss, and looked anxiously at the bedside clock.

"Relax," I told her.

"Now I will need another shower," she sighed.

"I will join you."

"No, Walschen, you have your mind on only one thing. I need to dress and put on make up. I'm not sure what jewelry to wear. You need to put on your nice Captain's uniform. Helga and the other wives must see how handsome you are."

"They know already," I smiled.

"You are conceited. I will stop loving you if you grow a big head."

"Yeah?" I said, capturing a puckered nipple with my mouth. I sucked gently and she put her hands each side of my face and struggled vainly to pull me off. Before she could say anything more I kissed her. "Hey?" I teased. "Stop lying around in bed and get ready for the parade?"

"You are not funny," she said, pouting. I stared deeply into those wonderful dark eyes - eyes that had seen such horrors, yet now looked at me with love and trust.

"Yes I am," I grinned.

Almira reached up and pulled my head down for another kiss. She ran a finger over my lips and said, "you must not smile like that at the other wives. They will want to have sex with you."

"They will?"

"Yes, and I will not share. You are mine, Walschen, and you promised we'd only have sex with each other."

"You mean I have this beautiful body of yours all to myself?"

"I will not let another man touch me. It is you I want to please."

"Come," I said, getting up. "We shouldn't be late. The old man is a stickler for punctuality - and a eye for a pretty lady, if the truth be told."

"You think the Colonel looks at me?" she asked, as I slipped an arm around her slim waist and guided her to the shower.

"His eyes will be out on stalks and he will forget his speech."

"He's old," she pondered, "but he is a full Colonel. Maybe..."

"Maybe, nothing!" I snapped, playfully. "He's an old leech who fancies busty barmaids and hookers from the Riefferbahn."

"Walschen?" she cooed, as my hand cupped her bare bottom. "How come you don't do it back there, much, anymore?"

"Doggie?" Almira nodded. "I guess I like to watch your face when you come."

"Why? I'm ugly. My face is screwed up and sometimes I cry."

"Yes," I agreed. "I like to see the joy in your eyes."

"Oh!" she replied, turning on the shower mixer. "My mother was right about you," she continued, shaking her long hair out as the water cascaded. "She said you wouldn't be like Bosnian men. She said that even though you were a soldier there is softness and tenderness in your eyes. She told me you reminded her of Papa - before the war hardened him. You have the same inner, ah ... I don't know the German word for it."

"Ah, 'schweinhunde'? We talk in the army about 'overcoming ones inner schweinhunde.' Like, wrestling with your doubts to find the strength to do what you have to?"

"Yes, Walschen," she said as I slipped in with her. "You don't give up the things you want."

"No," I kissed her.

"Except when we have no time left," she giggled, as I stroked her.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Romantic / Reluctant / Heterosexual / First / Petting / Slow /