Chapter 3 - Kwajalien

Chapter 3: Kwajalien

Depart: 8:20 a.m. Tues. May 29
Arrive: 5:40 p.m. Tues, May 29
Guam (GUM) Kwajalein, Marshall Isl (KWA)
One stop. Time on ground 0.45
Travel Time: 7 hr 20 mn

Distance: 1,590 miles
Flight: UA755
Aircraft: Boeing 737-800
Fare Class: United Economy (Y)
Meal: Breakfast
No Special Meal Offered.

Sheila:

The previous night had a surreal quality. For one thing, it was the middle of the day in New Jersey. Sean can fall asleep anytime, anywhere, which is a skill I envy. He says he needed to learn it in the Army. While he slept, I lay awake, considering where we were and why we were there. The flights added up--more than six hours to L.A., six more to Honolulu, and almost eight to Guam. Counting boarding, taxiing, and offloading, it is more than a full day inside airplanes, with more coming.

Sean had not told me why we were flying all this way. I knew he had served in the Army, which seemed relevant. There had been an occasional mention of our destination, but nothing that would explain spending half a honeymoon in crowded airplanes. I fell asleep wondering.

Kiku got us up, dressed, fed, and to the airport. She was so different from Christine, yet her selfless attention to detail was the same. Kiku made me feel at home so I would miss her. The airplane did not improve things. On this flight, everything was Economy and crowded. Many of the travelers were US military in uniform. Sean knew the ranks and service designations. He chatted easily with an Airman and a couple of Marines. I tried to disappear.

Presently, we were cleared for take-off. It was interesting to watch the safety lecture in a language other than English, though I had no idea which one. Sean explained that English is always used on American-flagged airlines, which this was, but also the country of origin or destination. It did not sound like Japanese, so I would guess the island tongue where we were going.

I had never flown before Saturday, but I was beginning to feel like a seasoned traveler. While I wanted to pull out the laptop, I knew there was no point before the flight attendants finished serving the meal. It was worth the wait because breakfast was unusual to my taste. I ordered the French toast and tea. Sean ordered sausage and eggs with coffee.

My toast came with a side of Spam, macadamia nuts, and a fruit salad. I gave the Spam to Sean. The bread was sweet, even before adding the coconut-flavored syrup. Green tea made a nice counterpoint. It was an enjoyable breakfast. Sean’s sausage and egg were served on a bed of sticky rice. He also received a fruit salad and nuts. Sean told me the sausage was derived from Portuguese cooking. In Hawaii, it could be found everywhere, even at McDonalds. I was happy to let him have it, though I tried a taste. It was nicely smoky.

After breakfast, the trash was collected and another round of drinks was distributed. Sean pulled out his PDA, only to find there was no reception. Inquiries were made. Internet access was not available on this flight. My Teddybear grumped and growled for a while, then asked for some magazines.

I pulled out my new laptop and started the process of reviewing the CDs Aaron Aldermann sent. It soon became clear they were victims of their ambition. The director had put too many things in the scenes. This forced long camera shots, to get everything in the frame. Details were too small and attention was divided. It came out a confusing hash, difficult to follow even in slow motion.

It was a familiar issue but on a larger and more expensive scale. The cameras in my studio have motion tracking, but it is never precise. Choosing the correct angle, focal length, and time is critical. In this case, I needed to do all that and create a placeholder in the larger image. Worse, these were not still photos but a video. Unlike a lipstick shot, I needed to retain the action. It made for an interesting problem.

One asset was that the video was already discrete shots. I could easily pull out one every five or ten seconds. Those I could crop and enlarge like I always did. That seemed like a plan. I selected one chase sequence and began cutting it up. Before I half finished, the flight attendant told me to put away the computer and fasten my belt for landing. Almost four hours had passed.

Sean had given me the window seat. Since I could not work, I raised the window blind and looked out. The tops of the clouds looked very much like they appeared from the ground. Sean was hiding a smirk. He knew that the ground was not visible and had not told me. It should have been irritating, but his childlike delight was infectious. I shook my head and called him Teddybear, which made him grin wider. About then, we dropped down into the clouds.

Clouds are much more interesting from the inside. We were moving through a blanket of gray, while raindrops made wet lines on the window. Before the novelty wore off, the plane momentarily popped out of the clouds. I could see a vast expanse of water before we plunged into more gray. This pattern repeated almost to the ground. We emerged from a cloud with the runway clearly in sight. Within moments, we touched the ground. It was thrilling.

Sean:

After we lifted off from Guam, I wanted to check my messages. I resisted because the flight attendants were passing out drinks. Kiku had efficiently gotten us breakfast, but I needed a coffee fix. Soon after, the meal cart came down the aisle. I was pleased to recognize a Hawaiian menu. Sheila was having French toast, so I took the other option--egg, sausage, and rice. As always, there was fresh fruit.

Sheila liked the effect sweet bread has on French toast. She had eaten half before adding the coconut syrup. That was another treat. She gave me her fried Spam. My meal was disappointing. Rather than a fresh fried egg, it was a rubbery sheet. The sausage was OK, but the sticky rice was wrong. Not enough vinegar, perhaps. At least the fruit salad was good and there was more coffee.

Once breakfast was cleaned up. I decided it was time to do something useful. I pulled out my phone, only to find there was no reception. Sheila was working away at the Columbia Pictures project, so I had no complaints about her productivity. I found this profoundly ironic. Of the two possible vacation problems, the more annoying is when things run better in your absence.

I went to the commode, alone. I asked for magazines. I did a number puzzle. I played 2048 on my phone. In short, I fidgeted. This was a familiar situation, though I was years out of the Army. “Hurry and wait” is the expression. Hurry to be ready, then wait until scheduled. Since the Army was metaphorically dragging me out to the South Pacific, there was a certain symmetry. It did not calm my fidgeting.

Instead, I found peace watching Sheila work. Most people hate being watched, but she did not seem to notice. I could see why. Even I found her work engrossing. The studio supplied video clips, from several angles, of a foot chase in some sort of industrial space. Two groups were chasing, with Will Smith and Ben Affleck running. All three groups interacted, so it was hard to follow what each group was doing. Multiply that by the number of cameras.

Sheila stopped one video and started pulling stills out by the time stamp. Smart. Reduce the problem to a manageable scale. Once she had broken the sequence into about twenty stills, she started cropping segments out of each still.

During the catalog work, Richard expressed awe at Sheila’s ability to find, without pausing, exactly the right crop. This was my first chance to witness her doing it. To my eye, Sheila spent more time working the interface than she did deciding what was important. The obvious place to focus was the actors, but she also focused on the effects of their passage. One nice cut showed a pile of boxes falling, with the pile beside it bowed out, ready to collapse.

It was not until the final approach that I realized I had spent three hours watching Sheila work. Holy flaming shit Batman. Once again, I was reminded that I married up.

Sheila:

Landing at Majuro was like waking from a pleasant dream. It had been some time since I had been able to throw myself into a project. Sean’s catalog was a project, but there were many different threads I needed to track. This was simple in concept, but rich in detail. The creation fugue was exhilarating but left me feeling drained.

When Sean made no move to get in the exit flow, I asked what was going on. He told me we had a forty-five-minute stop in Majuro, the national capital. It was like a bus stop. Some would get off, while others got on. The rest of the trip was a short hop. When I asked how short, Sean laughed, “New York to DC, plus a little. Maybe Stamford to DC. Out here, that means next door. There’s nothing between but water.” My stars.

It proved to be a good subject. I had looked up Kwajalein and the Marshall Islands, but Sean had been there. He talked about how the islands were very different from my conceptions. From the air, they looked like shoestrings dropped on the floor in a vaguely closed pattern. This atoll was one of the largest in the world, as was the enclosed lagoon. Wet was larger than dry by well over a hundred to one. It was like stretching out our little city and wrapping it around Delaware. Our city limits cover a fair amount of farmland, but still.

I noticed that almost everyone boarding the plane was in Army uniform. Sean explained that Kwajalein was almost completely US Army, with a sprinkling of other services. We had permission to visit from the Pentagon. I almost asked how Sean managed it so quickly, but he was already explaining. He had been wanting to visit for years. The necessary approvals had been obtained and maintained. Adding a spouse was simple. It made me wonder what else Gerald had in his locked files.

Getting off the plane put us in the grips of Army Intelligence. Sean had military ID and his permits—they referred to them as orders—plus the marriage certificate. No one ever spoke to me, except to ask for a photo ID. Eventually, things came to a head over my laptop. The Army wanted to know why I was carrying such sophisticated image-handling software. Sean gave them one of my business cards. That led to another discussion. I was surprised to hear Gerald’s name mentioned several times.

Calls were made. Time passed. More calls. More time. Eventually, Sean was scolded for bending regulations, but we were allowed to leave—without my laptop. It would be returned when we boarded the plane. It was dark outside. I was very glad they provided a car and a driver, named Sergeant Johnson, though perhaps spy was closer. He had something of Gerald in his carriage.

Whatever his other duties, Sgt. Johnson took us to something like a motel, helped check us in, and carried our luggage to the room. I was politely, but firmly, told not to touch anything. Once inside our room, I let Sean give me a long hug. For a little longer, I leaned my head against his chest. When we broke it was for a quick, chaste shower. I was hungry, which meant Sean was probably starving.

The street outside our motel reminded me of Atlantic City in July, except for all the uniforms. Most of the uniforms were of the PT variety, i.e. black shorts and a gray T-shirt, both with the Army logo. Beach togs were likely a violation, but every other soldier was wearing them. Civilian clothes tended to be loud. My Hawaiian beach bunny dress would not have not fit in, quite. I considered the potential impact of putting Christine in it. It made me wish we brought the chest until I considered what the spooks would have thought of its contents. Better not to have it.

Sean inquired after the nearest PX. It turned out there was only one, but it was nearby. That answered one of my questions. We were on a military base despite the presence of beach footwear. The PX turned out to be a three-building cluster near, the airstrip. Surrounded them was in a sort of mini-mall. The only open stores were Pizza Hut, Burger King, and a coffee shop called Green Beans. We stopped at Pizza Hut long enough to place an order, then went to the PX.

I did not know what to expect. It was sort of like a Target split between three buildings. There was a PX, a PXtra, and an Express, whatever that meant. We never went to the Pxtra. Sean said it would have larger, more expensive items, like weight training equipment, furniture, and electronics. The PX had a little bit of everything from soft lines to books. We went there first.

In soft goods, we acquired two beach towels, two pairs of beach togs, and a wide-brimmed fake-straw hat for me. The next aisle was assorted “tactical” gear. Sean opted for something called a boonie, which was a rollable hat made of digicam fabric. The sunglasses were in a locked case, so we had to wait for help. Sean selected two pairs of Oakley’s. At over $100 a pair, I would never have considered them for myself.

From there we went to the Express, which was like a Walgreens without the pharmacy. One row was a selection of magazines, mostly up to date. At the end of the row was a standing rack of postcards, one of which caught my eye. It was a condolence card. I was unsure whether to be sorry it was there or glad that no one had needed it. Sean noticed where I was looking. He said, “I know. You never forget flying with a flag-covered coffin. It changes you.” There was nothing to say to that.

One wall was cold storage, mostly drinks, and ice cream, but also frozen dinners and meat. Sean grabbed a bottle of juice, two bottles of water, and a frozen Snickers. In sundries, Sean added suntan lotion, zinc oxide, and a box of razor refills. As we waited to check out, Sean grabbed some refrigerator magnets, with pictures of aircraft and the names of Iraq bases. They were marked down from $1.99 to $0.25.

Outside there was an area of picnic tables. Sean put the bags on the table and left me to watch them. He had only been gone a minute or two when three soldiers decided to hit on me. A small shake of the head was enough for two of them, but the other was bolder. I let a little of Cynthia into my gaze, which sent the boy stumbling back on his friends. Behind me, Sean said, “Is there any trouble, Ma’am?” I said, “No trouble, Sergeant. They mistook me for someone else.” They scattered so quickly that Sean snorted. It was his good, “That’s finished” laugh. Spare me the other one.

Given my recent meals, American-style pizza was a welcome change. Sean told me that The Exchange owned the world’s largest Burger King franchise. Nothing says USA like a burger and fries. After a month outside the wire, that taste is like coming home. His point could be made for pizza as well. The conversation drifted to the subject of MRE’s, about which little good is said. Sean’s expression was, Meal, Rarely Edible.

By the time we made it to our room, it was almost midnight local time. Sean was dragging and I was dead on my feet. Sean had me strip and lay face down on the bed. As his massages went, it was a quickie, but he untied knots where I did not know I had muscles. Pausing, with his hands on my ass, he asked, “Do you think they are listening?” I turned completely pink, but answered, “Would that be good or bad?” Sean chuckled and gave my fanny a quick slap.

Sean:

I had forgotten how anal the US Army can be when they set their mind to it. I had proper authorizations and valid orders, but our last-minute change of plans raised flags. Add to that the brand new marriage and security noses began twitching. Before we arrived, the intel guys had decided to keep an eye on us. The fancy laptop with fancy software was icing on the cupcake.

The worst of it was that we passed the sniff test. Once they had met and talked to us, the hackles went down. That was where the Army’s anal-retentive nature kicked in. Once we were flagged, they had to follow through. Someone, somewhere would ask questions. So they kept Sheila’s work computer and gave us a nanny, but they threw us a bone. Sergeant Johnson was probably neither a Sergeant nor a Johnson, but he had a car.

He took us to our room, which was likely for mid-level VIPs. We were not allowed to touch our bags while they were in transit, but they were left with us when the door closed. I was not sure what to make of that. It made no difference because I wanted food and a shower.

Showering with Sheila can be a lot of fun, but this was purely a quickie. Once we were ready for the street, we stepped out. As expected, we had a shadow. I guessed that things were slow, so they were practicing. We went to the PX and food court. I ordered a pizza and then introduced Sheila to one of my benefits. The PX is never cutting edge, but they go where the military goes. One can be a slice of home when you need one.

As expected, I was able to outfit us for fun in the sun. I was tempted to get a left-side thigh holster for Gerald but decided that it could wait. Even though it was marked down to a buck, I did not want the spooks to see me buy it. Not yet anyway. I did pick up some picture magnets.

When we made it back to the Pizza Hut, our pie was ready. I ate most of it, of course, but Sheila managed two slices and part of a third. For her, that’s a lot. I made sure she drank plenty of water. Kwaj is equatorial, so dehydration is always an issue. Every soldier and most athletes know you can sweat faster than your gut can handle new water. Prior hydration is key and I expected a lot of sun the next day.

By the time we reached our room, Sheila was about ready to fold. I told her to strip down and lie on the bed. Sheila replied in to command voice like a trained recruit, quickly and without emotion. She had shown the red silk clear back in Hawaii. It seemed a long time ago, but this was not an appropriate venue. Still, something could be managed. It gave me something to think about while my hands put her to sleep.

When I woke, it was dark outside. By the time I finished with the latrine, that had changed. The sun rises quickly in the tropics. Sheila was still asleep, which gave me a chance to find a few things. Not the scarves. I wanted her to hand me the scarves. I needed a waterproof cover for the bed, some towels, shaving cream, and a good razor. When all was assembled, I threw back the sheet and popped her ass with a towel. Sheila is so fair-skinned, you can see her whole body blush. It was a shame to let her tan, but what would a trip to the tropics be without one?

Once she was fully aware, I told Sheila that I had seen one of her scarves, but not both. She understood that this was an instruction, so she stopped acting shy and went about her task. That transition is one I treasure whenever I see it, which is surprisingly often. It can be very useful in business. Employees want to understand their duties. Simply making the duties plain has a calming effect. The trick is not to overdo it.

Sheila, being Sheila, also understood my other point. There was a good chance the room was monitored. If so, they would get audio but no explanation. While Sheila was fetching her restraints, I put a garment bag on the mattress and covered it with towels. The situation was far from ideal. I could use the headboard, but there was nothing at the foot, not even legs. The bed was on a solid pedestal. Oh well. Needs must make do.

Just as I turned, Sheila threw her arms around me and gave me a big kiss. Then she stepped back a pace, lowered her gaze, and presented the scarves. No. I was not a master and she was not a slave. I lifted her chin til our eyes met. Far from fighting it, Sheila may have had a twinkle in her eye. I stepped out of character a bit and embraced her man-to-wife. She stiffened with surprise, then melted into my arms. Sheila claims I give the best hugs, but I privately disagree. Hers are the best and only I get them.

We separated far enough to kiss, which also took a while. After proper consideration, I gave her a wry half-smile and nodded toward the bed. Sheila squealed as she jumped on it. I loosely tied the scarves on the bedpost and allowed her to slide her wrists in. There may have been some amusement at my knot skills. I didn’t practice knots as much as Sheila did, but I did manage a blindfold from a small towel. That done, I picked up the ice bucket, with its washcloth in hot water. Once I had started, it occurred to me that Sheila could have held the water. Maybe next time.

To say Sheila was ready is an understatement. I would do something about that presently. For the moment, I took the cloth and wrung most of the water out. Using care—and many refreshments of water—I washed everything between her legs and cheeks. The rough fabric elicited some squirms, but nothing more. When everything was done, I squirted a generous amount of shave gel on my fingers and lathered it up. This went everywhere I had washed.

I got up from the bed to fetch the shopping bag from the night before. I opened the box of fresh razor heads and changed the blades. Sheila listened closely, her breathing heavy but regular. Starting on the right thigh, I removed the foamy gel. Washing the razor often, I removed all her hair, except a small bumper above the cleft. Shaving is nice, but baby-smooth is getting old-fashioned.

There was one area I could not easily reach. Rather than struggle with it, I put a hand under Sheila’s ass and lifted it. Sheila, understanding my desire, raised both her legs and hooked the ankles behind her wrists. This allowed me to reach all the little hairs around her lower vulva and anus. The water was still warm, but very soapy. Rather than add soap to the cloth, I wiped her with it cold. Once all the white was gone, I had Sheila lay back. I rolled rolled the cloth and touched Sheila’s chin. She opened her mouth to accept the cloth.

Had we more time, it would be the perfect setup for an afternoon of pussy teasing and tongue fucking. Instead, the restraints and gag were symbolic. Still, I could do a little teasing. I stroked Sheila’s anus with one finger, making sure to use a lot of fingernail, but no pressure. With my tongue, I probed as deeply as I could, but I avoided the clit. There was no convenient timer, but I counted licks to one hundred.

When I drew back, Sheila gave a definite whimper. I blew on her and said, “Come.” At the same time, I shoved my finger into her anus and bumped her clit with the only thing handy—my nose. The results were gratifying, though unusual. Sheila settled, almost as if something had drained out. She lay limp for a moment, then rolled out of the posture, slipped her hands from the scarves, and pulled the washcloth from her mouth. Her embrace was the real message, but she said, “If you are going to sail the yacht, you will need to learn some knots.” What can I say? Sheila is an expert.

Sheila:

It was sweet, but almost embarrassing, watching Sean try to work up to a BDSM scene. Our first time he had everything laid out for him. Afterward, he said he followed the map I gave him. I combed through the video. Once I could strip away the emotion, to analyze my responses, it was obvious what reactions Sean cued to. I must have been pretty desperate to respond so strongly. For Sean, it was easy. All the props he could wish for were close at hand. The real skill was taking charge. Sean is very good at pushing.

This was different. We had no setting, no props, no negotiations. Sean had no idea where to go with the scene. He settled on shaving. As a scene, it had possibilities. When we were back in New Jersey I intended to do it for Christine, though with refinements. Sean’s scene wanted distractions. As it was, it was very close to vanilla sex, but I found I liked vanilla sex with Sean. He gave me a nice slow shave, followed by a nice slow pussy lick. Sean finished his tongue bath, poked my asshole, and bumped my clit, I was able to come on command. That was emotionally satisfying. It was also a new sort of climax.

This orgasm melted through me like a warm wave. When I masturbate, the goal is usually to relieve tension. Occasionally, I resort to self-bondage, but always to get a big finish. Even if I managed multiple orgasms, there was a sharpness to the climax. This orgasm was more like one of Sean’s massages. It left me loose and relaxed, mellow and satisfied.

I spit out the awful-tasting gag, rolled out of the posture, pulled my hands from the restraints, and pushed off the blindfold, which takes more time to say than to do. Sean was anxiously awaiting his grade. When did I become his teacher? I told him to work on his knots. Sean would hear what I did not say. There were better ways than words to tell him I appreciated his efforts, clumsy as they were.

I rolled to my knees and pulled down Sean’s pants. He had been so intent on me that he was still flaccid, but that changed quickly. Sean pulled back to step out of his slacks and shorts. By the time he stepped forward, little Sean was at attention. I chuckled at the irony as I took him in my mouth.

One of the advantages of having Christine is that she could research for me. Between the internet, Jason, and several of Jason’s professional contacts, Christine had done a crash course on fellatio. I received daily reports by email. For me, it was book learning, but at least I knew the theory of the expert blow job. It would not be as patient as Sean’s cunnilingus, but men are usually quicker to cum than women.

I started by licking around the head of his penis. Once I had his full attention, I licked my way down the front of his shaft and played with his balls for a while. Teabagging is such a rude way to put it. I have always been fascinated by men’s balls. They are so sensitive, so fragile, yet so vital. In the studio, I mostly left them alone. Since I had Sean’s balls to play with, I did, using only tongue and lips. From his reactions, Sean found it interesting as well. Presently I started to work back up the shaft, nibbling as I went.

Deep-throating is a skill I had not perfected. I could take about half his length before my gag reflex drove me back. That being the case, I focused more on the head. I could rub the head with my lips while still sucking like a vacuum.

Almost before I became serious about the theory, Sean fountained in my mouth. Stupid girl. Pay attention to the boy. I swallowed the cum as I prepared to be apologetic, which would have been the wrong move. One look at Sean’s face told me he was composing poems in my praise. Why did so little matter so much?

I began to understand the old spit vs. swallow distinction for like vs. love. I was prepared to do far more for Sean, while he was willing to accept any unambiguous offering. Strange how that worked, but I could see the basis of a long-term relationship—each partner willing to do more than the other asked. Whatever our respective internal dialogs, it was time to cuddle. I crawled into Sean’s embrace and was content for a while.

.

All things pass. I thought about our plans. Sean wanted to see the beach, then something else. Tears started to roll.

Sean:

When I fingered Sheila’s ass and bumped her clit, I was hoping for a reaction. What I got was unexpected. Sheila’s whole body seemed to sigh and relax, rather like a successful massage. Before I could bask in the glow, Sheila demonstrated how symbolic the restraints were. In one continuous motion, she spit out the gag, slipped the hand ties, pushed up the blindfold, and rolled forward on her knees. The first thing to slow her down, for a moment, was my belt buckle. Before I had time to assist, Sheila had her hands on my floppy cock.

It may have started soft, but quickly rose to the occasion. Starting with the tip of my prick, Sheila slowly worked her way to the base. That much was standard stuff. When I was willing to take lovers, several had shown skill at fellatio. Sheila quickly left them behind. She licked my sack and sucked on my testicles, one after the other. I came close to coming before she decided to move back up the shaft. That gave me a spot of relief, but only a spot. The expression in high school was suck-the-chrome-off-a-trailer-hitch. I didn’t last two seconds.

It was bad enough that I quickly shot, but Sheila was taken by surprise. She took the full load in her mouth, with only a little escaping to one side. Though her eyes widened, she swallowed without hesitation. I cupped her chin with my fingers and wiped the small spill with my thumb. Sheila sucked it off. There was nothing left but to say, “I love you.”

In a heartbeat, Sheila was in my arms. For that instant, all was right with the world. I stroked her lovely hair and told her how special she was. With most women that would be part flattery. Sheila was exceptional and I was one to know. What I don’t know is how to deal with a sobbing woman. Sheila was soaking my shirt.

So we stayed there, kneeling on the bed, while Sheila had her cry. I may have little experience with tears, but courage I knew from watching Jo cope with school. I had some concept of the cost of keeping a good front. God knows Sheila dealt with a lot of shit in the last two weeks. What I had seen was bad enough. From what Jo told me, I had not seen the worst of it.