Chapter 1

I can't begin this at the beginning. That would hurt too much, right now. Maybe I'll tell you later how this all started.

Maybe I should start with me. I'm a big guy: 6'4" and about 220, and 25 years old. Rob Ortroski by name. I'm a Ranger. Not the Lone type – you know, with the Hi Yo Silver – or even the Texas type. I'm the Army type. Right now I'm in an aid station in Northeast Afghanistan, about to go into surgery for removal of a bullet or fragment thereof that is in my leg. A little higher and it would have been my ass, and I'd have to take a boatload of shit about that – but it wasn't. Sorry that I can't go into more detail about location but we're not even supposed to be here, so if I told you, I'd have to kill you. LOL. But seriously, I can't go into detail.

I got the bullet jumping on the back of a corpsman – corpswoman, actually – who was holding an IV bag for a buddy. The bitch of it was that it was one of our bullets. One of the other guys in my unit got the S.O.B. in the so-called-friendly uniform who shot me. He was aiming at the woman trying to keep my buddy alive. I'd just put my gun down to help her with the field dressing. The other Rangers in the unit filled him with about ten rounds, so I'm not dead. I'll have to remember to thank that masked man. (Sorry, Ranger humor.)

That's what we pretty much were fighting for. For the guy standing next to you. Or woman as the case may be. Not a flag, not some asshole politician's magic words, not even for the little woman I'd left at home. We fought for the guy (or gal) next to you.

Then we got evac'd out of North Pakistan to this aid station. Pretty spiffy aid station, I must admit. It had surgeons, and operating theaters, and nurses of the female persuasion. The Army's pretty good these days – emphasis on pretty.

Of course, that wouldn't matter to me. That is, if that damn ring on my left hand still meant anything. Who knew?

So I just laid in bed partially doped up and clicked the button on my iPad again to review Carolyn's video for maybe the one hundredth time. Damn, but she was a good looking woman. She was 5'9" and had broad shoulders, big firm tits, a narrow waist and a curvy ass. It was a stunningly beautiful package. Her hair was growing during my absence, and it was now down to her waist. God! With that long mop of platinum hair she'd give Lady Godiva a run for her money. She didn't look like anyone I've ever seen. She wasn't a supermodel, that was for sure. Too much tits. And, I suspect, she didn't do enough drugs to qualify. But I digress.

Well, maybe a Victoria's Secret model. You know, voluptuous figure, big boobs. Looks like a zillion dollars in a push-together bra and a silky low cut pair of panties. And when she'd look at you it was pure sex. Sorry, I digress again.

This video was pure porn. In the video, like all the others, she was talking to me. Showing me her tits and her pussy and stroking it, slowly. I could see her pussy getting wet, as she stroked it. Then she reached under herself and fingered her ass. Sometimes, she'd put a dildo in one or the other, telling me what she'd like to be doing with me, or more likely, what she'd like me to be doing to her. How she missed me and it wasn't fair that she was having to miss me for this tour in the sandbox, that had already been extended twice. That it was so hard to wait.

That wasn't the problem. She'd sent me lots of porn videos before. And there was a pattern – that was the problem. Each video was hotter than the last. Up to a point. Then she'd be mellow. Still porn, but she'd be mellow. Like something – or somebody – had taken the edge off.

They were all shot in our bedroom back near Fort Benning, our base in the U.S. And they seemed to be all shot with her laptop camera. So there was nobody I could see in the shots. I'd looked. I got a close up of every reflective surface that I could. Nothing. Nobody to see.

I checked the video she'd sent just prior to this one. She was practically panting with need. She practically melted my iPad. Like the other videos of the 'just before the event' – whatever the fuck the event was – it was longer and hotter than the other ones. She panted. She was nearly crazy-frantic. Her pussy was worked over with her hands and a dildo. In and out. It must have melted the rubber. She said she couldn't stand it anymore. Why, she asked, did I have to be away for such a long time? Couldn't I just send her something to let me know I missed her too? Something personal? Like a pic of my prick? Just come back soon and in one piece. Real soon, 'cause she was going nuts.

Instead, I sent what I could. A nice long love letter that wasn't pornographic and didn't really say where I was or what I was doing. I had to keep in mind that every outgoing email would get read by the Army's watchdogs. What was I supposed to do, go ask my Sergeant to take a dick-pic of me for my girl?

I'd contacted some buddies back at the base to keep an eye on her, so I'd know, ya know? They said they knew what to look for, and that she seemed to be a straight arrow: go to work, go to lunch with other girls who worked at the radio station where she worked, go back to work. Sometimes lunch with girls and guys from the station. Pretty much home after that. They also included several comments that she always looked real hot, how I was a lucky bastard, that she seemed to be waiting for me. Blah blah blah. If they could see the change on the videos, they'd know something was up.

She took classes at the local College on Monday and Wednesdays – she was studying accounting, still, and by now, almost finished. My guys saw her go in to the classroom, watch the doors and follow her home after. Bowling on Tuesdays. Every time one of my spies would check, she was actually bowling. The girls would go out for drinks on Friday, where there was some dancing. My spies would go into the club where they were. The most they ever saw was her dancing with some GI. If the guy started to get roaming hands, she'd slap him and walk away. One of them actually danced with her ... he thanked me for that. She was having a good time. She had a pretty sexy, short skirt and a halter top (he went in the summer). He tried to make time with her and even tried to cop a feel. He got slapped in the face for his trouble ... he didn't thank me for that. Once a month she'd go to the Touch of Elegance spa and spend half a day there, getting her hair done, a mani-pedi, a steam room and massage. I even got a female spy on my team to go in the steam room with her and check out the masseur; the female spy was the wife of one of my buds.

Yes, he was a male masseur. But Barry was as queer as a three dollar bill. My Mata Hari had gotten a 'full treatment' from him, and gotten nothing but a nice relaxing experience out of it. The guys even checked Barry, but after working all day in the spa, he went home to his boyfriend – who, by the way, was an MP. Never saw anything even remotely suggestive about Barry, nothing to indicate he played for more than one team.

It was driving me nuts, because I knew that Carolyn was a round-heeled slut when I met her, and I didn't believe she could stay celibate for a week, let alone eighteen months. Maybe it's time I told you that part of the story.

Carolyn Elizabeth Smith-Montrose was one year older than me, when he met. To be fair, I guess she was always one year older than me and still is. She was 20, at the time, so that was about six years back. She was a junior at the University in my home town. It was December and I was on a three-week leave between Basic Training and Ranger School. I was in the top five percent of the Basic group and the Army asked me if I wanted to be better than the best. I said sure. So they gave me three-weeks off before they tried to kill me at Ranger School. Anyway...

I hooked up with an ROTC Frat House on campus and they invited me to a party. One of the guys asked me if I wanted to see something special – but I'd have to keep my mouth shut about it. Sure, I said.

He led me to a mattress room – the floor was covered with mattresses and no other furniture. In the center of the room was Carolyn. "Lyn" as I later learned she preferred. She was naked, with her crotch rotating on some guy's pole, and another was in her mouth. Some guy was just pulling out of her poop-chute, which was leaking cum like Angel Falls in Yosemite spewed water. There were four or five guys standing around her with their cocks in varying states of hardness. I guess the ones that were less than hard had just gotten serviced.

My bud motioned me to the side and said softly, "Sorry, but I can't get you in tonight. She won't do it with anybody unless they have a clean bill of health from the doc. Said she didn't want to take any chances. But Christ ... just look at her."

I nodded at him. "She's something." I was in lust. I wanted some. Or I wanted all of her. Or I'd take whatever I could get. Fresh out of Basic, I hadn't had any in several weeks. "Think she'd accept my Orders showing that I've been with sixty guys only for the last several weeks? You can't get anything there."

I must have been talking a bit loud, 'cause she heard. She pulled off the blow-job she was giving, and said, "You sure can, soldier boy. Don't tell me you didn't take any showers in Basic. And besides, there are gays and women in the Army these days ... No doctors note, no nooky." Then she turned her head towards me and our eyes locked.