“Awfully cocky, aren’t you?” I grin and pull her shirt up revealing the pale breasts I’ve been wanting all night. I lick one nipple, drawing my tongue up slowly over the hardened nub then drawing the whole thing into my mouth, biting, sucking. I cup the other breast in my hand, massaging it and pinching the nipple. She lets loose a sharp exhalation and forces my head closer to her chest.
Soon my shirt’s off too, and the freezing metal door presses against my back. My fly is undone and Kat’s fingers are trying to find the gap in my boxers. She gives up and pulls them down with the pants. There’s no trouble finding my clit, and I moan from all the pent-up sexual frustration being released.
Circular motions bring me close, and I know if she penetrates me I’ll come. But it’s too soon for that, and too one-sided. I yank down her pants, and now we’re both standing here in the cold with our pants down around our ankles, like four-year-old boys learning to pee. I explore, tug gently on her pubic hair, dig into her folds until our scents mingle. Without warning I push in, sticking two fingers into her cunt. She gasps and jackknifes forward, one hand balancing on the truck and the other holding my crotch. She slips a finger in, pushing all thoughts out of my mind, and the first wave of orgasm hits. It’s a literal wave, starting at her fingers and spreading to encompass the rest of my body.
She starts pumping in and out. Both of us are inside each other, doing the same things. It’s too difficult to keep a different rhythm going when my entire body is focused on the one she’s giving me. I want her to force me over the edge, take away any choice my mind has over my body feeling good. “Harder.” I hook my finger so it hits her G-spot, pulling her closer to me from the inside. “Just fucking fuck me.”
Kat smiles and pushes on my wrist, removing me from her soaking cunt. “You got it.”
Machine-gun hits leave me gasping. I try to spread my legs as far as the denim shackles allow while Kat bends down for better access. Strands of blue hair fall into her face, covering one eye. My muscles clamp down around her fingers as they pump me, but she’s going faster than I can and I’m reaching the point where my entire body spasms while I’m occupying every inch of myself, feeling the orgasmic rush expand to encompass all parts of me while still focused completely on the feeling in my cunt; it’s verging on pain from too much sensation until it is pain and pleasure and every other physical feeling wrapped into one hulking entity that somehow forces guttural sounds from my throat, into the air, letting my new lover know that I’m there. The blasts from her hand, her entire arm, slow to a gentle rocking until finally they cease completely and she draws her fingers out, letting them brush my clit and giving me a final jolt, before exiting completely.
“My knees are going to buckle.” I slide down the side of the trunk and breathe. She smiles, the pride in her skill visible.
“Follow me,” she says after I’ve had time to regain some of my composure. She kicks off her pants and walks around to the back of the truck, jerking open the bed. I try to follow, but boots don’t come off easily, and I’m still shaking and weak in the knees, so instead I trip over my jeans trying to waddle after her. She laughs.
“Fuck you. I’m sexy, and that’s just part of my charm.” The pants finally come off, shoes still on, and I jump in the back. There are blankets, making me realize the temperature has dropped while we were having fun. We get in the center of a makeshift cocoon, pressing freezing digits into each other’s exposed flesh, the cool night still chilling our faces.
My hands finally thaw enough for me to place them on her breasts. “It’s your turn now.”
“Yeah? Are you gonna seduce me?”
“Hell yes I am.” I lift her arms up over her head, pinning her wrists with one hand. She’s just small enough for me to get a good grip. Then I kiss her, tongue deep in her mouth, licking her lips on the way out.
I have to let go of her wrists to move down, but she keeps them there, letting out a soft moan as I play with her nipples. This time around I take it slow, licking all around her areolas before letting the actual nipple enter my mouth, biting a little before I lick them. I move down, keeping the casual pace, using my mouth to appreciate the contours of her body, teasing her until her hips rock back and forth, trying to thrust into my mouth. I lick the crevice between her lips and her thighs, working my way into her pubic hair, and finally lick the leaking slit.
“You want it?” I ask.
“Yes.” There’s that edge in her voice that I liked so much, this time with a hint of desperation.
“How bad?”
“Fuck you.”
I lick her slit again.
“Bad.”
I plunge in, playing with her labia, her clit, finally tongue-fucking her vagina and hitting her clit with my nose. I take in all the salty moisture until all I can taste is my own spit and her hips buck against my face, strong spasms that start slow, reach crescendo and back off with a finale of baby spasms. Her hand reaches the back of my head, and she pulls me up, kissing her taste out of my lips.
We hold each other for a while, avoiding the inevitable nude run outside the truck to collect our clothing strewn around the concrete. The afterglow makes me lazy; I’d much rather stay under the blankets, skin touching skin. Kat leans over and kisses me on the mouth. “What are you doing next week?” she asks.
I cock an eyebrow.
“We’ve got another show on Friday. A house show. In my house. Kind of more like a party with music.”
“Count me in.” I nuzzle deep into the space between her neck and her shoulder. “Next time we can try a bed.”
LIPSTICK ON HER COLLAR
Sacchi Green
The DC-7 burst from clouds over the South China Sea at an angle so steep VC rockets had no chance at a target. My breath caught and my butt clenched. At the last possible instant the plane leveled off, touched down, and came to a jolting stop.
I’d seen the same thing too often to be seriously alarmed. But I wasn’t on board. And I wasn’t Miss Maureen O’Malley from the Boston Globe, getting her first taste of the adrenaline-mill that was Vietnam in 1969. I wondered whether Miss Maureen’s panties were still dry—and how long she’d last at this war correspondent game. If she couldn’t handle the heat, the sooner she headed back to the ladies’ pages, the better.
She wasn’t hard to spot on the tarmac. Miss Boston’s dainty sandals, blue plaid skirt, and matching jacket were about what I’d expected. The fine legs beneath the short hem, however, exceeded expectations.
I wasn’t the only one looking her over, but I was a lot more discreet about it than the guys. Any overt attraction to women could have landed me, if not in the brig, at least back Stateside with a dishonorable discharge.
She showed the strain of flying halfway around the world. Sweating in the sudden, brutal heat of Tan Son Nhut airfield, lipstick blurred and tendrils of dark hair curling damply on her cheeks, she seemed absurdly young. I’d have been all encouragement with a nurse or WAC just arriving in-country, but the orders to ride herd on a journalist were really chafing my chops.
“Miss O’Malley,” I said firmly, seizing her attention, “I’m Sergeant Hodge, your driver. Let me get that bag.” I bent to the heavy suitcase. Yes, very fine legs, and naked. No panty hose. “C’mon in under cover while they unload the rest of your baggage.”
She focused on me hazily. Probably hadn’t slept for at least twenty hours. I felt just a smidge of sympathy.
“Oh…thanks…this is all there is.”
Well, that was a point in her favor. “Okay, good, but I still have to pick up a few packages.” I was about to offer to show her the rudimentary ladies’ room when she blurted, “But…I was expecting a woman driver.”
“And I was expecting Maureen O’Hara,” I said, amused. Passing for a teenaged boy often comes in handy. “Southeast Asia needs more redheads.” I shed my helmet and brushed back my russet forelock. My short hair didn’t tip her off, but my grin did the trick. She surveyed the rest of me more closely.
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Her face flushed from more than the heat. “That’s WAC insignia, isn’t it? I still have a lot to learn.”
No kidding. I silently steered her into the terminal, aiming her toward the restroom, and leaving to retrieve packages I’d promised to pick up. It wouldn’t hurt to let her stew in a bit of embarrassment for a while.
Not for long, though. She emerged looking tidy and composed, makeup freshened. As she stepped up into my jeep she caught me admiring the nice rear view, and her deliberate wriggle as she settled into the seat made me wonder with a touch of paranoia just what this reporter had come to ’Nam to cover. A juicy scandal about dyke WACs would put women in the military back decades, just when we were needed most.
Through the dust and traffic I kept my attention on the road, weaving around troop transports and the occasional heavily laden water buffalo. I could feel her assessing gaze on me.
“Miss O’Malley,” I said, when the traffic diminished, “my orders are to take you to WAC headquarters at Long Binh. The captain will sort out what happens next. Apparently you have authorization to bunk in our compound, unless you’d rather check into a hotel in Saigon. Some of those places the French built are as ritzy as anything in Paris.”
“I can’t afford a hotel,” she said frankly. “It was all I could do to get here. Three papers gave me accreditation, which just means they’ll consider printing what I write. None of them are willing to pay my way until I prove myself. Which I will!” Her face looked suddenly less cheerleader pretty—and more dangerous.
“I heard you wanted to write about the women serving over here,” I said casually.
“Just for starters. I had to use that line to get anywhere. WACs, nurses, Red Cross workers, maybe some orphanage scenes.”
“Look, Miss O’Malley,” I said sharply. “You won’t get far assuming the women here are just ‘soft’ news for the Sunday Supplement. Or the orphans, either.”
She looked startled. “Sorry, I didn’t…Well, thanks for reminding me to stay open-minded. I’ll need all the help I can get to learn the ropes. But just call me Maureen, won’t you? Should I call you Sergeant?”
“Not as long as you’re a civilian,” I said. “I’m Marjoe to just about everybody.” I darted a quick glance at her. “Pleased to meet you, Maureen.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Marjoe. And my apologies for not being Maureen O’Hara.” Her teasing smile produced an all-too-charming dimple beside her mouth.
I looked her over. “Actually, you remind me more of Miss Connie Francis. That’s just fine.”
“Wasn’t she here last year?”
“She was, and I have the autographed picture to prove it.” A little casual conversation wouldn’t hurt. “I wasn’t a big fan before that. ‘Who’s Sorry Now’ and ‘Lipstick on Your Collar’ aren’t my style—I’m more of a ‘Born to Be Wild’ and ‘Light My Fire’ kinda girl.” I gave her a wide grin. Let her make what she wanted of that. “But Connie Francis sure got my respect. She went places Bob Hope wouldn’t, hopping flights in Hueys and Chinooks to give the boys in the boonies a look at what they’re fighting for.” I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but I’d even sung along at Can Tho when Miss Francis led the crowd in “God Bless America.”
Maureen sat up straighter. Her sweat-dampened blouse showed the distinct contours of her nipples. I managed not to stare.
“That’s what I want to do! Get to see the real war, meet the guys and tell their true stories. I’m going to get out to the front, after a few weeks behind the lines learning my way around.”
We were within the outskirts of the town by then. I jerked the wheel abruptly, pulling off into an alley. Miss See-All-Tell-All would have seen plenty of mortar craters already if she’d been paying any attention.
“You want to learn something?” Anger sharpened my voice. “Get out right here for a minute.” Don’t let her get to you… keep your cool…But I wasn’t listening to myself. She was getting to me. In too many ways.
Maureen stared for a few heartbeats, then stepped down onto the dusty ground. I kept my eyes strictly away from her enticing backside this time.
I grabbed a lug wrench from the rear of the jeep. Maureen looked me right in the eye as I approached, holding her ground, hands on her nicely curved hips.
“Behind the lines?” I asked. “Lady, there are no lines. See the chicken wire on the windows of that bus going by?” She nodded, but her gaze didn’t leave my face. “That’s to deflect grenades.” I drew a groove in the dirt with the wrench halfway around her. “The only line in ’Nam is the one you pull around yourself to keep your shit together!”
She seemed to grow taller. I suddenly knew what was meant by that old cliché “flashing eyes.” How had I missed noticing how green hers were?
“Sergeant Hodge,” she said icily, “if you ever call me ‘lady’ again in that tone of voice, I’ll have those stripes off your sleeve, and the sleeve off as well!” She looked me up and down with disdain—until a hint of a smile made her dimple flicker. She dropped the briefly assumed British accent. “And quite possibly the whole shirt.”
I closed my gaping mouth, then opened it to take a deep breath. “Wal now, Miss O’Hara,” I drawled, regaining some control, “yuh shore are purty when yer angry!”
“Thank you, Mr. John Wayne,” she said primly, and relaxed into a giggle. “Just never forget, I’m no lady, I’m a journalist!”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said. Some woman! It was going to be damned hard to think of her only as a reporter, but her mental tape recorder was probably spinning right now.
Back in the jeep, I kept up a running commentary on bombings and mortar attacks by VC infiltrators, usually targeting troop transports and the bars and restaurants favored by American servicemen. Maureen reached into her shoulder bag for a notebook and did, in fact, start jotting down notes.
“Was that during the Tet offensive last January?”
So she had done some homework. Could be more to her than a pretty face, a knockout body, and a wicked sense of humor.
“It goes on all the time at some level, but yeah, that was the worst of it. I was up north at Nha Trang back then. Never seen anything like it, and hope never to again.”
“I hope you won’t. Just the same…Don’t get me wrong,” Maureen said quickly, leaning toward me so that I couldn’t help noticing her breasts pressing against her blouse, “but if a major offensive like that did come again, I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“No chance it’ll miss you.” I didn’t bother with trying to squelch her voyeuristic instincts. On some level I understood them perfectly well. “It was bad here, bad everywhere. I was handling the nurse’s motor pool, and every vehicle had to double as an ambulance, every driver as a corpsman, with or without medical training. Five straight days—never time to clean up the blood—they were handing out Benzedrine to keep us awake.” I stared ahead for a minute or two, remembering things I’d rather forget. Maureen leaned close, so absorbed that she’d even stopped taking notes.
“Some of the things I saw there,” I went on, “still keep me awake. Some of the things I had to do…” My knuckles clenched on the steering wheel, white under their tan. “And that was nothing to what the nurses went through.”
A current of empathy flowed from Maureen. A tremor in my voice, a catch in my breath, and she’ll reach out to touch me, comfort me, put that half-raised hand on my shoulder…my thigh…
I turned abruptly with a half-smile. “But yeah, if it had to happen, I wouldn’t have missed it. And later, when we had our perimeters more or less under control, there were nights when we’d take a case of cold beer up on the roof of some old French villa and watch Puff the Magic Dragon blast away at VC island outposts in Cam Ranh Bay. Or we’d see our choppers hammering the hills with rockets and tracers. Better than any fireworks you ever saw, and we’d cheer for the good guys—until it was time to go try to put the broken ones back together. Or into body bags.”
; Maureen straightened and got her pen moving. “Um, ‘Puff’?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“C-130 heavy cargo plane fitted out with heavy-duty artillery. Don’t know who came up with the name, but it sure works up a storm of fire and smoke.”
“Okay. Puff. Good one. I won’t ask whether beer was all you had up there on the roof.”
“If you can’t manage a laugh once in a while, one way or another, you get so brittle you crack,” I said. “It’s all about survival.” Maureen nodded. I had the feeling again that she might reach out and touch me—and I knew for certain that my body’s reaction would be far from anything resembling comfort. Disappointment battled with relief as I pulled into the WAC compound.
Our guard dog jumped up into the back as soon as I slowed. “Here’s another fine dragon,” I told Maureen, and ruffled his ears. “This is Spike.”
“I see that this one’s armed with heavy-duty teeth,” she said, extending a fearless palm to be sniffed. Spike, putty in female hands, leaned his big ugly head on her arm, nudged against her breast, and sighed.
I nearly sighed too. It was no use pretending that she didn’t set off a fizz under my fatigues. Good thing the ride was over, and Miss Maureen O’Malley/O’Hara would be somebody else’s responsibility. My only hope of resisting temptation was to assign another driver from the motor pool to show her around if we were stuck with her for long.
The few girls off duty clustered around the jeep, either to get a look at the newcomer or to collect the packages I’d picked up for them. Lila Tunney cradled her shipment from Tokyo with care. “I’d be happy to share some of this makeup with you, Marjoe,” she said slyly. “One of these days the captain might start enforcing regulations and make even you wear lipstick.”
“Not so long as she needs her wheels kept in running condition.” This was no time for Lila’s teasing. After brief introductions I herded Maureen toward the admin building, resisting the urge to put a more-than-friendly arm around her.
What was the deal with this sudden, dangerous attraction? Yeah, sure, the stresses of wartime and all that. But I’d managed so far to keep a purely sisterly attitude—well, mostly pure—toward the women I worked with. Was it because Maureen wasn’t “family” that my subconscious was allowing lust to break on through?
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