Ms. Charming http://fiverr.com/hrhthepublisher 12m 3,026
The views of this article are the perspective of the author and may not be reflective of Confessions of the Professions.
This confession has been rated for a mature audience only and may contain sexual references or be classified as erotic literature. WARNING: You continue reading at your own discretion.
All names within this story have been changed to protect the innocent. Well, I wouldn’t exactly say innocent (wink, wink).
Being assigned to an Air Force base in Okinawa, Japan was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I was young, single, childless, and gainfully employed. My comrades and I worked hard and played harder. Monday through Friday, I was a full-time warrior committed to protecting my country. But on the weekends, the uniform came off, often replaced with something tight and sexy. Despite my party attitude, I was always a professional when it came to doing my job.
As a Public Health Specialist, I had to take my duties seriously. You wouldn’t want a base full of troops all coming down with food poisoning because the public health inspector missed an important food safety violation. And you didn’t want a bunch of horny Airmen, uneducated in safe sex, running around infecting the free world with sexually transmitted diseases. Knowing how to prevent these incidents—disasters that could affect the Air Force’s ability to respond to war—was part of my responsibility. But, some disasters couldn’t be prevented.
Most people aren’t familiar with typhoons, yet they happen all throughout the Pacific each year. Basically, they’re hurricanes. They have the same destructive winds and rain, and can take out a small island like Okinawa if the conditions are right. Fortunately, that never happened while I lived there. In fact, a forecasted typhoon was actually a good thing. It meant everyone would have extra time off work. People who lived in houses or apartments invited friends over for cookouts. I was a dorm rat like all the other single troops. We headed to the store to buy alcohol and snacks for our dorm parties. Okay, maybe we got some bottled water, too. You do have to hydrate when you drink, right?
These tropical storms were predicted well in advance so that everyone on the island could plan accordingly. But on one particular occasion, things developed a lot quicker than forecasted. That was the typhoon I spent stranded with my favorite Soldier, Sergeant First Class (SFC) Terry Smith.
SFC Smith, or Smitty, was an E-7 in the Army. He was attached to Camp Kinser, the Marine base that received and stored all the military food for the entire island. He and I had similar career fields. But, his role was much broader than mine. Smitty and his co-workers inspected every single military food shipment that came to Okinawa. They made sure everything was maintained in the proper temperature controlled area until it was due to go to a base.
I’d been to Kinser once for a meet and greet. So, I was surprised when my more experienced supervisor told me to go there to help salvage inventory instead of going himself. There was a power outage from the storm, placing the food supply in danger. The backup generators had kicked in, but they wouldn’t last through the typhoon. My boss insisted that I go and help as a joint military effort. Of course, I knew he just wanted something important to add to his performance report for promotion time. Plus, he felt like his time was more important than mine because he was married with kids. I probably could have gotten out of going, but I guess I wanted that same recognition for when it came time for my promotion as well.
On a blistery, rainy day, I headed over to Camp Kinser for what ultimately became the best sexual experience of my life.
Smitty greeted me at the main entrance of the warehouse. He was a tall, very attractive White dude whose muscular frame was clearly visible through his uniform. His dress and appearance was immaculate with a clean cut finish. Anyone who saw Terry would have taken him for a typical suburban kid who wanted to prove himself by joining the Army. That is, until they heard him talk. Smitty had a southern drawl peppered with slang from the more urban areas of Houston, TX. It was an accent that probably fooled many people on the phone. In fact, he was very candid in admitting that just about everyone thought he was Black until they saw him in person.
I followed SFC Smith to the areas where they were going through food. Some stuff had already been set aside for disposal because there was no way it would be safe to eat by the time the typhoon was over. There was an electrical crew working hard to bring the power back on, but it wasn’t looking good considering a typhoon was almost at the coastline. If the problem couldn’t be fixed from indoors, everyone on base would soon be shit out of luck. Some residents probably had flashlights, candles, and batteries stashed specifically for the tropical storm season. But then there were always the knuckleheads who didn’t prepare, and found themselves sitting in the dark looking silly. I had food, liquor, and an emergency kit waiting for me back in my dorm room. The sooner I could get done with the salvage, the better. I didn’t want to miss any of the festivities.
I put on a heavy, hooded parka, and entered a huge refrigerated room full of perishable items in danger of spoiling. The other Soldiers were already hard at work. Private First Class (PFC) Dawson was the only female in the group. She gave me a friendly wave while the guys yelled what’s up, and made their usual jokes about the Air Force.
Smitty had assigned us each an area to cover. We were separated, but that didn’t stop us from socializing. The topics of conversation were mostly about sex, drinking, and sports with men outnumbering the ladies in the group. The guys shouted loudly at each other in the warehouse-sized refrigerator. PFC Dawson and I laughed, or made smart assed comments. While we worked, Smitty made an effort to constantly engage me in conversation. He made little jokes every time he found me in my area. Or, he made an excuse to playfully touch me.
“Girl, you not working,” he teased. “Air Force people don’t work. What do you do? Sit on a computer all day playing solitaire or checking e-mail?” I giggled like a school girl, swatting gently at Smitty like the smitten Airman that I was.
In a place like Okinawa, where the male to female ratio was about 25:1, it wasn’t difficult for ugly girls to have nice looking dudes chasing after them. These were the Island Princesses—a term for chicks who were 3’s or 4’s back stateside. On Oki, they were 9’s and 10’s. I was definitely a strong 8 before I moved to Japan, which made me more of an Island Goddess. Being a Black, attractive woman added even more value to my stock. But despite all this, I didn’t think I was pretty enough for a guy like Smitty. I just assumed he was being nice when he came over to talk to me. It never occurred to me that he was flirting.
The hours flew by with all the fun we were having. I had almost forgotten about the typhoon until Smitty announced that Kadena Air Base had shut down all entrances. I was pissed. No one from my office had even bothered to contact me. The storm was washing ashore much faster than expected. Everyone was caught off guard. Later, I found out that my supervisor had completely forgotten that I was off base. But, I was comforted by the fact that our department commander tore his ass a new one for endangering the welfare of a troop.
I could tell that Smitty was upset. He would have sent me back to my base sooner if he’d known the storm pattern had changed. It seemed like we were all forgotten despite the fact that our job at that moment determined how much food would be available to military residents over the next week. Being the southern gentleman that he was, Terry offered to let me stay at his place. We had 15 minutes to leave. Camp Kinser was technically closed, too. But, a buddy of SFC Smith was keeping a gate open for all of us to escape through. My only other option was to stay in a hotel room on base. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in a room by myself during a typhoon. So, I took Smitty up on his offer. Everyone dropped what they were doing, and got the hell off base as quickly as possible.
SFC Smith’s apartment was only 5 minutes away, but it took us about 35 minutes to get there with the torrential downpour. Visibility was almost zero. Smitty actually passed the side street that led to his place. It took an extra 10 minutes just to back track, and turn in the right direction. Finally, we arrived at his home.
I was never so happy to be indoors in my life. My rain gear, uniform, and underwear were completely soaked through. Smitty offered me an oversized t-shirt and basketball shorts that cinched at the waist. It was the only thing he had that was remotely close to fitting my smaller frame. I was very thankful for the extra cushion the Lord had blessed me with. It helped keep the shorts from sliding down.
My hair was a wet mess. I took down the uniform regulation bun, and blew it dry. Without curlers, there was no way to style it other than in a ponytail. Here I was in the apartment of one of the finest guys on the island looking like a tom boy. After a few minutes, I realized I’d much rather be in this outfit than wrapped in one of those scratchy white towels they stocked in base hotel rooms. That would’ve been the only thing I had to cover my nakedness.
Smitty told me to get comfortable. He was very hospitable, doing everything he could to make me feel at home. Before I knew it, I had a blanket, pillows, socks, and a large glass filled with Crown Royal and Coke. Nothing good was on the Armed Forces Network. So, I went through his movie collection while he got food ready for the grill. Smitty was going to make BBQ chicken and hamburgers when the eye of the storm passed over. I asked about side dishes. He explained that we were just having meat and bread.
There was supposed to have been a potluck shindig at Terry’s crib with a bunch of his friends. But, they’d made last-minute plans to go over someone else’s house when he couldn’t get out of work. I felt bad that he got ditched, and offered to make something out of whatever was in the pantry. I was, after all, a Southern Belle with top-notch culinary skills thanks to my grandma. There was boxed mac and cheese and canned pork and beans. Plus, he had lettuce, onion, and tomato for the burgers. It looked like we’d have a good meal despite the circumstances.
As we prepared food in the kitchen, the two of us got to know each other better. He told me that I could call him Terry. And, I said it was okay if he called me Lola instead of Airmen First Class (A1C) Jackson. We talked about our lives growing up in the South. We were both from single parent homes. And, we were both college educated. The military had just given us a chance to travel, and do something more exciting than having a regular civilian job.
Smitty put on music by Houston rap artists we liked in common. He turned out to be a big fan of 8 Ball and MJG, a rap duo from Memphis. Eventually, the conversation steered towards my love life.
“So, Lola, where your man at,” he asked while I waited for a pot of water to boil.
“I don’t have one of those,” I answered.
“Quit lying. I’ve seen you at the Hook and Jab with all them cats following you around. You can’t tell me you don’t have a man.”
I stammered, “When have you seen me at the club?” I was sure Terry was making this up. And when I thought about it, I was sure he was lying. The enlisted club I went to at Camp Foster was only for E-4 military members and below. As an E-7, he would have to go to the Senior Non-commissioned Officer (NCO) Club. What he said next made my jaw drop.
“Alright, how about I saw you a couple of weeks ago wearing a denim cat suit, or whatever it was, looking good. Every dude in there was breaking his neck trying to get at you. What you got to say about that, Lola?” I loved the way he pronounced my name. It was the same way dudes said my name back home. But, I couldn’t let that distract me from finding out how this man knew what I wore a couple of weeks ago.
“Ummm, how do you know that,” I asked. “And, how were you even in the Globe and Anchor. It’s for junior enlisted only.” Terry laughed at me. He could tell that he’d gotten me stumped.
“I work there on the weekends. I’m usually in the Spanish music room—.”
“Oh, I see. You like them Hispanic chicks, huh?”
“No, it’s not even like that. I don’t like having to deal with all them crazy motherfuckers who be up front where they play the hip hop music. But, sometimes I walk through just to see what’s going on. So yeah, I’ve seen you a couple times in the club hanging with your girls even though you didn’t see me.” It is an unsettling feeling to know I’ve been watched by someone I didn’t even realize was in the same vicinity. And when I thought about some of my dance moves, I became embarrassed. Terry read my mind.
“Girl, don’t be ashamed. I only saw you for about a minute, long enough to check you out. You weren’t doing nothing wrong. I have to admit I was a little jealous, so I didn’t stick around long enough to see them lame dudes try to holler at you. But shit, everybody knows who Lola is.” Terry stared at me with this expression on his face, a combination of mischief and desire, for what seemed like forever. Then, he went back to seasoning the meat. I felt flustered. He’d put the bait on the hook. Now, it was up to me to figure out that I was the catch.
The silence that followed was awkward. We prepped the food quietly, only talking when we needed to move around the tiny Japanese kitchen without bumping into each other. I finished the pasta and beans, and went into the living room. A few minutes later, Terry followed.
“Hey girl,” he said as he sat next to me on the sofa. “Look, don’t start acting funny. I wasn’t trying to say you got a bad reputation, like you a ho or something. You and your clique, y’all just hang out with a lot of people I know. That’s all.” After Smitty cleared that up, I felt much better. I ditched the wounded act, and started being sociable again.
We settled on two movies to watch to pass the time. Terry accused me of hogging the blanket, so I arranged the cover so that the two of us shared it equally. He put his arm around me, and I snuggled close to his chest. We made a cute couple sitting on the couch together. But, I kept telling myself that he was just being a nice host. There was no need to get my hopes up about a possible connection.
The end credits of the second movie rolled past, and the eye of the storm was nowhere in sight. I volunteered to get up and find more video tapes to watch. As I stood up, Terry grabbed me and pulled me down onto his lap. He began tickling me. I’m probably the most ticklish person in the world. It’s torture to me. I lost all composure, and tried to wiggle away from his dangerous hands. I begged and pleaded with him to let me go. But, Smitty wouldn’t stop.
Gradually, the tickling slowed down. I was in the process of getting myself together when I felt Smith’s dick getting hard. He wrapped his hands around my waist, and began kissing my neck. There was absolutely no part of me that wanted this man to stop. I let him reach under my shirt, and squeeze my breasts. I found his mouth, and pressed my lips firmly against his. We explored each other’s mouths with greedy tongues. I couldn’t believe that this was actually happening. In my imagination, I gave Mother Nature a high five getting me stranded.
Terry stood up with me in his arms. He carried me as if I weighed nothing. I wrapped an arm around his neck, and rested my head on his shoulder. Once we got in his bedroom, the real typhoon fun began.
Make sure you read Typhoon Fun: Part 2. Lola gets much more than she bargained for when Terry shows her how a Soldier gets it done. And by it, I mean sex. If you enjoyed this personal account of my erotic military adventures, check out my gig on Fiverr.com. I will write a personal erotic story just for you. Satisfaction guaranteed. Happy ending is all up to you (wink, wink).