Chapter 2: The Past Affects the Present

0615 Hours EST 16 April 2012

in flight between Joint Base Andrews, Wash. D.C. and Buckley AFB, CO

Enjoying our companionable silence, I am able to reminisce about our previous encounter.

2225 Hours 22 March 2004

FOB (Forward Operating Base) Chosin, Babil Province, Iraq

We met in a bunker several stories underground. What it had been used for by Saddam’s regime, I have no clue. Some of the guys on FOB Chosin had converted it to an unauthorized MWR (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation) club. It was even more austere than an official MWR facility, or the USO on LSA Anaconda. However, it did have a remarkably good sound system. Instead of playing CDs, there was a live band that night. Just some of the GIs, including a decent drummer, and some guy who displayed a bit of talent with an electric guitar. The guys playing the other instruments were not as proficient. There was a manic energy from their music, and our dancing; exacerbated by the knowledge this was only a brief hiatus from the tensions of combat!

Deep under the ground we were safe from mortar or rocket attacks, so our body armor, helmets, and weapons were hung on racks in the vestibule to this underground chamber that had been converted into a dance club. Two guys stood watch there, ensuring that at least the door to the stairwell, or the door to the club was closed at all times. There was also a door at the surface that was supposed to be kept closed. Up there you could barely hear the muffled sound of the music; but it became increasing loud as a person descended the several flights of stairs.

Nor was there a need for air-conditioning, because it was quite cool deep underground. Or rather, it would have been, if the dance floor wasn’t packed with writhing bodies. Everybody was hot and sweaty, and having a good time. The lighting was dim, an eclectic mix of chem-lite sticks, repurposed Christmas lights, and some guys using flashlights. Ages varied, mostly guys in their twenties, but a few of them probably still in their teens, others were in their thirties, or older; a real “sausage fest” with at least ten guys for every young woman! At least there were drinks, and not just Gatorade and Red Bull, but beer, and other types of alcohol. There was not a lot of booze, and the “donation” to get a drink was exorbitant; considering the prohibition on alcohol imposed by General Order 1A, it was a pleasant treat, at any price.

Just about everything that was fun was prohibited by General Order 1A, including conjugal relations between consenting adults. Although Loni did not appear to be very adult, more like a jailbait school girl. I briefly wondered what her parents thought about their little girl being in a war zone; then I wondered if they would have a heart attack if they saw her on the dance floor! Just about everybody was wearing PT gear, T-shirts, running shorts, and running shoes, some were wearing civilian clothes, and a few were still in their DCUs (Desert Camouflage Uniforms). Loni was wearing an Under-Armor style green T-shirt, and matching USMC green nylon PT shorts, that looked very good on her.

While watching her dance, I savored my first beer in months, even if it was a PBR, at least it was ice cold. The amateur band was really rocking, and the pulsing music reverberated of the bare concrete walls, somehow amplifying the primal mood. There were only several dozens of us, but the energy of this underground club was enhanced by the knowledge that this was an illicit escape from the warzone less than fifteen meters above our heads. As soon as I moved onto the dance floor, the little minx sashayed right up to me. She didn’t just brush up against me, she boldly ran her hand up my bare leg, pausing to caress my stiffening cock, then continuing across my muscular chest, where she tweaked one my nipples, before winking at me as she danced off into the crowd.

A song or two later she was back, drinking from a red Solo cup, and only slightly moderating her gyrations. I was not the only guy paying rapt attention to such a vibrant, and wholesome looking teenage girl, cavorting amongst a pack of almost Cro-Magnon warriors. Loni, although, as yet, I did not know her name looked very much like a “Centerfold Girl Next Door” type in Maxim, FMH, or Hustler’s “Barely Legal” magazines or videos. She took advantage of the dim lighting to several times brush my stiff cock with the firm cheeks of her fine ass, or to once more caress me with a butterfly touch of her hands. Just as I was growing frustrated with this barely older than jailbait prick tease, she stood on her tip toes, and said into my ear, “meet me up top in fifteen minutes!”

Wondering if she was playing me, I left the dance floor, grabbed a bottle of water and chugged it, then chased it with a can of Red Bull before slipping out of the chamber. Glancing over my shoulder I noticed the little minx was still out on the dance floor, going from guy to guy, giving each an exuberant hug. I put on my body armor, and the rest of my “battle rattle” and grabbed my M-4A1 carbine. Trudging up the stairs I figured she was probably a prick tease, but there had been few opportunities for a “Grunt” like me to get some pussy! If nothing else I could go back to the tent we were staying at for the next few days, and grab a stogie out of my RON bag, and enjoy a long smoke.

At the top of the final flight of stairs I was startled by a pair of Fobbits who had yanked the heavy metal door open. Their eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as I slapped a magazine into my M-4! The pounding music below had obscured their footsteps; they chuckled nervously and my breathing began to return to normal as they stood back to let me past. The door thunked shut behind them, muffling the music, and stranding me in a surreal environment of pools of shadows and light. Just one of the many dichotomies of this American oasis in the heart of the warzone that was the Sunni Triangle in Iraq. Outside the Hescos and concertina wire was danger, and the Stone Age! Well, at least villages that were little changed from Biblical times, except for the occasional satellite dish.

Tension grew with in me, and the minutes crawled by, I was now sure the girl was just an annoying tease. Sticking to the shadows, I made my way over to a porta-john. The dam things reek, and are annoyingly confining. In violation of standing orders, I grounded my battle rattle, except for my M-4 carbine. Unencumbered, I then relieved myself in the biffie, keeping the door open with the toe of my boot, so I could keep my gear in view; and also allowing a bit of breeze, and comparatively fresh air into the porta-john. As I was putting my battle rattle back on, she emerged from the stairwell in a swell of the music from below. Wearing the bulky IBA (Interceptor Body Armor) her limbs appeared even more lithe; she seemed a young girl, playing soldier, an M-16A4 slung over her shoulder, and holding a Kevlar helmet in her hands.

I strolled up to her, but before I could speak, she quietly said, “we’re both too sweaty, let’s take a shower, first. Together.”

“Grinning, she looked up to me, and told me, “go get some clean clothes to change into, whatever else you might need, and meet me by the MWR computer center. I know where we can go to get clean ... before we get dirty!”

We walked in proximity, but not together. Prudent for her to not appear to be with me, a black man; yet close enough that I would deter anyone who might menace her. While rapes, or other assaults on women are not common on our FOBs (Forward Operating Bases), they do occur. Walking at her pace, it took us more than fifteen minutes to cover almost two kilometers; about a mile. She gave me a small wave as she passed between a T-wall and some Hesco barriers, that were posted: Women Only Beyond This Point.

It only took me a few minutes to get to the transient quarters tent where I was staying. I grounded my battle rattle by my bunk; although we are supposed to wear all of that crap any time we are outside; as if a tent would protect us from incoming. Usually that policy is ignored if a person is just going to the head (latrine), or to take a shower. Many smokers flaunt that rule too. I grabbed my RON bag, and my M-4A1 carbine too. Sneaking out of the tent was easy, Jones was snoring so loud that I could have rode a horse through here without being noticed.

Stealthily I approached the MWR computer center, I did not want to confront anyone who might inquire why I was not wearing my body armor or other PPG (Personal Protective Gear) outside my quarters. Before I got to the lighted area near the MWR, I noticed the object of my lust, beckoning me from a shadowed niche in the Hescos. She was still wearing the sweaty T-shirt and shorts, and had also ditched her battle rattle, even her weapon; but she carried a dark blue gym bag. Flashing me a wicked grin, she led me into a darkened part of the camp that seemed to be little used.

She led me through a maze-like path through Hescos and T-walls for a couple of hundred meters. We were in a cul-de-sac with a latrine trailer concealed behind yet more Hescos. By the sound of it we were near the generator farm that powered the COC (Combat Operations Center, a term used by the Marines; what the US Army calls a TOC: Tactical Operations Center) for the Battalion based here. We were on the backside of the COC, several hundred meters away from the ECP (Entry Control Point). Out of her gym bag she pulled a sign which she attached to the door: OCCUPIED FEMALES ONLY. Clever girl!

We entered and she turned on the lights. Without further ado, she stripped naked, and then put on some shower shoes. As I was getting out of my clothes, she went over and turned on a shower. Stepping into the water to rinse the sweat from dancing off her svelte body, subsequently shampooing her short blond hair. Before joining her, I took my time admiring her lithe physique. Lean, with a swimmer’s physique, long, shapely limbs, small, but very firm breasts, at least B-cups, she had toned abs, and good muscle tone all over, but she did not really appear to be some kind of Tomboy athlete; rather she seemed more like a very fit cheerleader, or a member of a drill team; she was not petite enough to be a gymnast. Her pubes were shaved bare, causing her to appear to be barely out of her tweens, maybe still in junior high school.

“You’ll enjoy touching more than watching,” she said, while gesturing for me to come hither.

Loni, although I had yet to learn her name, appears to be the typical girl next door, friendly, wholesome, and chaste; in public. Her public demeanor concealed a sexually uninhibited freak, when she chose to be. Wordlessly, she poured some of her scented body wash onto my hands. Her blue eyes stared boldly into mine; but I noticed she was also biting her lip nervously.

My soap slick hands lightly grasped her hips, holding her inches from my ridged body. Teasingly I ran my hands up her torso, barely caressing the sides of her breasts, as I continued under her arms and across her shoulder blades. Stepping back a moment to apply more soap, I then proceeded to wash her back, her arms, her tummy, then working down her body, I stroked her flanks, her thighs, the backs of her knees, and calves.

Naked, together, our contrasts were emphasized. Despite the harsh desert environment, probably because she wore all the protective gear we are supposed to, her skin was fair and unblemished, like a Nordic princess. My mahogany toned hide was already marred with scars from wounds, and other injuries from my experiences in combat, and from the realistic training that had prepared me and my men for war; not to mention a few I garnered growing up a cowboy on a working ranch.

Although Loni is only slightly shorter than average, with a slim, athletic build, she almost appears to be a little girl standing next to me. I am about a foot taller than her, and certainly mass more than twice what she weighs. She had to be at least eighteen, and more likely nineteen or twenty, even if she still looked like jailbait. At that time, I was in my mid-twenties, but by my mien and demeanor, many people assume I am more mature.

Loni gasped as I forcefully backed her against the wall of the shower stall. Her breath quickened as I reached between our bodies to grasp her left ankle with my left hand and raised her leg until her knee touched the wall, pinned against her ribcage. She trembled uncontrollably as my throbbing cock thrust against her bare, wet, tight pussy. I knew she was the sort of girl you could do things To!

Squirming in near ecstasy, she burst into giggles when I began washing her foot with my soapy right hand. Repeating the process on her left foot reduced our sexual tension a notch. Loni had relaxed, luxuriating in unexpected sensuality of my ministrations, leaving her unprepared for erotic rollercoaster ride I was taking her on when I suddenly stroked her tits with my soapy hands, teasing her nipples to excited peaks; she began panting excitedly as I inserted two thick fingers into her tight little pink pussy.

Teasing her to the brink of orgasm; she asserted herself, grasping my wrist with both hands in a surprisingly strong grasp, she muttered. “You Fucker.”

Laughing, I taunted her, “No. I am going to Fuck Her. Soon. When You Beg Me Little Girl!”

“We will probably run out of hot water before you get around to fucking me!” Loni said mockingly.

Taking matters into her hands, she began soaping up my torso, her hands alternately firmly stroking my muscles, then dancing across my skin like butterflies. As she stroked down the sides of my ribs, she licked each of my nipples, then applied little kisses on my chest and then on my arms, after she had cleaned them too. She worked her way around me to soap my back, then she continued down to stroke my ass. Next, she washed my legs, and lifted my feet to remove my shower shoes and wash my feet. Teasingly, she kissed me everywhere she washed. Once more in front of me, she positioned me so that the shower played upon my back and shoulders.

Loni got down on her knees before soaping up my cock and balls. Her hands stroked me tenderly. Tauntingly, she would occasionally brush my abdomen or thighs, then refocus of upon my genitals. Her little fist could not seem to completely encircle the girth of my throbbing cock, as she slowly, excruciatingly pumped me with one hand, and fondled my balls, already heavy with pent-up cum. Just as I was about to roar with frustration, she took almost a third of my length into her mouth, until her lips met her delicately fingered hand. Loni was every suburban dad’s worst nightmare, or pornographic fantasy! A cute little white girl, down on her knees sucking a Big Black Cock, preliminary to getting her brains fucked out by a well-hung Nigger!

Loni slowly backed her mouth off my tumescent cock, displaying considerable prowess in the art of fellatio, she used her tongue to tease me to the brink. The little white girl eased her mouth off my stiff member, giving me a moments reprieve from her exquisite oral torture. As I took a deep breath, the little minx winked at me, and gave me a wicked grin, just before she flicked her tongue across the head of my penis; then licking up and down the shaft of my cock, as she continued to slowly pump my meat.

Deftly she used her hands, mouth, and especially of her tongue to release my animal virility. It seemed to be her desire to provoke me to ravish her nubile body; it became a game between us to see if she could cause me to lose control. Perversely, I was determined to force her to display that she was a wonton slut for my big black cock, rather than just mouth raping her, which she seemed to be provoking me to do.

At the time I wished I had a video camera to record this naughty little girl, and her enthusiastic performance of fellatio. Yet, obviously, by the hardening of my cock, I can recall it very well to this day. She then kissed her way up my shaft, then engulfed the head of my cock, swirling her tongue around as she slowly bobbed her head up and down, using both hands to stroke my shaft as she sucked up my pre-cum. When she pulled her mouth off me, I thought perhaps her mouth was growing tired, for her lips had been stretched obscenely to engulf my big black cock. My thoughts were scattered when this innocent looking girl deftly licked and sucked my balls, causing me to wonder which of us had enjoyed more sexual exploits!

“C’mon. I want you to cum in my mouth. Daddy! I want you to cum now, so you can Fuck My Brains out for a looong time. Daddy! She pouted.

She put her words to action by taking my cock even deeper into mouth than she had previously. At first, she was easing my tumescent rod into her throat, but she soon established a rhythm, and then she increased her pace. To spur me on she redoubled her efforts jacking my cock, lubricated with her saliva, and my pre-cum; her other hand fondled my balls, trying to milk my seed out of them.

Clenching my hands into fists, I held back a roar of conquest as I began to cum into the mouth of this nubile little white slut with “Daddy issues”; which explained a lot. She moaned with excitement, furthering my pleasure, as I clutched the back of her blond head in a powerful grip as I continued to shoot my load into her willing mouth.

Even though I was staggered by such an unanticipated erotic experience, I managed to remain on my feet. Insatiable, she continued to ravenously suck my cock, causing me to remain hard despite the conclusion of my orgasm. Eventually she stopped bobbing her head back and forth, but she wasn’t finished yet. She licked around the head of my cock, then smacked her lips, seeming to relish having consumed every drop! Loni’s exuberant foreplay certainly had me anticipating how passionate she would be when we were fucking!

“I Knew you were a Real Man, I bet that was as good for you, as it was for me? Wasn’t it Daddy?” She stated boldly.

Nodding, I said, “You know it was fantastic! ... So. You have a thing for older men?”

“I have an attraction for Older. Black. Men ... Well. Hung. Black. Men.” She said smirking.

“What was your first clue? Don’t tell me now. I want us to go somewhere I can jump your bones!” she exclaimed.

She had begun stroking my still stiff cock as we bantered. Abruptly she stopped that, winked at me, and pulled a clean T-shirt out of her gym bag. She pulled that over her naked body, and donned another pair of running shorts, without bothering with underwear. I too put on clean PT clothes, and also mimicked her foregoing socks, and just slipped my feet into my running shoes. She collected her soap, shampoo, and towel, and put them in her gym bag; her dirty clothes went into a laundry bag. Then she washed her hands, rinsed her mouth, and quickly brushed her teeth. while I finished similar tasks. Sensing she would appreciate it, I too brushed my teeth anticipating we would be kissing soon; and washed my hands after picking up, and putting away my sweaty clothes.

She turned out the lights, before cautiously opening the door a crack, she peered out, before waving me to join her. As we exited, she retrieved the: OCCUPIED FEMALES ONLY sign, and tucking it back in her gym bag. After another quick glance around, she boldly reached into my shorts to grasp my still tumescent cock, and lead me along. Instead of heading back towards the MWR computer center, she guided me to an obscure gap in the Hescos. The clatter of the nearby generators discouraged conversation. Without releasing my cock, she used her other hand to enter a code into a cypher lock.

This was no SCIF. It was just a tent surrounded by sandbags, and encircled by Hescos and T-walls, with a plywood door. But, depending upon how many people knew the code to the cypher lock, it was likely to be as private a place as we were going to find on a FOB. She turned on the lights revealing a small office space with some filing cabinets, two white boards, a small refrigerator, and four desks. Three of the desks were empty, the other had a computer, concealed by a dust cover, that looked like it might not have been used recently. However, considering that we were in Iraq, maybe it had only been a day or two.

Still wordlessly leading me by my cock, she guided me to another plywood door, set in a plywood wall dividing the tent. Upon this door she reattached the same sign she had put out at the latrine. We entered a narrow hallway in the middle of the tent, there were several doors to the left, and to the right. Our feet trod quietly upon the dusty plywood floor. We entered a small room, she turned on the overhead light, revealing it was quite austere. There was a battered, old footlocker, a folding chair, a small wall locker, and a stack of mattresses that had been duct-taped together.

I looked at the young white girl, still grasping my cock, and quirked my eyebrow.

In response to my unasked question, she replied, “the cheap bed frames make too much noise when we are having fun.”

Loni released me, placed her gym bag inside the wall locker, and got out a clean, folded, fitted sheet. She proceeded to cover the mattress, she also put fresh cases on two pillows, before tossing them on the bed. After making our bed, she stripped off her clothes, and placed in the open wall locker, on top of her gym bag. Her nipples were puckered, perhaps from the slight chill, or from anticipation. Following her example, I too stripped naked. I hung my RON bag by a shoulder strap, in the wall locker; my clothes I placed atop the foot locker. Our shoes were discarded in atypical disorder, as we scrambled onto the bed together.

“Time for you to rock my world, Big Black Daddy!” the little nymph exclaimed.

Anticipating my first pussy in quite a while, my cock was nearly as hard as when this little white girl had been sucking me off in the shower. Despite our eager anticipation, I was not foolish enough to rush my experience with some of the finest pussy I had enjoyed in more than a year. To start our foreplay, I began by kissing her; what had started out as sweet teasing soon escalated into our plunging our tongues into each other’s mouths, wrestling for dominance. As we kissed passionately, our hands roamed over each other’s bodies. Expanding on the familiarity we gained recently during our shower, we caressed, and teased each other, reveling in a joy that was usually denied us while we were in a warzone.