In May 1968, I rotated back to the United States from my second tour in Vietnam. This time I had commanded an infantry company that was headquartered in Pleiku in the central highlands, but we spent most of our time in the fucking jungle, trying to intercept NVA units traveling down the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
I was tired and disillusioned. Most Vietnamese I met hated the NVA and the Viet Cong but I don't think they liked us any better. Most just wanted everybody to go home and let them live in peace. I had lost too many men and had written too many letters home to wives and parents of kids who had died for something that I couldn't rationally explain. The war had become more of a political struggle than a military one and I was counting the days until my six-year commitment was over.
As a captain, I had been assigned as the S-3 (operations) to an infantry battalion in Ft. Lewis, Washington, but the posting was meaningless. An army battalion is essentially a headquarters and there are usually three to five companies of about fifty men each assigned to it. We had none. So there weren't any units to command. Talk about tits on a bull. In the absence of any meaningful duties, the base commander had begun using me and the other six officers in my situation for every lousy job that came down the pike. My particular 'short straw' was 'Bereavement Officer.'
My job was to sign for and accompany bodies of dead American soldiers arriving at McCord AFB from Vietnam and take them to their place of internment, wherever that happened to be, and deliver sons, daughters, husbands, and wives to their next of kin with the "Thanks of a grateful nation." I was also to provide whatever help and assistance that the family desired, which most of the time was to get out of their sight.
I had had relationships with several women before and after each of my deployments, but the war had poisoned all of them. I only had a few more months in uniform and I hadn't decided what civilian job my military experience had qualified me for. From the general disillusionment, the crappy detail, and my uncertain future, it was fair to say that I was in a funk.
So it was that I was sitting at the bar in a little place called Pint Defiance. It was a bar located on the outskirts of Tacoma and about a mile from my apartment. I was talking with Sharon, a woman that I'd met there two months ago. Sharon's husband was an Air Force sergeant who had deployed to Vietnam about the same time that I'd returned and like many (most?) military wives, she was lonely. She seemed to appreciate my appearance. Even though I was only twenty-seven, two tours to Vietnam had put quite a few salts into the pepper of my hair along with hardened eyes that were the result of seeing too many things that I wished I hadn't. At six-one, I had a body that you would expect from someone who had spent every day for the last ten years doing morning PT.
We had hit it off the first night, and while I thought that I had expertly seduced her to my bed, I suspected that as horny as she was, it was more her desire than any real charm on my part. She was a sexual tigress and used her body to induce mind-blowing orgasms for both of us. As I pounded into her oh-so-sweet pussy, I tried not to think about hubby, but since I had a couple of experiences of being somewhat in his position, I didn't really give a damn.
Sharon was pretty in a mousy kind of way. She certainly wasn't what anyone would call 'beautiful,' but her molten sexuality that lay just beneath the surface was something that men could sense. She had a dancer's body with long limbs and delicate hands and neck. She was about five-foot-six and probably didn't weigh over 110 pounds. Her long straight brown hair fell past her neck, her brown eyes had a doe-like sadness to them, and her full pouty lips she said came from her Greek mother. She had two school-age children and worked as a dental hygienist in Tacoma. I would never consider Sharon as a life partner even if she wasn't already married, but she was fun to talk to and hang out with at the Pint Defiance and our occasional romps in the hay were a welcome sexual outlet for both of us.
So it was that one day, Sharon told me about her Canasta Club. She said that the club consisted of about ten women, most of them military wives, who met every Tuesday at the home of one of the original organizers. Usually, about eight would show up on any given day, so it was a nice two tables of four most of the time. Lunch was always served and wine was the beverage of choice.
Sharon had explained that over the two years that she had been attending, she noticed that the conversations had evolved from talking about kids and sharing recipes, to more open and revealing ones about husbands, loneliness, and sexual frustration and fantasies. She confessed that she had described us, and opening up about our sexual escapades had elicited quite a response.
Three women in particular had taken her aside and pumped her for all the juicy details. What kind of man was I? Did I have a nice body? Did I eat her pussy as well as fuck her? What did we talk about during sex? Did Sharon suck me to completion? What did I taste like?
Sharon said that as she answered their questions, she could feel her juices start to wet her panties and the uninhibited nature of the conversation had them completely soaked by the time they broke up. She said that she'd come to the bar that night hoping that I was there. I did remember and I recalled that she had been impatient to leave. Later, Sharon had been an absolute terror in bed. She had achieved her first orgasm within thirty seconds of me filling her pussy with my steel and I counted another four over the course of the evening. She edged me to my climax at about two-thirty in the morning and expertly pulled me from her spasming cunt to finish me in her mouth. I can still recall the look in her eyes when she realized that there was going to be more cum than her mouth could accommodate. The mental picture of streams of my pearl-colored jizz oozing from the corners of her mouth and her tongue feverishly working to capture it back is burned in my memory.
Like any man, or at least all of the men that I know, I was flattered by Sharon's description of three women seemingly lusting after my body. I was tempted to ask her if I could be of 'service,' but Sharon had been nice to me and I didn't want to leave her with the impression that she wasn't appreciated, so I didn't. It wasn't until later that I discovered that my concern was unfounded.
I had just entered my apartment a week later when I heard the phone ring. Since I had returned from Vietnam, the only calls that I'd received on that phone had been from my parents and brother in California, the duty NCO at the battalion, and Sharon, so it was with some surprise that the woman's voice on the other end of the line wasn't any of those. She introduced herself as Peggy and said that she had gotten my number from Sharon. She told me that she had a situation that Sharon had said that perhaps I could be of help. Could she come see me or could we meet somewhere? When I asked if she was perhaps a member of Sharon's Canasta Club, Peggy admitted that she was, it was immediately clear to me what Peggy's situation might be, so I gave her my address and headed in for a quick shower and shave.
