The Marine And The Beauty Queen Ch 01

If you are looking for a story filled with sex, then you are probably in the wrong place. I don't write sex stories. I (hopefully) write interesting stories that contain sex. It has been said that women need a reason to have sex, while men just need a place. I disagree with that. I think that men and women need to have a reason to have sex and that if they care for each other, then the sex will be even better. All the participants are at least 18.

I have always heard there are three kinds of people in the world: Those who make things happen, those who watch things happen and those who wonder what happened.

I had always considered myself the first kind of guy.

At least, that is, until I forgot some papers and had to return home to pick them up one morning.

That is when I saw my wife, Susan, on her knees giving a blow-job to another guy and saw his balls bouncing off her chin as he thrust himself in and out of her throat.

Then I kind of lost track of the proper order of events.

At first, I think I was wondering just what was happening, if it was real or not, then I just watched what was happening.

And all the time I was thinking about how much I had sacrificed over the past few years, trying to make her late Father's business into one of the most successful in the state. Working seven days a week, 14, 16 or 18 hours a day, just trying to make Susan proud of me.

In fact, those papers I had forgotten? Well, I had been working on them until nearly 2 am, gotten about three hours sleep, then left to go to work.

I kept thinking this is the only woman I have ever loved, and I had thought she loved me just as much, but now – NOW – now I didn't know what to think.

When did Susan stop loving me?

When did she stop caring?

When did Susan start having affairs?

Finally, I made something happen.

Unfortunately, the something that I made happen landed me in jail.

My attorney later told me that what I should have done was grab a gun and shoot the little scrawny son-of-a-bitch whose balls were bouncing off Susan's chin.

"There ain't a jury in Texas that would convict you of anything," he opined.

I consider myself a very peaceable man, and have never laid a hand on a woman in my life, but looking back, I have to admit there are times I almost wish I had kicked her in the jaw. From what I could see, he didn't have much to start with, and that would have certainly taken care of the little he did have.

At the very least, it might have made me feel a little better.

As it was, I grabbed the jerk by one arm and the back of his neck, marched him into the living room and threw him though a large plate glass window.

All the while Susan was screaming, "Don't hurt him, don't hurt him!"

Somehow I don't think she was talking to the other guy.

Amazingly, he wasn't seriously injured – just a lot of little nicks and scratches.

He immediately started hollering for help and my wife was still screaming at me.

So . . . I stepped through what was left of the plate glass window . . .

. . . and broke his nose

. . . and knocked out a few teeth

. . . and broke his jaw

. . . and a few ribs

. . . then kicked him in the same set of balls that my soon-to-be ex-wife had been trying to wear as a chin ornament.

It was about that time that the police arrived.

They had a naked man in my front yard and a naked woman standing on the porch.

Yet they arrested me for some reason, even though I explained that this was MY house, that was MY wife and the naked guy was the scum who was checking her tonsils with his dick.

Damn cops.

My attorney tried to explain it to me.

"If you had just shot both of them, or at least the guy," he began, "they probably wouldn't even have taken you in for questioning. Just taken your statement on the spot, and characterized it as justifiable homicide, a crime of passion.

"However, beating the crap out of the pastor of the largest Baptist Church in town, and one of the largest in the state . . . well that was just a little too much. Especially since both arresting officers attend that church."

Yes, the Reverend William "Billy" Thornton, son of the former governor of Texas, and pastor of the First Baptist Church of Thornton, Texas was the man who was trying to polish the head of his dick in my wife's throat. I'm not sure if his pathetic dick was even long enough to have reached her throat.

And yes, in case you are wondering, the town is named after some of his ancestors.

As I mentioned, his now-deceased father had been the governor of Texas at one time. His father's brother had been a United States Senator from Texas.

The only good news – from my point of view – was that powerful people, and powerful families, also tend to pick up powerful enemies. Such as the judge who set my bail at only $500.

Of course it didn't hurt that I was a well-respected local businessman, and member of most of the clubs in the town and county. And it probably helped that I was a disabled veteran and had received a Silver Star and Purple Heart while serving in Iraq.

The fact of the matter is, I only spent about two hours in jail before my attorney arranged my bail.

I suppose that at some point I need to introduce myself.

My name is Dennis Osborne.

I had spent two years attending the local junior college in my hometown in North Carolina, earning an associate degree in business administration before enlisting in the Marine Corps.

Following basic training at Paris Island, S.C., I attended Advanced Infantry Training in Camp Lejeune, N.C., then followed that up by attending the 12-week Marine Armor Crew Course in Fort Knox, Ky., where I learned almost everything there was to know about tanks, from driving, loading, firing and basic maintenance.

Next came a tour of duty in Iraq driving a 40-ton Abrams tank. While in Iraq, I continued my education, taking online courses, and earning additional credits towards a bachelor's degree in business administration.

I mentioned that I earned a Silver Star in Iraq, along with a Purple Heart. I was actually a little embarrassed about the Purple Heart.

Okay, a LOT embarrassed about the Purple Heart.

There really isn't a nice way of saying this, but one day some insurgents fired a rocket propelled grenade into our compound and I got hit by a piece of shrapnel.

In the ass.

I didn't even know it at first. In fact it wasn't until one of my buddies mentioned that it looked like I had some blood on the back of my pants that I reached around and found a small hole in my military utility uniform (called fatigues in the Army), and a small trickle of blood.

I reported to sick bay and they prepped me for "surgery." I dropped my pants, and 30 seconds later they removed a tiny little fragment of metal from my butt. The metal was about one-third inch square.

They sprayed some antiseptic on it and covered it with a band-aide, then gave me a tetanus shot. The shot hurt worse than the wound.

To say that I took a lot of ribbing from my buddies would be something of an understatement.

Then one day about a month later we were all ordered to report for what we thought would just be a normal inspection. Turns out, in front of my whole platoon I was presented with the Purple Heart for getting wounded in the butt.

The following two months were pure hell.

I heard every possible joke, every comment, every . . . well . . . everything about my "condition." Every single day . . . EVERY SINGLE DAY . . . as soon as I climbed into my tank, there would be a pillow on my seat. A very fluffy pillow.

The ribbing didn't stop until our compound was attacked one night. The Marine Corps prides itself on the fact that no matter what your MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) is, at heart every Marine is a rifleman.

During the attack by a much larger force, I grabbed my M-16 and, with the help of my best friend, managed to take out a number of enemy combatants, allowing the members of my platoon to safely withdraw until they could organize a counterattack.

Unfortunately, my best friend was killed in the attack.

After I was awarded the Silver Star, the ribbing pretty much died out.

But every day there was STILL a damn pillow on my seat!

As far as the disabled veteran part, well that actually occurred stateside, after I returned from Iraq.

While attending a joint military exercise at the massive Army base at Fort Hood, Texas, I was riding in a military vehicle that blew a tire. The driver lost control, flipped the truck and I pretty much shattered my knee. Two of my buddies were killed in the crash.

A couple of operations later I could walk again, but will always have a limp and running, and climbing into and out of tanks was not just difficult, but virtually impossible.

The Marine Corps offered, and I finally accepted, a 30 percent disability.

One of the reasons I accepted the Marine's offer of a disability was a young lady I met in Texas. From Fort Hood, I was airlifted to the Naval Air Station in Corpus Christi, Texas for surgery on my knee.

There is a lot of (usually) good-natured inter-service squabbling between the Marine Corps and the Navy, but I will say this: The Navy is the best taxi-service in the world. They take Marines where we need to go, feed us, get the hell out of the way when there is actually fighting involved, take us back home, and patch us up when we are injured!

Rather than subject me to a long ambulance ride, the Navy actually sent an airplane to Fort Hood, to pick me up and fly me to Corpus Christi. Go Navy!

When I woke up in the recovery room on Sunday morning, following my first surgery, I thought I must have died and gone to heaven because I was looking at an absolute angel.

Her name, I later found out, was Susan Williams and she was a volunteer at the hospital while attending Texas A&M University at Corpus Christi, where she was pursuing a nursing degree.

Susan was easily the most beautiful woman I had ever met, and when I learned she had been a runner-up in the Miss Texas Beauty Pageant, I was not surprised.

Mere words really cannot describe Susan.

Oh, yes, you can say she was tall (5 feet, 9 inches), slender (120 pounds), long jet black hair, impossibly long legs, wonderful, compact figure (34-23-34) but that doesn't really tell you much.

How do you describe eyes so blue they almost defied description? When I looked into her eyes the first time, I almost felt myself falling forward – and I was lying flat on my back in a hospital bed.

Jet black hair tells you the hair color, but it doesn't tell you how her hair shined and caught the slightest breeze, whispering around her face until it was almost impossible not to reach out and gently push a few errant strands back into place.

The most perfect white teeth I have ever seen, and lips that are so beautiful it seems almost to profane them by applying lipstick.

A smile that can take the breath away of anyone, and dimples that are impossibly cute.

And a very slightly crooked nose that actually enhanced her beauty, rather than take away from it. It was obvious that at some time in the past, she had broken her nose and it had not been set correctly.

To say that I was smitten would be like saying that Mount Everest is a fairly large hill.

My first words to her, before I knew her name or anything was: "Are . . . are you an angel?"

And that wasn't a feeble attempt at a pickup line. I seriously thought I must have died, and woke up in heaven.

"No," she laughed, "just a poor nursing aide."

"If you are only a poor nursing aide, then what do the nurses look like here?" I asked, and yes, that was a slight attempt at a pickup line.

This time she laughed even harder, then quipped with a huge smile: "Well, Debra is the head nurse and she is about two or three inches shorter than me and weighs about 200 pounds. Would you like me to get her for you?"

I think I told her that wouldn't be necessary, but I was still very groggy from the anesthetic they had used to put me to sleep, and apparently I immediately dozed back off.

When I woke up several hours later I was in a different room, but this angel was still there.

"Are . . . are you an angel?" I again asked, and she laughed and reminded me that I had already asked that question once.

I then remembered waking up earlier for a few minutes, and I introduced myself and she introduced herself and we shook hands – and continued to hold hands for several minutes.

I think I dozed off for a few minutes, but when I woke up again Susan was still holding my hand.

She explained that she was a nursing aide, while attending college, and hoped to get into nursing full-time after college.

To be honest, I let her do most of the talking.

Her Texas drawl was truly beautiful – just like she was. Plus I was still pretty groggy, and would doze off, then wake up, and doze off again.

A few hours later, a nurse brought me some food and Susan helped me eat. In fact, she actually pretty much fed me since I was still a little groggy.

After eating, Susan told me I needed to get some sleep, but promised she would check on me the next day (Monday) after her college classes had ended.

At almost 1 pm exactly (1300 hours military time) Susan walked back into my hospital room.

To tell you the truth, I had been wondering if I had dreamed about our meeting the day before. Was it really possible for someone to be that beautiful?

As soon as Susan entered the room, I realized that not only was it possible, but if anything she was actually even more beautiful than I remembered.

Susan was wearing a sleeveless blouse with a deep V-neck that accented the gentle swell of her breasts. Susan wasn't especially large up top, but the low-cut blouse definitely displayed what she had in a very tasteful fashion.

When I saw her walking . . . it was all I could do to keep from hyperventilating! Her blue jeans looked as though they must have been spray-painted on. I honestly don't understand how she even got those jeans on, they were so tight and hugged her backside so much.

I couldn't help but remember an old Mel McDaniel tune which contains the line, "Lord have mercy, Baby's got her blue jeans on."

The jeans also accented her almost impossibly thin waist.

I don't think she was wearing much makeup, and believe me, she didn't need it. Maybe just a slight light blue eye shadow which really brought out the incredible blue of her eyes, and a hint of blush on her cheeks.

This was truly the most beautiful woman I had ever met.

We talked for hours that afternoon and evening. We quickly found out that we were both the only children in our families – no brothers or sisters.

I told her my father owned a small farm in North Carolina, but also worked full time at one of the many, many furniture plants in the state.

I found out her father owned a large ranch, but also owned a construction company that specialized in road building and paving.

I told her about growing up on that small farm in North Carolina.

She told me about growing up on that large ranch in Texas.

I told her about plowing fields, and planting wheat, oats and soybeans, and driving combines to harvest those crops, then about baling hay.

She told me about saddling horses and going for half-day or even full day rides across their ranch. That was actually how she had broken her nose, being thrown off a horse who had been spooked by a piece of paper fluttering in the wind.

A friend of mine in North Carolina owned several horses, so I usually rode several times a month, but Susan rode nearly every day. Well, at least until she started college.

We told each other about hunting, fishing and camping in our respective states. She loved hunting and fishing, and dearly loved camping. And so did I.

I told her about how my mother insisted that I take music lessons, and that I used to play the piano and violin. And how much I hated those music lessons because they kept me from being outside on the farm.

She told me about how, almost from the time she could walk, her mother had insisted on Susan entering every beauty pageant in Texas and surrounding states while growing up – and how much she had hated every one. She won most of the tournaments, but still hated participating in them.

She wanted nothing more than to be a tom-boy, tending to and riding horses, but her mother kept trying to make her a prim and proper "lady."

And how much she had always rebelled against that.

Until a year earlier when her mother died of cancer. She was apparently perfectly healthy, but one day noticed a small lump in her breast. Within six weeks, she had died. The cancer had already spread throughout her mother's body, and by the time they found it, it was too late.

Susan had refused to enter any pageants in the last few years, but her mother's last request was that she enter the Miss Texas Pageant, and "try" to win.

"I know how much you hate these pageants, and I don't care if you win or not," her mother said to Susan, "but I want you to really try . . . really try for once."

Her runner-up finish in the Miss Texas Pageant, nine months earlier, showed how much she had tried, but Susan said her lack of a real talent – other than raising horses – had hurt her chances with the judges.

"So many of the other girls could sing, or dance so beautifully, or play musical instruments," she said. "I tried to play the piano, but it was obvious that I hadn't taken lessons in years."

Susan had started to cry softly while relating this, until I told her she had no reason to cry.

"I know your mother would have been very proud of you," I told her, "you finished as runner-up, and I am sure most of the other girls had spent years just getting ready for this one pageant. You had, what, three months?"

She nodded her head, "Yes."

"You did your mother proud," I told her. "You tried, you gave it your all, and that's all anyone can ask."

By now Susan was sitting on the edge of the bed, and leaned over and kissed me, very softly, very gently. I think Susan had the softest lips I had ever felt on a woman.

"Thank you for saying that," she said.

"Are . . . are you an angel?" I asked, with a big grin, "because that's the most heavenly kiss I've ever received."

Susan and I both laughed, then we heard something at the door.

Another nurse was there, and I noticed she looked at Susan a little strangely, but really didn't think much about it.

"Visiting hours are over," she announced.

Susan got up to leave.

"Will you come back tomorrow?" I asked her.

Susan said she had classes in the morning, but should be here around 1 pm.

Before she left, I grabbed her hand.

"You ARE an angel," I declared, and kissed her fingers.

She laughed, then bide me goodnight.

I think I fell asleep in minutes.

At six the next morning, I was woken up by a nurse that was scarier than any of my drill sergeants at Paris Island. She was about three inches shorter than Susan, and weighed at least 200 pounds, so I assumed this must be Debra, the head nurse.

Her name tag confirmed that, and Debra immediately started yelling at me to get up, get out of bed, and get ready for physical therapy.

"Physical therapy?" I asked. "I just had surgery two days ago!"

"And you should have started yesterday," she declared. "The Marine Corps and the Navy don't have time for you to be laying around on your skinny little ass!

"Now, can you use the bathroom by yourself . . . or do I have to help you?"

Dracula, I mean Debra helped me to the bathroom, but I did manage to do my business by myself.

Debra then had me set down in a wheelchair and wheeled me to a torture chamber that would have been more at home with the Spanish Inquisition.

After two of the most incredibly painful, brutal hours I had ever experienced Debra pushed me back to my room, where breakfast was waiting.