Part 10 (1/2)

”Hold yourself open, now, girl.” She rocked a little back and forth on her heels, demand-y, but reached both hands around and parted that p.u.s.s.y for me. I bent down, bent in, and took one good long lick, smearing my face on her and making her cry out like she was warming up. You know that kind of groan a girl makes when it starts to get sweet, and then the ”Un-ooh-ah?” when you stop what was making them groan so good-I invented that s.h.i.+t, so it didn't phase me. We were gonna get to where she needed to go. I yanked open the fasteners on the back of my tutu and pulled it off, then, slow, balanced myself and got steady on my platforms, just like Shar says in The Femme's Guide. I pushed my c.o.c.k into her, a little in, then out, then a little more, wetting it all up.

You see how we study what you're doing when you're working so hard over us? Then we do it better.

And oh, s.h.i.+t, that b.i.t.c.h, she started screaming-but why was it m.u.f.fled? I slid all the way in and looked up, saw she had her face pressed into the leather. Oh no. I put one hand on her hip, and grabbed the knot of hair that the chopsticks held together, yanked her head up by it, and started to f.u.c.k her for real.

”Let it go, Zora-come on,” and f.u.c.k if she didn't let loose, bucking back into me like she did this all the G.o.dd.a.m.n time. And we rode.

”Wait wait wait stop come out,” Zora rambled after many minutes of this, just as I was dropping down into a zone. She bent around to look at me, face drenched, hair half undone, eyes rac.o.o.ned, and when I pulled out, she shoved off her skirt til it pooled at her feet, stepped out of it, and then she slid down off the horse and laid herself down on the cement.

Did you hear me? On the cement.

One of Zora's b.r.e.a.s.t.s had popped free from the top of the bustier and was pinched tight and flat. She spread her legs wide, all the way open, yes, heels still on, every bit as hot as I have ever wanted to look for a lover. So much longing dripped off her gaze that I felt entirely inadequate. I wanted to open the door, yank in the first butch I saw and set her to work so Z could get the f.u.c.king she so clearly deserved.

But I had made a promise, hadn't I? I knelt down on the concrete, knees already bruising, thanked some Kali-Ma/Kwan-Yin/Mother- f.u.c.king-Mary and every other femme-G.o.ddess for the foresight to have started doing Pilates again a few months previously, and slicked my c.o.c.k back into her.

Before she could fill my ears entirely with her screams, I said, ”You help, Zora. Get your hands back to work. I know how much attention your c.l.i.t needs.” Zora slid her hands across my shoulders, then pulled open my s.h.i.+rt and cupped my t.i.ts, easing them out of my bra so she could yank and pull at my nipples. I f.u.c.ked her harder, groaning, ”Oh, s.h.i.+t, Zora, please, your hands, get them down there-” So she moved one hand, the b.i.t.c.h, and ministering to her c.l.i.t as I slammed my hips into hers, all the while working slow feathery gentle strokes across my fat nipple.

Sure enough, her p.u.s.s.y's grip around Mz Big Red got tight and tighter the closer Zora came to coming. When she went over, she let go of my t.i.t, thank G.o.d, grabbing hard at my a.s.s, bruising me, yes, while she bucked and bucked and bucked.

I slowed when she quieted, heard screaming on the other side of the door and knew the contest had finally started. Zora panted under me, pulling me down to her face with her p.u.s.s.y-slick hands and kissed me again. ”What do you want, Althea?” she asked, feeding me her fingers.

And that was how I got to ride home on Zora's hot strong fist and forearm, shouting to the high heavens along with everyone else in the place, though my heights had to do with much more than camp and bouffants. Girls have gotta do for each other sometimes, don't we now. s.h.i.+t, that's what solidarity is all about.

”We have all been little pitchers with big ears, shooed out of the kitchen when the unspoken is being spoken, and we have probably all been tale-bearers, blurters at the dinner table, unwitting violators of adult rules of censors.h.i.+p. Perhaps this is what writers are: those who never kicked the habit. We remained tale-bearers. We learned to keep our eyes open, but not to keep our mouths shut.”

- Margaret Atwood Norman Armstrong Bio Norman Armstrong has degrees in writing fields from three California universities but had to put aside his real love to earn a living. He is now a retired civil servant living in Germany, with long forays in San Francisco. He is currently working on an anthology of stories-Do Tell-about U.S Military personnel, of which ”G.o.d's Country” is an excerpt.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? It was a subject I had some familiarity with, and after a career of writing third-person nonfiction government doc.u.ments where I had to remain completely anonymous and impersonal as a writer, I wanted to inject some personality into my writing. s.e.x seemed an ideal subject in which to do so.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I love the ERC! It's full of smart, insightful ladies who are my only audience-and we all write for an audience, no matter what we say. They find things in my writings-especially humor-that I didn't realize were there. I arrange my visits to SF to get my creative batteries recharged with the ERC.

Do you write under your own name? Writing under my own name-certainly not! Having a nom de plume is a long-standing literary tradition-from the Earl of Oxford and ”William Shakespeare,” to Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin and ”George Sand,” to John Preston and ”Mike McCray” and ”Preston MacAdam.” I wanted my name to reflect the same clean-cut American attributes I gave to my characters, hence the name of two well-known American heroes-Neil Armstrong and ”Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy.”

What's the inside scoop on your story? Originally I was going to write a story about a young soldier on leave in SF who winds up shooting a p.o.r.n movie, like many p.o.r.n movies that advertise their partic.i.p.ants as being fresh off the military base. But first I needed to have a story for the p.o.r.n movie to be about, and when I wrote the antecedent story, the older sergeant wound up becoming the dominant character, possibly because I knew the perfect actor to play him when ”G.o.d's Country” is made into a p.o.r.n movie: Allen Silver of HotOlderMale.com. Thanks for the inspiration, Allen!

G.o.d's Country (Excerpt) Norman Armstrong He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock, that shelters a dry thirsty land ...

Old Hymn The CO sent out three patrols that morning-one South, one West, and one North. Our orders were simple: recon the area within a 24-hour riding range for a suitable location to set up an Army post here in this new Arizona Territory, which now belonged to the United States of America rather than the Mexicans. Look for water, elevation, protection from the G.o.d-awful sun-and Indians. And report back by the next evening, 1800 hours.

We all left the camp before sunrise to avoid the heat as much as possible; I was a.s.signed to go North with Private Petersen, which was good; we'd seen some purple hills to the Northwest-if they weren't mirages in the heat. Hills meant water-maybe-and maybe somewhere cooler. As for Private Petersen, he was one of our youngest, and newest, troops (he'd joined the unit just before we took off out of Texas)-although his thick blond beard and moustache made him look older. He was also one of our sharpest recon men; he could tell things just from looking at rocks-and Arizona had a lot of rocks. On the downside, he didn't talk much. But I could have drawn a worse partner for the patrol-a lot worse.

Petersen and I rode along at a pretty leisurely pace, generally going North, not saying much, just looking, listening, getting the lay of the land. When I looked at my pocket-watch, it was about nine; we'd been riding for three hours, the landscape hadn't changed much, the hills didn't seem to be getting any nearer-and that Arizona sun was already getting pretty hot. Plus, I had on a set of those f.u.c.kin' wool long johns the U.S. government issued to all its soldiers, regardless of the climate; I was itching everywhere under my equally-regulation wool uniform. ”These long johns are h.e.l.l, aren't they?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Let's stop and take a p.i.s.s.” ”Yes, sir.”

We pulled the horses up by one of the big cactuses that offered the only shade available, dismounted, unb.u.t.toned, and p.i.s.sed, facing away from each other. There wasn't much privacy in the Army, but you at least didn't have to p.i.s.s in front of your partner.

”Sergeant?” ”Yes, Petersen?”

”Do you hear something? Like water running?” ”No ... can't say that I do.”

”I do-off to the West ... and the ground is sloping a little here ... like it might be leading down to a gully or something ... there might be water there.”

”Well, let's find out, Private.” We mounted up and turned West-the sun to our backs-and followed the slope of the ground. The slope gradually became more obvious. A wall of sheer rock started rising up on our right, and then the gully turned to the right-and we were in the shade of that wall-and then I heard the sound of running water as well-Petersen was right! The slope got rapidly steeper, so we dismounted and let the horses lead, knowing they would follow the smell of the water; the gully gradually opened up into a full gorge with cliffs of rust-colored rock rising up on both sides of it-and in the distance in front of and below us-if it wasn't a mirage-was the s.h.i.+mmer of a body of water at the base of the cliff that was now sheltering us. We descended the steep side of the gully slowly for maybe half an hour, until we reached the relatively level floor of the gorge. And within a few minutes we found a little stream-very little; we could wade across it.

”It's gotta come from that pool we saw as we were coming down. But I still hear water running-and this little trickle isn't making that noise.”

”Yes, sir.”

We let the horses drink, then knelt at the stream and drank ourselves; the water was sweet and cold. When we got up, Private Petersen held his hands together for just a minute, bowed his head and mumbled something. The boy was religious!?! Like I said, he didn't say much, so I didn't know much.

We mounted the horses again and rode upstream, maybe a mile, and then we came to the pool-no mirage!-and saw the water spurting out of the side of the cliff and falling into the pool, the sound we-or more correctly, Private Petersen-had heard back on top of the b.u.t.te when we had stopped. Suddenly I felt old-even if I had just turned 40 a few months before; Petersen had out-scouted me, no sense denying it! He'd heard the water and I hadn't!

But I put the philosophizing aside for the moment. Cool, clear water and all of it I could possibly drink-or bathe in. Bathe! Yeah! We walked the horses out on the flat rock shelf to the edge of the pool and let them drink again. Then we got down on our knees and drank a little more ourselves. Private Petersen went through the same little spiel when we got up-a quick clasping of hands, bowing of head and a mumble, and it was over.

”Let's find something here for the horses to feed on, and then we're going to get out of these itchy uniforms and take a nice long dip in this water.” I didn't wait for a response, just grabbed my horse by the bridle and led him to the south end of the pool where the rock shelf gave way to earth and some small trees and green plants. I put a hobble on his front legs so he could graze but not run away; Private Petersen did the same.

”Now, Private, let's take care of ourselves.” I walked back to the rock shelf-to a little rise, sort of, in the middle that you could see from all around-lay down my rifle, threw down my cap, sat down, pulled off my boots and socks, my tunic, then stood up and dropped my pants and stripped out of those h.e.l.lish long johns-I was not going to put those back on today-and tossed them on top of the rest of my gear. I was naked! For the first time in weeks I was fully and freely naked! It felt great! I stood and stretched-up to my tiptoes, then held my hands up to the sky like I was some Holy Roller back in Virginia, gave a good healthy yell and started down toward the water. Only then did I become aware that Private Petersen, rather than stripping down with me, was just standing there, still in full uniform, looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

”What are you waiting for, Private? Drop those duds and let's cool off ”But, sir ...”

”You can drop the military courtesy for the time being, Petersen; it's not required when the personnel involved are barea.s.s-and you are going to get yourself barea.s.s and enjoy this water, aren't you?”

”Begging your pardon, sir, but ...” Petersen was nervous; he was turning red behind his beard and moustache, and I could see sweat on his face, even though we were in the shade of the cliff; he was trying to look me in the eye, but his eyes kept slipping down ... to about the level of my d.i.c.k, which was celebrating its own liberation from those itchy long johns by getting itself ready to stand up and salute-I could feel the heat, the growing heaviness between my legs; I didn't have to look down to see what was happening.

”What's the matter, Petersen? Haven't you ever seen a grown man naked before?”

”Uh ... yes, sir.”

”Well then, what's the problem?” ” I ... I ...”

”Are you embarra.s.sed? About what? You've got the same equipment I do, don't you-two b.a.l.l.s and a hunk of meat hanging between your legs. It's nothing to be embarra.s.sed about.”

I don't run around showing my ”hunk of meat” off ... but ... there's a time and a place ... and this seemed to be both. I spread my legs a little and threw open my arms so Private Petersen could take a good look at me. I didn't look too bad for being 40. Body still in good shape: broad chest-although most of my chest hair had turned silver, matching what I had on my head and face-and I still had a good firm stomach and waist; most of the trousers the Army issued me hung on me pretty loose while the tunics were sort of tight. And my legs were nice and muscular from holding a horse between them all the time-I mean, a real horse, although what I had between my legs had been compared a few times in my life to a horse, but that was mostly by wh.o.r.es, and wh.o.r.es are part of an ancient and honorable profession, but that didn't mean you should take as gospel everything they told you either-before or after you paid them. Partner knew he was on display, even if it wasn't for the usual reason he got shown off-there wasn't a woman in hundreds of miles-and kept right on growing to attention ... with even more enthusiasm. I still didn't look down; I knew what he looked like when he got happy-about eight inches, and good thick inches. I just kept looking at Private Petersen; I was showing him my body-and my hard-on went with it. I was sure he'd seen one of those before, too, at least his own. But he was acting sort of like a virgin ... I wondered ... but the s.e.x life of my soldiers was none of my business ...

After a minute or so of watching me standing there barea.s.s, showing my stuff, the expression on Petersen's face changed ... took on some determination ... like when a soldier gets a mission a.s.signment ... he turned away from me and practically marched up the incline to where I'd thrown my gear. He lay down his rifle, sat down, pulled off his boots and socks, set the boots neatly side by side, stood up again, took off his cap, put it down carefully next to his boots, then pulled off his tunic, folded it, placed it carefully over his rifle, pulled off his trousers, folded them, put them neatly on top of his tunic, unb.u.t.toned his long johns ... and then modestly turned his back toward me as he pulled them off his shoulders, down over his a.s.s-G.o.d d.a.m.n!-and then bent over-I d.a.m.ned G.o.d again-and pulled them off over his ankles. He picked them up, folded them neatly and put them on top of his trousers, then leaned over again-this time I thanked G.o.d rather than d.a.m.ning him-picked up his hat and put it on top of his neat pile of clothing, like he was preparing for inspection. Then he turned around and faced me, his hands modestly over his crotch.

To be real blunt about it, he was beautiful. The curly golden hair on his head and his face-it descended down his broad chest, his slim white body, his long shapely legs, in an unbroken wave of golden fur; he radiated light-like the clouds in one of the spectacular sunrises we'd been seeing every morning. This time I praised G.o.d rather than just thanking Him; underneath that scratchy Army uniform was the Glory of the Lord-or close enough. I stood staring for a long moment; he looked back at me ... uncomfortable ... but determined ... a man on a mission-although I wasn't sure what the mission was.