Chapter 1

It was 1100 hours when Personnel called me to tell me that they had a new clerk for my section, and to come and get her.

The first thing I thought of was, “Another her?” My office had five slots in it and I only had two of them filled, not counting me. Both of those were women, and while they did a great job, a heck of a lot of what went on in my section needed the bulk and strength of a man, sometimes. I was one cog in a huge supply system on a military installation to remain un-named. My section deals with helicopter engines and transmissions. We get them in, store them, and ship them out to be rebuilt at the depot level. We also stock and dispense all the parts that are used to do repairs at the installation level. My big boss is a bird colonel who I have seen exactly twice in the two years I’ve been stationed here. My immediate boss is a captain, and I see him two or three times a month (unless something goes wrong). We’re in the Army, but we are hidden away in the back of a big warehouse complex and as long as we do our jobs, properly, nobody pays much attention to us.

The other two women I mentioned, Specialists Allen and Franklin, are good workers, but they are no fun to look at. I’m not trying to be mean, here. They just didn’t have that something that some military women have that makes them look good in wrinkled uniforms with mud on their faces.

Why does this matter? Well, it doesn’t, really. I’m thirty-eight, with eighteen and a half years in the Army. I’ve been deployed several times and divorced because of it. Since the vast majority of soldiers I deal with on a daily basis (including those in my own section) are between eighteen and maybe twenty-three or four, I don’t run into women who might have something in common with me, in terms of spending time together. The NCO club isn’t like a civilian club, where there are women on the prowl and you might get lucky. The Enlisted club is like that, but an old fart like me would stand out in that crowd like a sore thumb. Not to mention I’m a Master Sergeant, which to the lower enlisted folks is like God.

So I don’t think it’s odd that I might pay attention to women who work for me. If nothing else that kind of thing can make a jerk-off session a lot of fun. Of course it would be a violation of both protocol and regulations for me to actually mess around with one of them. I’m their boss and for the boss to shit in his own nest is an extra bad thing in the military.

That said, I’m normal. So I check out lots of female soldiers, including the ones who work for me.

I tell you this because the two soldiers I already had were not fodder for my fantasies.

That changed the day Private Angela Harris got assigned to my section.

When I got to personnel my eyes slid right over her, initially. Actually, I did notice her but didn’t think she was mine. She had reported in wearing her class A uniform, with skirt, instead of fatigues. That uniform displayed a set of legs that went all the way to the ground, if you know what I mean. Her face was oval and she looked like a pixie who had been enlarged somehow.

You can imagine my surprise when I yelled, “Private Harris!” and she raised her hand like she was in school. She came over to me and when she saw my rank she snapped to Parade Rest, like a good little private should - if she’s in basic training, or going in front of a promotion board.

“Private Harris reporting, Master Sergeant,” she said in a voice that sent a shiver down my spine. Everything about this woman was sexy. I’m five-eleven and she was probably only an inch shorter.

“At ease,” I said. “Do you have any gear?”

“No, Master Sergeant,” she said.

“Do you have a car?”

“No, Master Sergeant.”

“Let’s start calling me Sergeant Wilson,” I said. “Come with me.”

I have a Dodge Challenger, which is low to the ground, and when we got in the car her skirt slid up, showing a lot of creamy thighs encased in panty hose that were thin or something, because they were almost transparent.

“Relax,” I said, looking straight ahead. “Our section is chill. I’m your boss but you don’t have to address me formally. You can’t call me Bob, but I won’t get upset if you address me as Sarge. I’ll probably call you by your first name, unless there are outsiders around. Okay?”

“I’m not used to this,” she said. “I mean I just got out of advanced training but I feel like I don’t know anything.”

“We’ll get you squared away,” I said. “Give it a month and you’ll be an expert. You’ll remember part numbers and inventory quantities and more minutia than you can imagine. So, tell me a little about yourself,” I said. “Who is Angela Harris?”

I looked at my watch. It was almost noon. The installation I’m at is big and it takes half an hour to forty-five minutes to go across it.

“Hold that thought,” I said. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” she said, still timid.

I went to the NCO club, where she was not entitled to enter, since she was a lowly private. She looked about fifteen, though, so when I parked I said, “Somebody may question you being in the NCO Club. So for the next hour I’m your Dad and I’m taking my daughter to lunch. Got it?”

“Yes, Father,” she said.

“Father? Come on. I told you we’re chill. Don’t call me Father. Call me Daddy or something believable.”

“Yes ... Daddy,” she said.

I don’t know why, but when she said that my penis just jumped to attention. It was a good thing I had on winter fatigues because the pants are thick.

Then, as I opened her door and helped her out, during the process where her legs went from inside of the vehicle out, her knees spread and I got a clear shot of the evidence she wasn’t wearing panties under her panty hose. She looked up at me and then tried to tug things back into place as I pretended I hadn’t noticed and she pretended she didn’t know I had stared.

I seated us in a corner and nobody bothered us. I told her a little about me; my age, my marital status (and why I was divorced), how long I’d been in the Army, and so on. I was just trying to put her at ease. There is a place for stiff formality in the military, but it doesn’t make for a happy, efficient work environment. As the boss I could take an extended lunch and I mined her brain, learning a lot.

Private Harris was different from the average private in several ways. She was married and she and her husband came from a small agricultural town founded by conservative religious folks, back in the days when the country was still welcoming the tired, poor, huddled masses. They were still conservative, to the point where, when Angela was allowed to go on dates at all, she was chaperoned by her older brother. When she and her now husband whispered to each other about getting married they knew their families wouldn’t approve. If you were a man, you had to have your own house and land before you courted a woman. Parents helped with the land acquisition. Girls were expected to stay home and work there until a man wanted to take her away. It was obviously a very patriarchal group of families. They weren’t Amish, she said, but they were “cousins” and borrowed a lot from those people.

The young couple’s plan had been to enlist in the Army without their parents’ knowledge and, once they were accepted, they could get married and be stationed together. At least that’s what the recruiter had told them. They visited the office separately, of course, while in town for this or that business. Basically, they only told their parents what they had done the day before they reported to be bused to the in-processing center. At that point there wasn’t anything the elders could do about it (that they knew about). He was twenty-one and she was twenty.

The getting married part happened during a four day gap while enough personnel were gathered to assemble flights in various directions. They got married in front of a judge and had a one night honeymoon before they were shipped out. In Private Angela Harris’s case, she would be put on a plane that went to South Carolina. Her husband, named Peter, went to what used to be called Fort Gordon but, thanks to woke-ness and what was apparently an unforgiving populace (which lives nowhere near the fort, is not involved with the military, and never will be) is now officially called Fort Eisenhower.

Twenty-two weeks later a new hardened killer graduated from OSUT (One Station Unit Training) and boarded her second ever airplane to get to the CAB (Combat Aviation Brigade) she was now a member of. She could have gone home on leave, but did not. She said there was nothing at home she needed and no one at home she really wanted to see.

Her husband’s twenty-two weeks was at a different installation and I would learn later that Peter fell in with the wrong people and got talked into going to every advanced infantry school in the book, including airborne training. I say the ‘wrong people’ because in my opinion, anybody who wants to jump out of a perfectly good airplane has a serious screw loose, and could be prone to do other stupid things. Also, anyone who goes in the direction of becoming the elite of the elite should probably avoid marriage. When you become a snake-eater, you’re married to the Army. A human wife can’t compete.

Meanwhile, the Army did not feel it was appropriate to station the two young, married lovers (almost) at the same place. The “needs of the Army” routinely fuck with what recruiters everywhere tell prospective recruits.

During lunch a waitress brought us a pair of beers and when I handed one to Angela she said, “Thank you, Daddy.” My cock lurched again, but since I was sitting, it didn’t matter. She made a face when she tasted the beer, which made me think she’d never had one before.

She was kind of fascinating for reasons other than being beautiful. She was at a relatively advanced age for a private. This meant she had more life experience and should have been more mature. But she wasn’t socialized normally, which made her seem off, like a child raised by wolves. At the same time, she had dreams and plans.

Her primary complaint was that, when the two starry-eyed youngsters were planning all this out, the idea was for them to live together and have lots of sex and get her pregnant right away. Like many young women, Angela had joined (in part) so she would have medical benefits that would cover the birth of her children. She said they talked about having four. She had clung to this idea all the way through basic and advanced training, using it to get through the hard parts, only to find out it wasn’t going to happen any time even close to soon, if at all. This is the point at which she said his latest email notified her that he was going to language school and then to Airborne training and that if he did well in that he was going to try to get accepted to Ranger training. That’s why I said “if at all.” Peter would probably be assigned at a different installation, if not in a different country, for most of their careers, especially if they only served one tour. They would be married in name only, not counting the records of the county where the union was approved. All those schools he was going to go to would give him the skills to deploy often and if he went far enough, most of his career would be classified as secret or higher. He would hop from one unit to another and she could not do that. Even if they waited until she got out and he re-upped or extended (which would be a requirement to get into certain schools), she could live as a dependent wife where he was stationed but he would only live with her twenty or thirty days out of each year, assuming he was back in the US at all during any given year.

As I learned all this I was more and more tempted to violate fraternization regs. Her marriage wasn’t going to last. At some point she’d realize that the part of the plan that got her away from her restrictive family had worked. She was as free as a bird and making enough money to get by on. The Army would give her most of what she needed for free, if she was willing to live in the barracks and eat at the chow hall, and if she stuck with it, she’d get promotions and get better at being needed and she could stretch out her relationship with Uncle Sam until she was forty-one years or so old. You can start a whole new career at forty-one.

Basically, Private Angela Harris was ripe for the plucking and if I didn’t “pluck her” any one of the next hundred men she met would.

Despite the taste, she had two beers and I could tell immediately she couldn’t hold her liquor. Then again she probably only weighed a hundred and ten pounds, and two beers is a lot for an actual lightweight. She didn’t stagger on the way out, but she meandered a bit and her military bearing went south. She had learned to be chill, even if was in the wrong setting. When she got in the car this time she showed me her pussy again and looked up at me.

“Naughty Daddy,” she said, and giggled.

I didn’t say anything and went around to my side.

“Thank you, for lunch, Daddy!” she sighed as I got into my side of the car.

“You’re welcome, Baby Girl,” I said, just for fun.

“My real dad would never call me that,” she said. “My real father would also have horse-whipped me for spreading my knees like that.”

“Well, you’re not home anymore and nobody is going to horsewhip you for anything unless you want them to.”

“Why would anybody want that?” she gasped.

“You’ve had a very sheltered life,” I said. “As a married woman, though, you should become more educated about the world.”

I commenced to tell her about some of the sexual practices I had seen around the world. She didn’t believe some of it.

“Nobody would let a donkey have sex with her,” she said. “I’ve seen lots of equine penises during breeding season. How would something like that even be possible?”

“Suffice it to say there are a lot of women out there who like to be spanked. I enjoy dating those women. The ones who want to be tied up and gagged and actually whipped aren’t my style.”

“I would hope not,” she moaned.

We made it back to the office about 1400 hours, where the rest of the afternoon was spent on her getting acquainted with her new job. She sobered up quickly. She was intelligent and caught on quickly. Since she was still in her Class A’s I stuck to paperwork. It was quite evident that we were going to enjoy working with each other. At one point she giggled and asked me if she should call me Daddy there in the shop. There was chemistry there, which I knew was dangerous. It was bad enough if I got caught fraternizing. If I was fraternizing with a married woman under my command it would be much worse.

I knew I shouldn’t do anything with this girl. In my own defense, I also knew, however, that she might not see her husband for years, unless he sought her out on leave. It was quite possible he’d “forget” he was married at all, or believe that the ten minute ceremony in a dusty building wasn’t actually valid. I knew for a fact that he would spend a lot of time in the presence of whores and way more liquor than any man needed. She was an adult, if only recently deflowered. She would have needs just like any other woman and just like her husband would have. He would not be here to keep his wife’s no-doubt gorgeous pussy full of hard prick and hot spunk on a regular basis.

So who would take his place?

Okay, I’ll nod sagely toward the crowd that feels like celibacy is admirable and builds character.

Then I’ll move on and say the only thing celibacy builds that I know of is pressure in your balls. I had been celibate for quite a while, at this point, and my balls were so full that sperm cells were floating around in my bloodstream.

And, it isn’t illegal for a guy to dream, is it? I would be happy to fill in for her husband in my fantasies. It would also be tempting to turn fantasy into fact, but if I was going to pursue that, I needed to proceed carefully.

At Miller Time I knew she didn’t have transportation so I offered to take her home. She was assigned a room in the barracks because her husband was not present. She had spent three days in the barracks while she in-processed and mentioned how lonely it was there because she hadn’t made any friends, yet. She was really down so I suggested we go to my house and have a couple of beers and she wouldn’t be alone.

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