Chapter 1

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Swinging, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Violent, Military, .

Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Growing up fatherless on the back streets of London it seems inevitable that Dave Desmond will follow a life of crime.However he joins the army and goes to war, where he kills a man.He gets a medal(and a blow job) He learns what women really want, from a German bar girl, and his sexual horizon is further expanded by two cousins he meets in Belfast.Back home his marriage improves and the future looks good until he takes advice from a Peigan Dream Catcher that proves disastrous

Hi! My name's Dave Desmond. Hold up, this is supposed to be an introduction so I suppose I should be a bit more formal.

Hello, my name is David Paul Desmond; if my father had had his way it would have been David Brubeck Paul Desmond, but my mother vetoed that as she was no modern jazz fan. I am known by various other names, which I won't confuse you with at the moment. As you proceed through my story – and I hope you will continue reading, and not get bored by this opening preamble – you will get to know the names, and how they came about.

I was born on June 12th, 1964, in the London borough of Plaistow, and in consequence I am a lifelong supporter of 'The Hammers'. My blood is not coloured red but rather claret and sky blue, the colours of that illustrious football club. For those of you who are not familiar with the more arcane aspects of The Beautiful Game, 'The Hammers' refer to West Ham United Football Club – aka The Irons.

Although I wasn't born within the sound of of Bow Bells – you would need bloody good hearing to hear the sound of the bells over the noise of London traffic – I suppose I could be described as a Cockney. I sound like one, I use the speech patterns and slang associated with the breed, and had I not joined the army no doubt I would have ended up in one of the traditional occupations of Cockneys, such as a driver of a black cab, a street trader, or criminal.

My Dave Brubeck Quartet fan of a father died when I was about 3 years old; not sure of the details but judging by my mother's cooking skill it could have been food poisoning, although years later I learned that he fell under a bus after coming out of a pub. My mother struggled to bring up her three kids properly but failed miserably. She liked drink and men, but not necessarily in that order, and we had a series of 'uncles'; some good, some bad, most indifferent.
I suppose I shouldn't be too hard on her. We never went hungry, as fortunately there were plenty of pie and mash shops, chip shops, kebab, curry, Balti and Chinese takeaways in the local area, and I went to school properly shod, and with clean and tidy clothing on my back. Except for the odd clip around the ear, which no doubt I richly deserved, my mother never laid a finger on me, and although she did have a very extensive vocabulary of foul and profane language it was never directed at me. There were plenty of kids in school with me who couldn't say the same about their mothers.

My brother Tommy, named for our father, left for Australia when he was 17, as a cabin boy on a P&O freighter out of Tilbury docks, and was not heard from again. I was about 5 years old at the time and don't have much memory of him. My sister Sonia married a Yank airman when she was aged 18, and left for the States with him at the completion of his tour of duty; I was 8 years old then, and can well remember my mother crying buckets when they flew out from London airport. Sonia was killed a couple of years later in a car crash, her husband who was driving, and drunk, also died. My mother wept more buckets of tears when she received the letter with the news from the in-laws.

You will see that there was a considerable difference in age between me and my siblings? My mother had no qualms in telling me that I had been a 'mistake', but that knowledge has never bothered me any. How you get here doesn't really matter a toss. Planned for, or escaped through a hole in a johnny, you're here and must make the best of it.
As a youngster I ran around in a gang with the other local street beaters, getting upto all sorts of petty crime, like shoplifting, pinching stuff from parked cars, and regularly bunking off from school, in fact a typical east London upbringing.
When I was about 15 the current 'uncle', a local copper, suggested to my mum that it would be a good idea if I enlisted into one Her Majesty's Armed Forces, as I was leading a life style which would inevitably lead to me spending long spells in one of Her Majesty's prisons. My mother took his advice, and so it was on one bright east London morning she and my 'uncle' accompanied me to the Army Recruiting Office in Plaistow High Street.

After some interviews, an exam and a medical, I was accepted into the Junior Leader's battalion of The Royal Green Jacket Regimen, RGJ. It was the best move I ever made, and have never looked back. Thinking about it much later on I realized that the copper wasn't just thinking of my well-being when he suggested a career in HM Forces, but was keen to get me out from under his feet. I had bunked off school one afternoon and came home to find him and my mum playing hide the sausage on the kitchen table.

I loved the army; the discipline I'd never had, the good food – likewise, the uniform, the drill, the outdoor living, the danger, the shooting and the comradeship. It was during my training at the Junior Leaders that I became aware of how different the Green Jackets were to other British Army regiments. The RGJ derived from the Duke of Wellington's best troops in the Peninsula War; the famous 95th and 60th Rifles, or Rifle Brigade and Kings Royal Rifle Corps, as they became. Added to them were the 52nd, The Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. Those regiments marched at the 'Light Infantry pace' of 140 paces to the minute, compared with the 120 per minute of 'heavy' British infantry regiments – and they still do. The Regiment has a laid back attitude to rank and discipline. That doesn't mean to say the regiment was undisciplined or contemptuous of authority, in fact it is rather the opposite. Every rifleman takes responsibility for himself; self-reliance and self-discipline is the hall mark of the RGJ.

At the recruit depot we were allocated Regimental nicknames, which we would bear throughout our army career. Even the officers and the Senior Non Commissioned Officers (SNCOs) would use these names when talking to us, but not when members of other regiments were around.
We were lined up on the parade square one cold winter's morning as the Drill Instructor (DI), a fierce looking Sergeant known as Tank, was going through the ritual of naming names. I was stood next to a black kid, also named Desmond – Franklin Delroy Desmond – to give his full name.
"Two Desmonds," said Tank, "we can't call one Des and not the other one, and anyway there's a Des in the Second Battalion."
The cold weather had caused a dew drop to form on the end of my nose. The sharp eyed Tank saw it and exclaimed. "There's dew drop, and stood next to him is a snow drop. Wipe your nose, Dewey!"
So that was that, I was Dewey for the rest of my time in the army, and Franklin was Snowy. Regimental names weren't secret but it wasn't the usual practice to use the names in front of civilians. This could sometimes be difficult, as you had to remember to call your mates by their 'real' name in front of any birds you had pulled.

After 18 months at the Junior Leaders I was posted to the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Green Jackets, 3 RGJ, and Franklin was sent to 2 RGJ. We often met up during our service careers, and I count him as one of my dearest friends. I'm honoured to think I am his – we are always Franklin and David to each other.
I was only just over 17 years old when I joined the battalion. The adult age to join the army was 17— so I was classed as a Boy Soldier, and was sent on plenty of courses to keep me out of the way. I had obtained my Marksman badge at the recruit depot, and was detached to the Sniper School at Hythe in Kent not long after I joined 3RGJ. The official name of the establishment was The School of Musketry, which shows how much tradition plays a part in the British Army.

It's one skill being able to hit what you aim at, but it is a different skill to be able to slip unseen into a concealed position and then get a hit on a target. After six weeks training at Hythe I was classified as 'Sniper'. It turned out I was a natural in field craft, camouflage and concealment, and was able creep about the countryside like an Apache brave. How strange is that? I was born, bred and buttered in the back streets of an inner city borough, where the largest piece of greenery in the area was the local recreation ground, Plashet Park – hardly the wild frontier.

We had been taught basic first aid at the depot, which gave us enough training to, hopefully, keep your mate alive on the battlefield until a qualified medic could reach him. However I volunteered to attend the Advanced Battlefield Medical course at Netley Hall Military Hospital, and after four weeks of intensive training I managed to qualify as a Combat Medic.
The longest, and most difficult, course I attended was for the Parachute Trained Soldier Qualification. It was 16 weeks of non-stop physical and mental torture. I sweated blood, but managed to survive – the failure rate was 65%.
I got extra pay for all these qualifications, but I hadn't volunteered for these courses just for the money. I really wanted to be the best rifleman in the battalion – I was mega keen.
In mid-April, 1982, I received the coveted red beret of the Parachute Regiment – although the beret is actually maroon – and had parachute wings sewn on my jacket sleeve. The 'red' berets of the RGJ supported the Airborne brigade as snipers and reconnaissance specialists.

A few weeks after me getting my parachute wings the Falklands War kicked off.
So, there I was, on the night before my 18th birthday, shivering with cold and apprehension on a freezing, pitch black, night on the lower slopes of a barren mountain, waiting, with 3rd Battalion, The Parachute Regiment (3 Para) to assault Mount Longdon. As a sniper I had shot at, and hit, a few Argentinians, or as we refereed to them, Argies, since we had landed on the islands, but this would be the first time any of us had been in a full scale attack.
There has been plenty written about the Falkland War, so I won't bore you with my war stories. The next morning, as dawn broke on the summit of Mount Longdon, I killed a man – face to face – with my bayonet. Happy Birthday, Dewey!

After the Argentinian surrender I spent some time guarding their troops, and I found I had an unexpected gift for languages. By the time I returned to the UK I was speaking Spanish fluently, albeit with an Argentinian accent.
I was awarded a medal, for saving the life of an officer in the Falklands, and it was the proudest moment of my life when I went up to Buckingham Palace to receive the Military Medal from HM the Queen herself.
I was given a week's leave, and back home in Plaistow I never had to pay for a drink, and the girls hung round me like flies round a cow's arse. I was flavour of the month, and I got to shag more girls in that week than I ever had before, or since.
Don't get me wrong, I was no super stud, and in fact didn't have a great deal of experience, or knowledge, of what went where, and no idea at all of the clitoris or erogenous zones. I was like most young men of that era; the idea was to stick your prick into a twat as far as it would go, and then fuck like a rabbit until you shot your load. You then got off the girl and went down the pub for a pint with your mates. This is what I did with all those sweet young, wet and willing, girls – what a waste.

I did get a blow job from one girl, the first I'd ever had.

For the rest of this story, you need to Log In or Register