Once Upon a Time in Florida

All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.

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Part 1

Chapter 1: Elise Meets Her Crush

As she wrapped up her work at the end of the day, Elise Coogler noticed a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look out her plate glass window and saw a young man standing shirtless at the set of pull-up bars on a concrete pad on the other side of her window.

He shook his arms and hands and hopped up and down as if hyping himself up. He was deeply tanned, lean, every muscle sharply defined. His shoulders were inhumanly broad.

His short tousled hair was coal black. He was tall, maybe six three, and breathtakingly handsome. His chiseled features were something she'd expect to see in a fashion magazine, not on someone standing shirtless right outside her window, unaware she was watching his every move in fascinated admiration.

She saw him hop up, grip the bar with hands wide, palms outward and pull himself up effortlessly until his chin broke the plane of the bar, lean muscles rippling. Over and over again, he glided up and down. She found herself counting and was amazed when he was still going strong after 20.

She walked backwards, refusing to take her eyes away from the beautiful youth and edged to the common office area. Glancing aside, she saw her six employees crowded against the window, admiring the man's rippling muscles.

Out of her employees, women ranging from 28 to 42, all married or dating, she was the only unattached one. She'd gotten divorced ten years before.

Her husband left her for a younger woman, who in turn left him for a younger man. They later reconnected and became friends. They had four children, 12 grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. Her oldest daughter was 50, her oldest grandson was 32 and her oldest great-grandson was 14.

The young man outside her window couldn't possibly be older than 25.

The seven women stared fascinated out the window, the world around them forgotten. It was near the end of the day and the phones still rang. They ignored them, or maybe they didn't hear them.

Elise snapped out of it, realizing her nose was nearly pressed against the glass.

Shaking her head, she turned to her employees, noted they were as mesmerized by the young man as she's been and clapped her hands loudly.

"Alright, girls, time to snap out of it," she said loudly. "Let's get back to work so we can close up shop."

They jumped, looked around at each other, laughed nervously and then fanned themselves dramatically. Chattering excitedly, they went back to work, answering phone calls and closing out work they'd pick up again the next day. Occasionally, one would glance longingly out the window at the young man now doing pushups, his muscled body shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

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His name was Corporal Javier Hierro and he was 19. His friends back home called him Javi. He joined the Marine Corps the day he turned 17 and shipped off to boot camp a week later. He enlisted open contract, meaning the job he was assigned was up to the "needs of the Corps," and would be anything from cook to motor transport operator to infantryman.

In its infinite wisdom, the Corps chose him for the infantry.

He didn't care. He just wanted to be a Marine. It's all he'd ever wanted ever since he could remember, ever since he met a Marine at the mall in his dress blues. The man looked tough and larger than life. He was so set on this goal that his mother took to calling him her "soldadito," her little soldier.

After graduating boot camp in southern California, he went to the School of Infantry (SOI) about 50 miles north in Camp Pendleton, where he was designated as an Infantry Machine Gunner. After finishing THAT school, he was assigned to 1/5 (1st Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment).

The Corps usually picked bigger and stronger Marines to haul around the 27-pound M240B machinegun. He was slender and tall, but immensely strong, probably stronger than everyone in his battalion. It was a no brainer he was a machine gunner. His buddies gave him the nickname "Ironman" because of his last name, "iron" in Spanish, and because he always played the hero.

A few months after checking into the unit, at the tail end of the workups every unit went through before deploying, he deployed to Iraq for six months where he went from being a scared, wide-eyed boot to a salty combat veteran.

One year and another combat deployment later, he decided being a machine gunner wasn't for him and went through the process to change his job specialty. He spent several sessions with the career planner and finally decided on a career with potential for advancement, a job that allowed him to experience more of the Marine Corps than just the infantry.

A few months later he was at his new school, where he graduated at the top of the class, earning a meritorious promotion to corporal in the process. He'd been an honor graduate after recruit training and SOI and been meritoriously promoted after each class as well.

He'd hoped for orders to the Fleet Marine Force and was disappointed when he got orders to support South Florida recruiting instead. It was a "hot fill" and he had no choice, "needs of the Corps" and all that.

As long as he was there, he'd make the best of it.

He really couldn't complain, the weather was great year around and the place was full of hot women. Not that he'd had much luck with them. He could be on a tiny island alone with hundreds of them and he'd still be alone.

He shared an apartment with another Marine and developed a routine. He'd PT (physical training) at the end of the workday, Monday through Friday, and meet up with a friend he'd made at his apartment complex to play volleyball in the complex' sand court. On the weekends, he and his friend Winston, he liked to go by Win, spent the day at the beach playing beach volleyball with the other sand crabs.

He and Win became quite good and pretty soon were giving professional players a run for their money.

Javi was born in Mexico. His dad had gotten work in San Antonio on a work visa and was eventually granted a permanent resident card. He later got green cards for his wife and three sons and moved them to Texas.

Javi didn't want to go. He liked his friends and his school and didn't want to leave, but he had no choice.

He was taciturn and angry and wouldn't talk to his classmates or teachers. Eventually, being a lone wolf became habitual. He did the bare minimum and just went through the motions. Somehow believing, in a childish way, that his parents would eventually notice his rebellion and go back to Mexico, for years he was defiant and stubborn, even refusing to learn English.

His attitude made him a loner at school. He was only outgoing at home with his younger brothers, they were his only friends. Eventually, he became friends with their friends and so his horizons expanded somewhat. However, his previous loner attitude left him shy around other people, especially girls. He had no idea how to talk to them and was too proud to ask anyone for help or advice. It also didn't help that he was small and skinny.

In his first year of high school, he decided it was time to turn things around. He applied himself in class and pretty soon excelled in English and most other subjects.

He was an awkward teenager and for some reason went through puberty late. It was a difficult time for an already shy and awkward teenager. His late development only led him be even shyer than he'd been before.

In his sophomore year, he shot up like a weed, growing so much and so fast that the skin on his hips and sides had faint stretch marks. He made the soccer and wrestling teams that year and made friends with other boys, but he still couldn't talk to girls.

His mother's side of the family had quite a bit of Spanish blood which was why he was so tall and his skin was so pale. He didn't look Mexican and liked seeing people's reactions when he told them where he'd been born.

He graduated a year early so he could join the Marines. Maybe that would change his stripes.

And now he was in sunny South Florida.

He'd checked into the unit the day before, on Monday, and now stood shirtless at the pull-up bars on a concrete pad between his building and the next. The offices were white single story buildings with mirrored plate glass windows from the ground to around seven feet and then white building above. Concrete walkways lined with thick grass, palm trees and small bushes threaded between the dozen or so office buildings on the lot.

The RS (Recruiting Station) was on the lot's northeast corner, facing the main road.

He shook his arms and hands, limbering them up for the hard work-out he was about to put them through.

He hopped up, grasped the bar in a wide grip and pulled himself up until his chin crossed the bar then glided down, never letting up the pressure, keeping his body rod straight and his legs crossed at the ankles.

He wondered at the windows reflecting his image all around and had a strange feeling deep down in his gut he was being watched.

Whatever... let them get an eyeball-full, the sergeant major said he could PT whenever he chose as long as he got his work done. He preferred to work out at the end of the day, but it was so hot and humid that the first thing he did was strip off his t-shirt.

He spent another 45 minutes on different types of calisthenics and then went for a 30 minute run, pushing himself to surpass a six-minute mile. He finished at the pull-up bars, covered in dead gnats and so drenched in sweat he looked as if he'd just stepped out of a swimming pool.

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Elise and her girls made a habit of finishing up early each day so they could crowd around the window and watch the young Adonis work out. Their significant others should probably thank the young man. Every single one of them, except for Elise, pounced on their man when they got home and sexually mauled him, picturing the muscular youth the entire time.

Elise, however, had no man waiting for her. She went home to a big empty house.

On an evening when she felt particularly depressed, Elise decided to go to the nearby Publix grocery store and pick up a few things, specifically, ice cream and cookies... which of course would immediately go straight to her hips and belly.

It was late spring, cool but not cold, and she absentmindedly didn't pay attention to what she wore.

Elise looked much like the stereotypical grandmother... except for her enormous breasts. She was plump, short, with a large butt and wide round hips, shapely but matronly. Her hair was snowy white, shot through with strands of gold and fell to her shoulders. She wore it in an old fashioned '50s style, pinned-up curled.

Regardless of her age or grandmotherly appearance, she had no problem attracting men's attention. Her mammoth breasts drew the eye unerringly. They were massive, full, saggy and absolutely striking.

She normally wore baggy clothes to downplay their size, the attention they drew made her self-conscious and wasn't welcome. At work, she wore business suits under an oversized jacket that covered her mammoth breasts. She didn't realize it but those jackets made it look as if she had a large belly rather than large breasts. Even if she'd known, she would've preferred it, embarrassing as it was.

Her chest drew the wrong eyes the night she went to the grocery store. She didn't realize she wore only the thin t-shirt she normally wore to bed. She wore a bra which raised and shaped her breasts, but did nothing to downplay their size and fullness, if anything, it enhanced those attributes.

She stood in the only open check-out line behind three men in their early twenties who leered at her and whispered at each other loudly.

"Goddamn! Look at those things," said the tallest one. "Just one of them's gotta be the size of my head."

The others nodded, their mouths gaping open.

"Ya. Maybe we should help her take her stuff to her car," loudly whispered another.

Elise stood mortified, crossing her arms over her chest and looking around for an escape route.

The cashier looked at her sympathetically.

"You guys need to leave the lady alone or I'm going to call the cops," the girl said.

The taller one spun around and pointed a threatening finger at her.

"You fuckin' keep your mouth shut or we'll wait for you out in the parking lot when your shift is done," he hissed.

There was a ruckus in the line behind her and then Elise felt somebody brush past her. She caught a whiff of a man's musky scent mixed with honey and antiperspirant.

A young man stepped between her and the three thugs. He wore a tan collared shirt with razor sharp creases, tucked in and fitted, with two dark green chevrons with crossed rifles beneath them on each short sleeve, blue trousers with a red stripes on the outside of the legs, gleaming black patent leather shoes on his feet, four rows of colorful ribbons over his left breast pocket, and a black name tag centered over his right. His shoulders were inhumanly broad.

She'd recognize those shoulders and that stance anywhere.

"Let's see you threaten me that way, little girl," the Marine said. His deep voice rumbled menacingly.

He set his basket and his stiff white hat on the conveyor belt and stood calmly, his feet shoulder-width apart, one slightly ahead of the other, and his hands open and relaxed at his sides. He appeared completely at ease.

"Back off, soldier boy, or you'll get your fuckin' ass kicked," said the tallest thug, not quite as confidently as he'd been when threatening the cashier. "Feel me?"

Elise couldn't see the Marine's expression but she heard him clear as day.

"Who's going to do that? You think you and your two little girlfriends there can take me?" he asked, gesturing disdainfully at his two slack-jawed companions.

He had an accent she couldn't quite place. She'd heard Cuban, Puerto Rican and Columbian accents many times and, though his accent was similar, it wasn't any of them.

Elise couldn't see it but he was smiling, a wild feral smile full of white teeth, eagerness and malice.

"If you threaten anyone again, I'll fuckin' break you in half. Feel me?" he said the last two words contemptuously, sarcastically.

He stood staring menacingly at them and the seconds dragged on.

There was something in his eyes and in his posture, a confidence and menace that scared the three thugs and eventually sent them scampering from the store with their tails between their legs, purchases forgotten.

Not a single person there knew the top left ribbon on his chest was a bronze star, awarded for killing four insurgents in hand to hand combat with only a K-Bar and his enormous strength help him.

His squad was ambushed in Fallujah and with two of his friends bleeding and groaning in agony at his feet, he'd stepped forward, aimed his machinegun and squeezed the trigger... it jammed. Four men stood at the bottom of a set of stairs holding AK-47s, popping out magazines and slamming in fresh ones when he threw his heavy weapon at them, snatched his K-Bar from its sheath on his flak jacket and leaped in among them like a rampaging leopard.

Time seemed to slow down and he wondered offhandedly why the robed men moved so slowly.

As he dove into their midst, he'd expected the hammering sound of their AKs to go off and the agonizing red-hot pain of bullets ripping through him, but they hadn't been fast enough. Instead he'd ripped his fighting knife through their bodies, stabbing and slashing, kicking and punching while the butts of their rifles bounced off his Kevlar helmet and the SAPI plate inserts in his body armor painlessly.

He'd stabbed and slashed, punched and kicked them until they lay in bloody ruin at his feet and he stood over them shaking, his desert MARPAT uniform drenched in gore and his boots slipping in their entrails.

For the rest of his days, he'd remember the terror on those men's faces, the acrid smell of their sweat, their fear and their spilled entrails, their yells of panic and terror, their pleading cries for mercy in a harsh language he didn't understand.

He'd brought his trembling blood-smeared fighting knife to his eyes and looked at it closely, noting bits of skin, hair and viscera on its sides and edge. His head ached, his heart beat like a hammer in his chest and his mouth felt dry and sandy.

His platoon leader suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, paused for several heartbeats to study the scene below, and led the rest of the platoon, carrying their two moaning wounded companions down the stairs to an empty room where the corpsman tended to them.

Everyone in the platoon tapped his helmet as he passed, muttering "Fuckin' Ironman," in admiration and gratitude. One of his buddies handed him his M240 machinegun. Javi cleared the jam, wiped blood off the weapon and joined the platoon. One of his wounded friends eventually died and the other had to be medevac'd to the nearest aid station.

After getting the story from him, his lieutenant recommended him for a Silver Star medal for his actions, but as was the Marine Corps' wont, it was knocked down to a Bronze Star with a combat V.

The same adrenaline he'd experienced the day he'd killed the four insurgents coursed through his veins at that moment and though he didn't show it, his body was coiled for action. Had any of the three thugs made even the slightest move against him or anyone, he would have exploded in a whirlwind of violence.

When they ran out the store, Elise saw the wide shoulders drop down the barest bit. There had been a little tension in his body after all. He stood looking after them, smiled at the cashier, who looked back at him wide-eyed, picked up his basket and, winking at Elise and glancing down briefly at her breasts, walked back to his place in line. MEN.

Elise paid for her items and walked out, upset and embarrassed. It had all happened because she forgot to camouflage her big saggy tits with the baggy cardigan sweater she kept by her front door for just such a thing.

The store was quiet. Nobody spoke as they checked out, but every customer who'd seen the exchange stayed behind, their eyes on the young man in uniform who nervously endured their stares.

When the automatic doors closed behind him, the place exploded into conversation.

Javi took a step then stopped and looked around. The grocery store had two commonly-used parking areas one in front and one on the side. When he didn't see the grandmotherly lady with the enormous artillery shell-sized boobs putting her items in her trunk, he knew she was parked on the side lot.

He walked quickly and rounding the corner of the building, saw her immediately. Her car was parked third from the end on the second lane. She stood behind the open trunk and was surrounded by the three men.

He cautiously set his 12-pack of Dr. Pepper and two bags of Doritos on the ground, taking off his stiff white garrison cover and putting it carefully on top of them. Silent as a shadow, he crouched low and sneaked towards them until only a car stood between him and his targets.

He heard them clearly.

"C'mon grandma, show us your tits," said the tallest and the obvious leader of the bunch. "One look and we'll leave you alone, we promise."

A thug pulled one of the old woman's arms away from her chest and made to grab her shirt to pull it up, while another did the same on her other side and then the three men were bowled over by a human cyclone.

They never saw him coming.

When Javi saw them put their hands on the old lady, a red mist clouded his eyes and he launched himself at them.

Just as on that hot sweaty day in far off Fallujah, he dove into them, pulling their hands off the white-haired old lady, and sending them sprawling on the pavement while he landed catlike on his feet.