"Dwight, my mother used the word "dreamy" when she was a teenager. I know what she meant when I saw him climbing out of the pool. Red Speedos, pecs dripping water, green swimming goggles over his brown eyes, a flat belly oily with sunscreen, his black hair slicked back. Sleek as an otter, gorgeous as Mark Spitz or Greg Louganis, the same sparse v-shaped physique sculpted by swimming. Muscles popping out all over him. Sitting in the chaise lounge I was so wet, not from the water in the pool, let me tell you. I had to restrain myself from sticking a finger in my twat."
At sundown when many of us may have an alcoholic beverage without guilt, Harmony and I sat on the sofa in her living room, a piece of furniture as familiar to me as my own divan. She drank a gin and tonic with a twist of lime; I had sipped rum and Coke splashed with lemon juice. Both glasses now empty, the ice cubes taking their time to melt. Her short black skirt rolled up around her waist, no panties, and my finger, no two fingers, the index and middle finger of my left hand deep inside her pussy. My knuckles flexed and bumped against her velvet lining, the tips of my digits rolled around inside her vault. My white linen shirt, its sleeves rolled up above my elbows, was unbuttoned, black Levis frayed on the left leg unzipped, loosened around my waist, belt unbuckled.
Harmony's head lolled back on the sofa, her silky smooth long legs spread wide, her heels planted in the deep pile carpet, her bare feet angled outward, pointed skyward. Her eyes fluttered. She spoke slowly, in a monotone. Her voice almost in a trance, her speech sometimes glided to a stop like a car running out of gas. A look of total bliss, the flushed look of a religious zealot masked her face. While my fingers sought out the nub of her clit, her right hand in my pants, inside the slit of my pale blue boxers, stroked me, her slender fingers moved up and down at a leisurely pace.
"I looked so hot wearing my yellow bikini. My tits springing up out of the bra, the bottom barely covering my cunt, my pussy shaved and doused with a lavender scent. Sunglasses covered my eyes so he could not see me staring at him as he climbed out of the pool. Around the pool three other men, one with his wife, all wearing sunglasses looked at me just as surreptitiously as I looked at him. They wanted to fuck me. I wanted to fuck him."
I removed my fingers from inside her and worked my fist into her, the entire fist. My hand looked chopped off, eaten up by her gash.
"Damn, a fist fuck. Wow. Feels like a cock with knobs."
Harmony's pussy could take the biggest cock; surrender itself to the smallest hard penis. Incredible.
"Do you want me to tell you about fucking him? Do you want to know how long before he was inside me? First, I sucked his cock; his sperm filled my mouth, spilled from between my lips, dripped down my chin. Then his cock plowed into my pussy. 'Give me that hot stuff' I said. 'Fuck me' I said. 'Fuck that pussy' I said. Not 15 minutes after seeing the lump of his cock in his Speedos, we were fucking in the middle of this floor. See that damp spot over there. Of course he had no chance. After he fucked me I found out his name was John Ray Thomas. Three first names. My biggest concern was that he might be gay. If he had been I would have grabbed one of those guys at the pool, fucked him in the bushes. I was that desperate to fuck.
"Dwight, stick your cock in me but take your fist out first."
I removed my fist, flexed my fingers, her wetness trickled down my wrist.
"Is your swimmer a GI?" I asked.
"Not yet. He leaves for Marine boot camp the day after tomorrow. I am going to fuck him before he leaves but right now I want you to fuck me."
"Of course. Here?
"No, let's fuck in the bed."
Harmony and I had settled into a comfortable relationship. She always found time to fuck me no matter how frequently she might be fucking other young studs.Often she fixed me dinner before we had sex.
To give her new dining room table the proper baptism, Harmony had invited me for dinner three nights earlier, a week after Eric and I had fucked her. We ate baked brook trout with cucumbers and tomatoes vinaigrette, followed by the main entrée, roast leg of lamb with sautéed mushrooms and side dishes of wild rice and carrots. First, with the trout we drank pinot Gris. Then Harmony opened a bottle of California Cabernet Sauvignon, the perfect wine to serve with the rich, succulent lamb. After dessert Harmony filled the bathtub, a cream colored oval shaped basin big enough for four persons. We immersed ourselves in the water; I refilled our glasses with the Cabernet. After Harmony slid down on my cock, I picked the wine bottle up, poured what was left of the Cabernet on the roundness of her heavy breasts. The liquid splashed, dripped off her body and formed momentary red blossoms on the water before dissolving. I sucked the tart nectar from her nipples and water sloshed out of the tub as she bounced up and down on my cock.
After we fucked, Harmony, her hair wet, all the combing and brushing for naught, lay back against my chest, my soft cock cradled by the crack of her ass. The hot water lapping against the underside of her breasts, made them look bigger, bolder and redder. I stroked them, toyed with her nipples and finally gathered enough courage to ask about her son.
For a lifetime she said nothing.
Finally, she spoke. Her voice ballasted with a seriousness I had not heard before.
"Jason was killed in Iraq when a bomb exploded under his vehicle. The blast killed him and six of his Marines. He was a Second Lieutenant, a Shave Tail you guys call them. He was Third platoon leader in Lima Company of the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division leading his platoon in a town called Haditha. The town, full of waving palm trees and swirling dust, is near the Euphrates River. Not much of a place really. I imagine it smells like camel shit, sweat and spices. Jason said in one of his letters the average temperature hovered at about 120 degrees. You know, you were there."
"I remember the smell of camel shit and every other kind of shit human and animal. I remember the stink of sour milk, burning trash. None of the locals used deodorant. The Iraqis like their food pickled or fried. I remember seeing one woman pickling something in a horse trough. It smelled like rotten eggs and vinegar. I gagged, wondered if the bitch stewed an American in the slop." I said.
"My God, she wasn't doing that." Harmony said.
I shook my back and forth to show no American found his way into the horse trough. I remained mute about the fate of the woman and her young daughter. Killed by a suicide bomber two days later, they looked to be asleep, no injuries visible, murdered by the blast's shock wave.
A look of horror and revulsion roiled across her face and for the first time I saw her not as a sexpot, a receptacle for my lust but as a human being, a mother mourning her fallen son, a woman of merit stomped in the gut. In our coupling I had scratched my itch, given her something she needed. Until this moment I had no idea of her complexity, the pain, the suffering she endured. At that moment some of my own wounds started healing. Like a snake shedding its skin some of my own superficiality peeled off me and I suddenly felt tired of my hollow feeling, the shallowness of my life. All the nasty shit dammed up inside me for too long started flowing. I remembered the stink of fear, the scream of buddies dying in the heat and dust, yelling for a Mom unable to hear them, yearning for a wife now forever unreachable. I remembered our closeness and how we counted on each other. Our greatest fear was fucking up, letting your buddies down. Our greatest strength was in each other.
From bath to bed barely taking time to dry, to strip the bed of its black silk, replace them with white linen hastily ripped from their plastic cover. In making the bed Harmony bent forward, her heavy breasts beckoned me, her flaring hips inflamed me. The tip of my hard cock caught the whip of the top sheet as we raced to tuck its edges under the mattress. We slipped between these unused, virginal sheets smelling of plastic. Neither one of us wanted to merely fuck. This time, maybe the only time, we made love, sought sustenance in each other, to salve each other's wounds. We kissed tenderly. My cock entered her. I pretended no one had passed through his gate, that a membrane still curtained the portal's opening, needed to be opened as painlessly as possible. Her heat soaked into me; my warmth seeped into her. Under me she trembled. Honestly, I did too. Unlike our fucking all over the bed we remained in the center of bed this time, as though less motion and less movement signaled more intimacy. My cock moved in and out of her slowly and gently, the soft and cool belly of her forearms touched my back, her hands stroked my back with feathery movements. This was baby making love. In our gentle touching, the gentle busses on each others flesh we did not collide we conjoined. My tongue licked the satin surface on the back side of her ears, took each earlobe in my mouth and sucked the cartilage, blew on them.
In the depths of the darkness my hands dipped into her clean smelling blond hair, its soft texture flowed across my fingers felt as sensuous and sexy as any other element of Harmony's voluptuous body. In touching her hair, in stroking the rounded orbs of her breasts, slipping a finger into her interior, kissing her lips all these actions were meted out to soothe, to treat her body and being respectfully, to guide her to a safe landing.
In focusing on a sector of skin at her throat, a segment of flesh on her thigh, in showing attention to the flat plain of her abdomen, I loved and made love to every inch of her. She responded in kind. Her lovemaking was as gentle as a nurse's touch. She caressed me, her fingers floated across my flesh, rubbed me in the same gentle fashion a mother applies a Band Aid to a child's skinned knee. In her giving I got my own relief. A sense of well being, a comfortable feeling penetrated every portion of my anatomy. In riding her I galloped toward nirvana. As she sucked my cock I felt purified, at peace.
Eventually the need for sleep overcame the need for sexual satiation. Flat on my back, her head on my chest, I stroked her shoulders. We slept.
Now, several days later, after removing my fist from inside her, we quickly stripped out of what little clothes we wore. Harmony's minimal skirt fell next to the sofa, the tee shirt in the hallway. Garments selected with the sole purpose of enticement and then pushed aside or flung away when the enticement fostered the proper response. My clothes, more utilitarian and much less erotic, formed a pile in the bedroom floor. There is such eroticism in a woman's clothing and accessories dropped, flung, and tossed as a prelude to potting a prick in a pussy. One high heel upright and instantly ready for a nylon clad foot, the other shoe on its side like a sinking ship ready to roll over. A flimsy and filmy bra thrown over a lampshade, a tart's flag made radiant, sexier looking from the light's backlighting. Hosiery unclipped from a garter belt, rolled off a fetching leg, unceremoniously deposited on a bureau, most of its length dangling toward the floor. Panties, wet in the crotch, lost under the bed.
