9 comments/ 60883 views/ 9 favorites Tara of Vietnam By: RAMJET69 "Oh my god, we're gonna crash!" a woman shrieks. White knuckled passengers tense as the plane's cabin pitches upward then noses down like a diving roller coaster. The woman's screams sound like Faye Ray in King Kong. I've flown a lot but this ancient airliner is rattling like it's held together by loose bolts. A Vietnamese flight steward stumbles down the aisle keeping his balance by clutching at seatbacks. Reaching the hysterical woman's seat, he starts barking at her like an angry pit-bull. There is a dull whack - the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh. My temper grinds into gear. The fuckin' bastard actually backhanded her right across the jaw. Should Jim Becker interfere? Hell no. I ain't that crazy. The air smoothes out as clouds melt away. My ballpoint clicks over the woman's sobs and the roar of the worn-out Russian jetliner's engines. Under "Passenger Comments" on the ticket envelope, I write "Cabin crew needs to work on their people skills." I stare out the window at the jungle below. My father flew those Indochina skies during the Vietnam War. I've been invited to Hanoi to bring Lieutenant Clifford Becker home, or what's left of him anyway. A blast of hot and sticky air immediately hits as I step through the plane's doorway. Five armed military militia escort the passengers into a dilapidated terminal building. Inside, sour-faced immigration and customs officials scrutinize each foreigner as if we're dangerous felons entering a third-world penitentiary. Two hours later, I pick up my suitcase, and step through the swinging doorway into the sizzling Vietnamese atmosphere. Motor scooters, car horns and smoke-belching busses infest the street outside the terminal. Although the war has been over for more than twenty years, one can't slough off the not-so-subtle side-glances. The message in their Vietnamese eyes is clear: Mistrust of the American Imperialist is still alive and well. Okay where is Minh Von Dong? "Excuse me sir?" a soft feminine voice says in English. "Might you be Mr. James Becker?" Her beauty is staggering - disassembling. My disoriented wits quickly reassemble themselves. "Yes Miss. I am James Becker." Luscious lips smile as she extends her hand. "Welcome to Hanoi Mr. Becker. My name is Tara Fon-Dong. Father asked me to meet you." "Oh yes." Her handshake feels warm and firm. "How do you do Tara? It's very nice to meet you." "Nice to meet you too." She winks, "Oh, and no one's complained yet." Behind her, a husky uniformed Vietnamese bulldozes his way through the crowd yelling in unintelligible words. Tara's face goes tight as piano wire. She spins around, snapping at him in Vietnamese, seemingly undaunted by his uniform or that ominous revolver strapped to his hip. I'm at a loss as to the shouting match's meaning but cordial pleasantries it isn't. The verbal slugfest is over in a few seconds. The angry man withdraws, staring at us, pacing like a panther in a cage. Tara's quick eyes dart from side to side. "Hurry Mr. Becker," she says motioning frantically. "We must go before he has second thoughts." Trotting across the roadway to the parking lot, we climb into a battered canvas-covered Toyota Land Cruiser. Tara swings into the driver's seat and cranks the vehicle's engine. "If that guy is your boyfriend or something, I'll be happy to catch a bus or a taxi." "Just the stupid fuzz," she says waiving off concern. "Forget him." "Cops with guns I don't forget. He was yelling like you were breaking some law." "To him, you are breaking the law." "Me? I just got here." "You see, for an American gentleman to speak to, or be seen with a Vietnam lady is quite forbidden." I gulp. "Forbidden? Well, some days I'm the dog and some days I'm the hydrant." She laughs. Her delicate hand shifts the Toyota's transmission into gear. "He calls it -- ethnic pollution. Seems he forgot that it's the twenty-first century. So I had to remind him." "I can imagine how you did that." She glances over her shoulder. Her smile fades to a frown. "Shit," she mumbles, lips twitching. "Looks like that cop had second thoughts." I twist in the seat. Coming across the parking lot is a white pickup with a revolving red light on its roof. "What does he want now?" "Hang on Mr. Becker." I grab for the dashboard as Tara's booted foot shoves the accelerator to the floorboard. Tires spin as we peal away in a spray of flying gravel. A siren wails. I roll my eyes. Less than an hour in Marxist vacationland and I'm already doing sixty in a parking lot with a crazy woman at the wheel with the cops in hot pursuit. Tires scream for mercy as the Toyota roars into traffic. With me clutching the seat for dear life, Tara rockets through Hanoi at mach-two. Weaving through this chaotic mishmash of motor scooters, bicyclists and rickshaws all going at warp-speed says there're only two types of drivers in Hanoi -- the quick and the dead. "Looks like you lost him," I say as we screech around a corner. "Pay him a penny for his intelligence, you'd get change back," she says with a devilish grin. Tara's feisty self-confidence is as attractive as her physical splendor. Minh Von Dong had mentioned a daughter in his letters. But this daredevil on wheels hardly fits the demure Vietnamese gal I'd imagined. She looks a few years younger than I am, maybe 21 or 22. Quit slobbering Becker. She's forbidden fruit. Besides, that cop's pissed as hell. Good chance he's broadcasting an all-points-bulletin with orders to gun down the American on sight. Well, deep shit being what it is, may as well enjoy the view. Beneath Tara's pointed straw hat, lustrous skin covers her animated, high cheek boned face. Big deep-chocolate eyes sparkle like diamonds when she smiles. And those jeans - those incredible jeans. Watching Tara move in them is like is like getting subtle whiffs of pornography. It's impossible not to keep an eye on the sunlight splashing across her filmy lavender blouse and wonder . . . is she or isn't she? Not wanting to be too obvious, I turn away and stare at a passing billboard. Is it a Communist slogan warning foreigners not to touch? Brakes grab pitching me forward. We swerve off the road and skid to a stop behind a thicket of trees. Tara shifts the transmission into neutral and her burnished black boot ratchets the foot brake. "You okay Mr. Becker?" "I'm great. But I think my stomach's about five miles back." "It'll catch up. Reach under your seat. Grab that screwdriver and license plates. Bring them." "Isn't switching license plates illegal?" I ask as she's tightening a screw. She considers that for a second, then shrugs, "Sure it is. But it's better than sitting under hot lights and being interrogated all night by crooked cops." "I see your point," I say following her purposeful strides toward the front of the Toyota. "Now that we're turning to a life of crime, you may as well call me Jim." "Okay Jim." Knees bend and jeans strain against her ass as she squats down to attack a rusty bolt. "Father said you work for American Army Intelligence, right?" "Army Intelligence? Now that's a contradiction. How long before we get to Loc Chao?" "Perhaps by nightfall, if that cop hasn't alerted the army patrols." I wince. "Perhaps and army patrols don't sound encouraging." "We'll be fine." She flings the license plates into the bushes and swings into the driver's seat. "Hop aboard. Let's go." As she swings the Toyota onto the roadway, I try to forget the danger and concentrate on that cooperative slant of sunlight that's floating across Tara's shoulder. It moves, sending a splash across her chest. For a split-second a bottom curve is all but visible. Most of the Oriental girls I've seen have underdeveloped mosquito bites. But Tara? Well, she definitely does not fall into that category. Better living through chemistry? Ah, the wonderful mysteries one must contemplate. "What are you looking at?" she asks, knowing full well where his eyes have landed. My eyes snap to her face. Caught like a naughty kid filching a look. "Ah, nothing, just - well - looking." She gives me a devious smile. "Look all you want. Oh, and if you're wondering, I'm not wearing one and they are natural." Her brown eyes sparkle, making me feel naked and ashamed. "You know Jim; you're cute when you blush." "I am not blushing," I say digging up all the manly innocence I can muster. She swallows a giggle. "Oh yes you are." "No I'm not." "Well, I don't mind the attention, really I don't." Those freely spoken and quite suggestive comments build the mounting intrigue. And she did say I was cute. At least that's something. Outside, the landscape turns from decrepit inner city suburbs to fields with humble farmers tending rice paddies, to impoverished villages. As Tara's fingers spin the steering wheel, her eyes keep flicking toward me. Is it more than casual interest? Direct eye contact and a brief smile splays across her succulent lips. She swings her gaze back to the road. A puff of hot wind ruffles her loosely fitting, light lilac blouse. The sun spotlights both magnificent glands. Rounded contours spill into view. Deliciously bare nipples are semi-erect and are just stiff enough to poke against the flopping fabric. Yeah, I'm trying not to peek. Nevertheless, with a display like this, efforts are rather non-productive. Tara's very apparent lack of modesty is stretching restraint. Sexual signals are strong. One moment, I have the determination of a chained dog that's discovered a weak link. Then that word forbidden looms like a huge flashing red light. And then there's -- Janet - very blond, very built, and very jealous -- Janet. Twisting the seat, I look behind. The roadway's empty. No cops or distant sirens. Screw common sense and make a play for her anyway? The idea is -- hold on. Idiot-check: Tara's drop-dead-gorgeous, a bit of a flirt and let-it-all-hang-out sexy. However, this is no slut on the make. Small talk has told me that her mother was French. She was born in Hanoi and attended college in the UK. A babe with her looks and background doesn't play the come-fuck-me role with a stranger without a damn good motive. Guard up. She has an angle. The Toyota's engine coughs. I smell gasoline. I pull my head from under the Toyota's hood. "I'm no mechanic Tara, but the fuel pump's shooting gas all over the engine. We're lucky it didn't explode." "I'm so sorry, Jim. Think you can fix it?" I shake my head and look up and down the desolate road. "Where's Mister Good-wrench when you need him? Don't suppose we can hail a cab or call the auto club?" She laughs. "You find a phone and I'll call." She points to the tangle of trees across the road. "C'mon. The Red River is only a mile or so through the jungle. We'll thumb a ride on a sampan. Oh, and bring your suitcase. Car-strippers will have this thing down to the frame before daybreak." Car-strippers huh? Sounds like Harlem after dark. I heft my suitcase and trudge into the snarl of mossy cypress trunks and fungus laden vines. What's next on the menu, salivating cannibals with a taste for white meat? Sudden and startling screeches cut off our crunching footsteps. A sickening smell lingering around my nose says there's a dead animal nearby. Man-alive, I thought I was in good shape. While sweat is gushing from ducts I never knew existed, Tara appears cool as a debutant at a dance. "What is this place?" I ask trying to keep from sweating all over myself. "It's the infamous Ho Chi Minh trail." She sighs. "Many Vietnam and American soldiers fight here. So many die." As I hoist my suitcase and climb over a mossy log. I can practically hear the harsh, startling sounds of ghostlike gunfire. Only pleasurable thing about this little escapade is watching Tara's beautiful butt-muscles testing the stretch capabilities of cotton denim. What I'd give to explore Tara's deep crevasse with my tongue. Janet's nagging emerges like a familiar worm. "Keep your eyes to yourself Jim Becker," her bitchy voice echoes. "How dare you think thoughts like that?" Bingo, you win a cookie. Janet's a real looker, but the territorial type. Pestering me about marriage is her full time job. But around Tara, testosterone levels are stuck on high. Squash the worm: Janet darling, you're on the other side of the planet. Right now, you generate as much interest as varicose veins or granny-panties. Tara pauses at the edge of a shallow muddy rivulet that's washing across the jungle floor. Her hands slide up her twin half-apples hugged so snugly by faded denim. "What now? I ask dragging attention away from where her hands are resting. She turns around. "Unless you want to play Tarzan and hop a vine, we wade across." "Sorry, vines aren't my thing. Isn't there a foot bridge or something?" "You want luxuries on the economy tour? Don't look so glum. Didn't your travel agent tell you that cops, car trouble and wet feet are the fun part of touring Vietnam?" She steps into the water. "C'mon Jim. It's only ankle deep. Want me to hold your hand?" "No thanks. Streams I can handle." "No-no, don't take off your shoes. Could be bloodsuckers in this water, and they bite." There are squishy sucking sounds as the bubbling stream consumes her blue-black boots. Ahead lays a minefield of slippery rocks covered with slick slime. Fall on my ass and she'll think I'm a third-rate dope. Wait a sec. Minefields? "Ah, Tara?" "Yes Jim?" "There wouldn't be land-mines around here, would there?" "Whole jungle's peppered with them," she says with a shrug, "so step only where I step, okay?" "Absolutely I'll only step where you step." Manliness is in deep jeopardy. I mirror her sure-footed steps. My shoe slips on a rock and my arms windmill in a bumbling attempt to regain balance. "Jim? Are you okay?" "Nothing but a rogue banana peel." Now she must think I'm a first-rate dope and clumsy to boot. The bottom turns to slushy sand making it fairly easy to complete the crossing. Safely on wet mud, Tara ducks under a fallen tree trunk. I follow, carefully placing my feet in her boot-prints. Beyond stretches a rutted footpath winding through a tangled mass of undergrowth. This heat is stifling. There's not a capful of breeze or a single breath of air. Each time I pass a tree trunk, I half expect that Vietnamese cop to reach out from behind it and grab me. The trail winds up a hill that I'm sure had a number during the war. Below, a lazy river feeds a wide expanse of swamp-like rice paddies. The scent of moisture hangs heavy in the air. Below, three sampans cut through the calm water. "If that's our ride, I think we just missed the boat." I say wiping my brow with my arm. "Damn rotten luck," she mutters. "Hong Kong Chinese are making a war movie in Ninh Binh. All the sampan drivers smell money." A single raindrop pelts my head. "It's starting to rain too." "It's monsoon season. We'd better find cover before we get caught in a downpour. Ditch that suitcase in that thicket. We'll come back for it later." Turning sideways, she slips silently through the dense underbrush. Something shrieks like a banshee. High in the jungle canopy trees rustle. Wait around to find out what it is? No-way. I crash through like a ten-axle semi on the loose. Cloth rips. Damn fuckin' thorns just stabbed me in the back. My shirt tears again as I'm struggling to break free. Shit. Now I'm a dope dressed in rags. Oh well. It's too friggin' hot and humid anyway. "Tara, wait up!" She turns. Her eyebrow rises. "Going topless are we?" "Yeah, I'm trying to turn on a bush." "You're already doing that," she says with an impish smile. "Jim, you're blushing again." "Will you please stop telling me I'm blushing?" She giggles. "Well I think it's charming. By the way, sexy chest." I crisscross my arms over my chest. "Hey, isn't that supposed to be my line?" She laughs. "Now you're making me blush. C'mon, Song Bo's not far. There's an abandoned American bivouac there. Hooches have mostly rotted away. But the old monastery should be dry enough to spend the night." Spend the night in a monastery with a tasty tidbit like Tara? Things are looking up. Hold on. Monasteries got monks. Forbidden-forbidden. Janet's bitchy voice cracks like a lightening bolt: "Touch the bitch and you die." I glance at Tara's incredible ass and the enticing sway of her up-thrust breasts. Ah well. In a fantasy, anything goes, right? Lifting a foot, I lumber on. Golden slants of sunlight pierce through the rain clouds. We descend the hill and venture out on a slender thread of marshy land. With each sinking step, water climbs up Tara's pant legs, rising past her covered boot-tops, inching slowly up her thighs, darkening her skin-tight jeans as it goes. Being close witness to water tickling Tara's most intimate parts is getting a rise out of mine. Janet's voice is quiet, but danger seems to thrum through the air. That word forbidden won't stop pounding in my head. With my luck, that enraged cop and an armed platoon of Viet Cong whom nobody told the war is over will jump out of those bushes and haul Jim Becker off in shackles. The crime? One hard-on. The punishment? Nail the American's nuts to a tree. "Jim, am I going too fast for you?" "No. It's just that my legs are in mortal combat with rice-roots." "Say, you're not a sissy and afraid of roughing it, are you?" "Who me? Until now, my concept of roughing it was black and white television. Damn, Tara, how can you walk in this tangled mess?" "You got a problem with rice?" "Not if it's in a box of Uncle Ben's." Laughing, she disappears around a waving clump of rice-plants. Raising a foot out of the guck, I take two steps forward and then sink like a stone. "Tara, I just stepped into a damn sink-hole." Her laughter echoes from behind the rice plants. "So climb out." "I'm trying." Rice plants separate revealing her lovely face. "Need a hand?" "No, I need a boat. And I think a couple of fish are trying to mate in my underwear." "That's why I never wear any." No panties? Oh Lord -- give me strength. "Tara, just don't tell me that there are leaches in this swamp." Rice plants hide her face. "No leaches, but watch out for poisonous snakes." An image of deadly fangs sinking into my Adam's apple flashes out of nowhere. My feet and legs are suddenly very motivated. In two splashes, I'm around a rice clump. I stop cold. Nervousness about venomous reptiles and communist cops instantly vanish. Tara's simply standing there, fully clothed, with little wavelets washing around her denim covered crotch. Little triggers go off in my stomach. My mind is buzzing with why is she doing this questions as her eyes graze about my face and chest. If Tara Fon Dong is plotting a seduction, then this stunning diva deserves the Oscar. Roll with it and see where it leads? "You'd better not, dumb-ass," Janet's voice echoes. Fuck off Janet. Who invited you? Finding solid footing, I wade closer. Tara does likewise. The water inundates the thick white belt that circles her slender waist, licking her tummy, then kissing her deep navel. Her smile is wistful, inviting me to proceed. Sparks seem to be flying between us. She's making me dizzy, as if her very presence is made of hallucinatory narcotics. "Jim," she whispers, "I know we just met, were chased by the cops, my car broke down and I must look like a wet dishrag, but - is it possible, that you -- like me?" "Like you? Of course I like you." Her eyes drop with cute and feminine shyness. "I was hoping you'd say that," she whispers. Her arms float around my neck. I can feel my face turning pale. Am I losing control? Just being near Tara is like having an unreachable itch that only she can scratch. Tara of Vietnam "Jim? If it pleases you, the next few hours will be my special gift." "Gift? I don't underst--." "Shhh," she whispers placing a finger on my lips. "Until mid-night, if you want me, I will be yours." "You mean?" She nods. My stomach twists into a knot. "Is that a good idea?" "No, probably not," she whispers. I'm balancing on that delicate edge of caution and wanting. "What's the catch?" I ask. "No catch. But you must promise to speak nothing and question not." Want wins. I nod helplessly. Her fingertip drifts down my jaw line. "Stay here," she whispers. "Watch me?" Like a provocative nymphet, Tara backs away. Water slowly consumes her. It washes around her bare waist, rising around the silky lavender blouse. A miniature whirlpool surrounds the swell of her breasts. Her eyelids close, as if she's relishing the warmish liquid, feeling it penetrate places it doesn't belong. Her head sinks below the surface leaving a swirling mass of blackish hair. A moment later, her face rises. Then twin, cloth-cloaked mounds emerge, standing high as if in a benevolent tribute to the late afternoon sky. She doesn't seem to care that her dark brown nipples are clearly visible through the soaked fabric. Me? I'm like a department store manikin, watching frozen, mind locked anticipating the incredible pleasure Tara's offered. With a splash of a booted foot, she rolls over, sliding effortlessly towards me. A silvery cascade tumbles from her curves as she stands. Glistening, diamond-like drops fly as her head whips back and forth like a soaking-wet puppy. Trickling rivers fall from her hips, sparkling on her jeans' blue-black wetness. Her blouse, now transparent as cellophane, clings to each breast's beckoning, arousing curve. Both stand proud on her chest, resembling seductive fruit. She steps close, coal-dark eyes shimmering. Hardened nipples prick at my chest. "Do you want me?" she whispers. "Yes," I whisper back, barely able to breathe and trying to quell the eagerness in my voice. Like a playful elf, she slips away. Strong legs plow through the water. She hoists herself on a rock. Her legs kick and white-water splashes. Tara's every movement is making my entire body gyrate with erotic sensations. Sliding off the rock, she wades over to me. Her candy-like lips are just an inch away. "May I kiss you?" I whisper. She lays her hands on my shoulders. "I'd be very disappointed if you didn't." First contact is soft -- little more than the faintest brush of lip against lip. A creamy, warm feeling spirals between my legs. Her delicate woman-scent is intoxicating. Second contact is slightly stronger. It's not confident or passionate, just light, as if exploring to see if what she tastes is sweet or bitter. As the kiss deepens, I hold back the natural instinct to be the aggressor. Her approach to lovemaking seems shy, feminine and delicate. Little throat-moans escape as the kiss blooms in intensity. Mutual, teasing touches begin. They're merely light encounters of fingertips on flesh and wet clothes, drifting down, exploring and discovering each other's building arousal. The impulse to touch her more intimately is irrepressible. Sequestered beneath the soaked blouse, her breast feels hard yet yielding in my hand. Pleasure-breath sucks through her teeth. I lift slightly, encouraged by her slight twitches and husky whimpers. Although faint, Tara's soft cooing moans are more arousing than her wet-warm softness under even wetter cloth. The warm water is doing nothing to inhibit the demanding cock throbs inside my jeans. Beneath my palm, her breast grows harder with each thump of her heart, gripping, feeding her surging, pounding passion. She draws her mouth away. "Do I feel good against you?" she rasps. "You know you do," I whisper back. A brush of passion-charged breath kisses my cheek. Her wet tongue-tip grazes my upper lip. Our mouths open in unison and then crush with ravenous, blooming obsession. She sucks gently, drawing my tongue inside. Her taste is sweet as chocolate and as smooth as creamed butter. Gently, but with purpose, her tongue pushes in. She curls it. What a feeling. The tip is just barely stroking the roof of my mouth. My hands drift to the flare of her hips, and then down, feeling the little wavelets washing against the twin mounds hugged so tightly by those drum-tight jeans. Her hand grazes my back. A hot tingle surges up my arms. It encircles my chest muscles then captivates my throbbing cock. My fingertips slide between her legs. Despite being submerged, her pussy-mound feels warm, moving and excitingly alive. She shudders. "Ummmm, oh yes Jim. Touch me . . . touch me there." Her thighs clench at each stroke as the inseam probes her. A slight head tilt breaks our mouths apart. "Don't stop," she whispers exhaling. "Oh please . . . don't stop." A lip-touch to her nose reassures her all is well. "Tara," I say softly, "We shouldn't be doing this." "Yes Jim. You're right. Someone might see." Taking my hand, she tugs. "Come." "Cum? Now that's a real invitation." "In good time," she says with a tiny giggle. Together, we slosh forward. I'm afraid to ask why or where, fearful she'll come to her senses and this spell, or gift as she called it, will be broken. Reaching dry ground, our arms naturally find each other's waists. As we walk, the cloud-soft skin surrounding her middle feels good against my forearm. I feel her fingers slipping inside the back waistband of my jeans. She smiles as I risk putting my fingertips feel the rolling mounds of her incredible ass as muscles undulate in a wildly exotic rhythm. Gray clouds settle in the treetops turning the jungle dark and drab. Misty, ever-shifting shadows make it as eerie as a bat cave. She pauses at a pile of rusting bits and pieces of war; Huey helicopters, troop trucks, and airplane engines, merely bones belonging in another place . . . another era . . . being systematically digested buy jungle rot. Why is she staring? For a moment, my skin crawls. There's something more going on here. What mysterious sex game is Tara Fon-Dong playing? I turn to her. "Tara? This graveyard is giving me the cold-creeps. Why did you bring me here?" "Remember your promise, Jim Becker," she says softly. "I know. Ask nothing, say nothing." "Hold me?" she whispers. For reasons known only to her, tears are welling up in her eyes. Cool dampness of cloth-covered breasts touch my chest . . . then a definite gush of warmth - her warmth. Pointed, pleading nipples press, then slide over my skin. As if lost in a dream, Tara's eyelids drift closed. Trying to decipher her motivation vanishes in a deluge of desire. "Touch me?" she whispers softly. Taking the lead, her moist lips tenderly kiss my cheeks, mouth, neck and eyes. Like sparks from a flickering flame, each caress enflames the slow-burning coal that has been creeping through my cock all day. Our mouths fasten. My tongue slides across her smooth teeth. Her tongue nestles beneath mine. It's not still, but moving -- always moving. Between my legs, I feel her knee rise, push, then slide back and forth. "Ummmm," she moans. With one hand pressed to her back, I draw a fingertip up her jeans' rough center-seam stitching. The warmth of her pussy grinds against my groin as a light gust of wind rustles the trees. "Rain is coming," she says breaking the hungry kiss only enough to speak. "If you're worried about getting wet, I'd say you're a bit late," I say nibbling at her upper lip. She squirms from my arms. Grabbing my hand, she tugs. "Run with me, Jim Becker?" she says playfully. "It's not far." Hand in hand, we run, laughing like children on a playground. Our footsteps slow, then crunch on a carpet of twigs and moldy leaves. She pushes aside a curtain of dangling vines. An ancient cement temple appears. A moat of greenish, stagnant water surrounds the two-storied structure. Her hand squeezes mine. We hop over a log. Small splashes echo as our feet plod through the greenish swamp-water. The dark doorway looks like an open mouth ready to consume unwitting intruders. "You sure this is okay?" I ask. "I feel like a trespasser." "Of course it's okay. Inside we'll be safe and alone." As I look at Tara, feel the brush of her hip against mine, an extraordinary mixture of alarm and wonderment surges. By comparison, Tara's a treasure and Janet Cole, the rising Washington lawyer, seems as bland as pabulum. Although a knockout blonde, Janet's forte is treating men like a toddler treats a diaper. If she were here, she'd be bitching about icky mud, ruined shoes and whining because there's no catered lunch or a place to pee. In contrast, Tara is a bundle of surprises. She's wildly sexy and wonderfully carefree. She takes everything as it comes, including outwitting cops. Her steps are sure-footed, booted legs whooshing through calf-deep swamp water as if it's kitchen linoleum. Ten feet short of the entrance, Tara pauses. Her eyes are still smoky and glazed with arousal. There's an exclamation point in her coal black irises. Although dangerous and forbidden, sex is imminent. She expects it. She wants it. Strategy snaps into place: Once inside, if she wants me to bow, I'll bow. I'll even pull off her boots one by one and kiss their soles if she asks. Then I'll unwrap her incredible body as one unwraps a treasured gift. A sparkling spray of water flies from her foot toward the doorway. Laughing like a naughty child, she sits, and then reclines with a splash. Legs arc back and forth as if making a snow angel. Rising to her knees, she sits on her heals. Cupped hands pull wave after wave onto her glistening thighs. My toes curl as I watch, mesmerized. She lifts a dripping handful to her chest. An effervescent waterfall cascades over and through the deep valley between her breasts. Eyes closed, as if listening to a silent love song, she sways back and forth creating little jade-toned waves that roll up and around the denim folds that mask --. "Jim Becker, why do you look so puzzled?" she says looking up. I smile down at her. "Do I? I don't know why. I'm up to my ankles in slime water watching a gorgeous girl bathe in her clothes." "This is holy water," she giggles. "I love to get wet in my clothes. I love it when water flows into my boots. And you like watching me, don't you?" "It's different, I'll say that." Water tumbles as she stands. It appears that Tara has no inhibitions, no self-imposed restraint governing her as she seeks satisfaction of her needs. Tara steps closer, looking as captivating as a mischievous, playful kitten. "Besides," she whispers, "isn't it perfectly natural for a woman to be wet at a time like this?" For a second I'm even more bewildered. "Ahh, I get it. Tara, being with you is like being strapped to a sidewinder missile and trying to do high-math." "You're not mad, are you?" "No, I'm not mad." A light warm rain begins to fall. "Let's go inside," she says coaxing me onward with her hand. "We can get out of these wet clothes before we get cold." "Somehow I don't think cold is part of this scenario." The monastery is silent as a stone. It's long since been vandalized of anything of value or religious significance. Outside, the evening downpour gathers strength, drowning out our footsteps and slow expectant breaths. "Up those stairs," Tara says. We climb the stone stairway, walk down a gloomy dark corridor into a small room. A match flares then touches a candlewick. Its flame casts flickering shadows on dark walls. "Would you like to fuck now?" she asks as casually as if asking for a toothpick. "Where did you learn to talk like that?" There's a taunting twinkle in her eyes. "Does the word fuck make you blush too?" I shake my head. "So, do we just get down on the floor and go for it?" She lowers her chin as if wounded in some mysterious way. Lifting her hand, I kiss a fingertip. "Tara, look at me?" Her eyes slide up to meet mine. "Jim Becker doesn't fuck. Jim Becker makes love." A beckoning smile spreads across her lovely moist lips. "I can handle that." "So can I." Our whispers were barely discernible over the rain. Her damp, studded boots slip off her feet. Both fall to the stone floor with two soft clumps. Fingers tug at the blouse's lavender drawstring. It separates. Creamy up-thrust breasts spill into view. Nude and ignited, Tara's curves seem to have grown twice as luscious. "Take off the rest of your clothes," I whisper. "Only if you take off yours," she whispers as her delicate fingers pop a waist button. There's a soft sound of her zipper descending. "May I watch you?" My soggy loafers, socks and half-dry jeans come off with an appropriate amount of clumsiness. Her gaze sweeps over my nakedness. Eyes freeze. Tara stares as if admiring the Hope Diamond rather than the blue-veined erection she's created. She turns away. Shyness, I imagine. A glowing sphere of moonlight breaks through the rain clouds. Her thumbs hook in her jeans. Moving her hips, she pushes slightly. Satiny mounds appear, then a wide, Y shaped valley. In the moon-glow, Tara's butt-skin shimmers as if painted in phosphorescence. She turns, bashfully holding her arms over her breasts. It's her way I suppose, of making her surrender seem feminine and believable. Not a strand of hair adorns her gleaming, juice-wet slit. Smiling, she lowers her arms to her sides. Breasts sway slightly as bare feet whisper on stone. Warmth radiates from each awesome curve like an all-encompassing mist. Breasts rise and fall with each breath, looking like gleaming jewels in the yellowish candlelight. She steps closer. Hardened nipples softly brush at my chest. Her tummy presses and undulates against my cock. Never has the feel of a woman brought on sensations like this. Staring into the depths of her eyes, it's as if Tara is able to remove the pull of gravity, suspending any earthly substance into weightless space. Warm, rosy, yielding lips mushroom the embrace into electric, rocketing sparks. They shoot upward, plunge downward, spinning wildly, clenching my stomach and propelling high-voltage shocks directly into my thundering cock. Whatever law is being broken, the punishment will be well worth the price. Never before have I wanted a woman so badly. "Jim Becker," she whispers, "let the gift begin." Words, confusion, curiosity and suspicion give in to aches of pure, unadulterated need. Her bottom lip quivers. As if her lips are ripe strawberries, I nibble. Together our mouths open. Tongues touch, slipping and sliding on mutual wetness. My spine stiffens as her fingers brush my backside. One separates me working its way inside. Out the arched window, rain beats as steadily as the thundering heartbeat that's pounding behind these incredible breasts. Her love-movements are tantalizing, first grazing her nipple-tips to my chest, then crushing them like pancakes, and then lifting away, our eyes and faces emphasizing the shared ecstasy. Leaving my lips, she slips down my torso, her wiggling tongue leaving a trail of saliva every inch of the way. "The mattress," she whispers breathlessly. "Lay down?" Good sense suddenly rears up like a roaring lion. "But Tara, what about the communist police? What if someone comes? What if we're caught?" "What happens here is none of the government's business." Her voice was firm. "It may sound trite, but this is my body and no cop or law can tell me what do with it." I can argue no more. Fingers surround my cock. Her finger-touch feels softer than fine Asian silk. My cock pulses as her silky tongue wets the entire length from base to tip. Magnificent moments pass, listening to the soft swish of her tongue circling, teasing, and licking. She tilts her head back, licking her lips then swallowing my pre-sex sperm as if it's caviar. Rich red lips close just around my tip. My fingers snag in her long hair as her moving mouth consumes my cock, inch by erotic inch. Moans, gasps and shuddering breaths spew helplessly from my mouth. Slanting her head back, she bends my cock downward. Slowly, she slides it in all the way. Oh-geeze. It's pressing into -- oh man, something's pulling. My eyes slam shut. She's holding it against her esophagus and gently sucking. The miracle embrace lasts not for scant seconds, but for an eternity. Cheeks collapse as she pulls back, keeping her lips squeezed tight, while moving her head in circular motions, slipping me into wildly different corners within her mouth. Fingers, lips and tongue slide my foreskin up and down. Tara grabs a deep breath. In one smooth motion, she takes me into her throat again, swallowing, pulling, then sliding out, strongly sucking on every inch. I swallow hard. Janet's furious face pops in from somewhere in my subconscious sight. It's gone in two hard blinks. "You are perfect," Tara whispers between licks and nibbles. "Your juices are sweet and melt on my tongue almost faster than I can swallow them." I'm too consumed to even respond. A tidal wave of conflicting emotions collides with raw sex drive. Janet's oral dexterity centers on gulps, gags and dry-heaves. Swallow? She said she'd rather drink a mouthful of arsenic first. Tara's flair for fellatio is sucking my eyes into the back of my head. The point of her tongue is, oh oh-jeezus, it's circling -- probing. Her fingers squeeze slightly. Rolling waves of liquid pleasure bring on gasps -- it's-it's - she's opening my slit, it's in, it's --. Pleasure-groans bounce from the temple's walls. With a slurping sound, her mouth slips off. She places a single tiny kiss on the glistening tip, and then infinitesimal kisses on each individual rib. Lifting away, she stands and walks over to the arch and gazes out at the moonlit jungle. This incredible woman is dragging me through a keyhole backward. My cock is like a ticking time bomb about to explode. I have to have her . . . now. "Do I please you, Jim Becker?" Weak knees will barely support my own weight. "Tara? I need you like the very air I breathe." "And me you shall have," she says in a whispery voice. Golden, sweat-soaked nudity clings. My cock presses tightly to her abdomen, reignited with fire, pulsing, growing, and awaiting the fulfillment that awaits a few inches below. Our anxious tongues tangle then melt together. A breast quivers beneath my hand. Its nipple snaps tight as I roll it between my thumb and finger. To the touch, Tara's body feels solid, and yet soft as a feathery pillow. She feels weightless as I lift her from the floor and gently lay her warm, moaning body on the mattress. Pausing a moment, I gaze down at the goddess-like curves that are attacking my senses like a hungry tiger. In one fluid movement she rises. Breasts thrust out, their nipples hard, begging for a kiss and to be made slick and wet. Her mouth and sex-charged eyes show languid anticipation, as if she's living her most cherished fantasy. Rashes of pinkish gooseflesh float across each breast's gentle slope. I lean down. A gentle lick to the sensitive spot where they jut from her chest begets a soft moan. Kisses to the edge of her nub-covered areola spawn puppy-like whimpers. Tara's breasts are gorgeous and amazingly sensitive, similar to a warm charcoal ember. With each lick, each breath, nipple-shafts awaken, milk-buds emerge, rising and glowing with fever-like heat. "Turn over," I whisper. Using my tongue, I trace the satiny skin on the back of her thigh, then the tender spots where her awesome butt juts from her legs. Muscles quiver, then clench as each tiny feather-like lick skims both lovely mountains. Smooth skin tastes salt-sweet. Concentration focuses on the outer edges of her lovely crevice. She writhes as my kisses lazily drift closer, surrounding her pinkish anus with gentle tongue-twitches. Spreading her crevice slightly, I run my tongue upward, starting just above her anus then laying a long lick along her spine. Tara moans softly - shivering -- savoring the building shroud of deep arousal. Like the tender touch of breeze, I continue exploring the curves, hills and valleys of her back, arms, elbows and shoulders, ending with love-bites to the nape of her neck. Tara of Vietnam "Feel good?" I whisper nibbling at her sweet-tasting earlobe. "Mmmm, yes," is her breathy and barely auditable response. She rolls over on her back, expression dreamy, adoring eyes glass-like. Once I'm astride her, she leans forward taking just my cock-head into her mouth. The sweeping sensation of her lips forces my eyes to close. Ripples of numbing pleasure overwhelm all conscious thought. With one strong suck, I feel her mouth slide off. Her fingers surround both breasts. Squeezing gently, she cones them upward. "Suck me, Jim Becker. Oooooooh, my nipples ache. Suck on them -- pleeeease?" Nipple-tips brush against my lips. The rough nub pops into my mouth. She gasps. Her naked tummy falls deep. A leg trembles. Nipple-skin stiffens. I suck. A syrup-like taste flows. Roughness slips and slides. I suck harder, working one nipple, and then following the push of her hands, go after the other. "Ohhh-ahhhh," she cries softly with each sucking pull. Her fingers knead blood-hardened breast-flesh. Her eyes clamp shut. It's as if she's willing, forcing the sugary secretion into my siphoning mouth. Leaving her breasts to her hands, I scrunch down her heaving abdomen. Her navel is deep and inviting. Stomach muscles tighten as my tongue swabs the rim, and then circles its inner walls. Puckering, I blow gently. She squirms. Abdominal muscles clench tighter as the soft, tickling jet of air trails down her trembling slope of belly-skin. Pussy-lips are wide-open, dripping with diamond-like dewdrops. She shudders as the arrow-like air stream rotates in casual circles. Her legs widen. The point of her pinkish clitoris peaks out. It's hesitant, yet moving, as if begging for attention. My first lick is gentle. Her whole body snaps tight as high-tension wire about to arc. "Yes, oh-my-yessss -- yes," she squeaks through deep, thundering breaths. "More - oh more, please lick me more." Against my tongue, her pussy naked mound feels soft as a newborn's cheeks. There's not a trace of hair stubble. Her legs spread farther, and then rise. Her clit, now fully extended, trembles at the touch of my tongue. Her thigh muscles clamp tight, encompassing my entire head. The next lick is intense. A side-to-side motion widens Tara's sweet-smelling folds. Hips jerk. She groans with pleading pleasure squeals as I revisit the tender skin surrounding her pulsing anus. My tongue touches her slick opening. Her pussy reacts as though a tiny jolt of electricity has touched it. Tongue fully extended, I slowly widen her velvety skin, and then push in as far as I can. She shrieks softly. Love muscles grab on. The grasp is vice-tight. I try to withdraw. She won't let go. Something's tickling and stroking my bottom lip. Muscles relax. My tongue slips free. Swallowing her juices, I raise my head and gaze down at her beautiful face. Like a roused tiger, strong hands grip my shoulders, pulling my face to hers. "Oh Jim-Jim-Jim," she gasps. "I need you in me, oh I need it in my special hole." Tara's body feels like an all-encompassing cloud. A tug on my neck locks her mouth to mine. Her entire length freezes. I feel her hand sliding around my blazing cock. It pulses. She's moving my cock-head vertically on her pussy lips. The grip isn't soft or teasing. No longer is it foreplay. She's struggling, as if every brain cell, every muscle molecule is strung tight and unable to wait. Although overwhelmed with selfish needs, I'm determined to make entry slow. An incredible woman like Tara deserves to soak up every nuance of this golden moment. My hand grips hers. Arm muscles struggle. "Let me?" I whisper. Her hand releases. "Now?" "Yes Tara, now." One hand clings fiercely to my shoulder. Another grips the back of my neck. A gush of wetness floods around my cock. My hips push. Her pussy swallows. Arms, hands slide over my sweaty skin -- then grip like a clamp. Her teeth clench. The sound of her ravenous gasps nearly overpowers the pounding rain. "Oh-plea--." Breath catches in her throat. There's a muffled rapturous, yet straining cry. My eyes snap wide as powerful pussy lips grab on. Tara's commanding muscles pull. In a mind-bending suckle an inch enters. Like firing off a blasting cap, swarming multitudes of pleasure-shocks explode in every nerve I have. Jesus, something - something is moving. It's-it's tickling at the tip of my cock. The feeling sends my mind spinning like a buzz-bomb. Entry has never felt like this. Can the point of her clit be stroking, tantalizing, as if it's welcoming me? Physical desire suddenly grabs on with the jerk of a hydraulic ram. My muscles tense. They are vibrating, threatening to implode. Tara's hands grab my hips. Her pussy spews out another slippery gush. My ass-cheeks split as she yanks hard, guiding, forcing the effortless, downward plunge. Her clit wiggles across my entire length as pussy muscles consume my cock pulling hard - high - and very deep. "Ahhhh," Tara sighs, body relaxing as if propelled into a swirling, heaven-like world. Tara's pussy feels like no other. Her walls shrink, gripping on tighter than an undersized glove. There's something else. Just what, is as mysterious as this crazy dream -- a dream that is just as real as the Vietnamese jungle and the swishing sound of rain on jungle vegetation. "Love me Jim," she whispers. "Love me hard." Wet lips cover mine. Cottony pleasure swirls as I seesaw back, holding my cock just inside her. In my mouth, her wet tongue slides out, mimicking the movement. Damn, if I can't feel her clit curling. With each plunging stroke, it's moving, caressing my cock like a warm, wet, wiggling finger. "Yes-o-yes," she cries as I plunge in again. Holding to her deepest inner walls, I arch my back, lifting my chest from her glistening breasts. Her clit wiggles. My lips go for a thrusting, rolling nipple. In two tries, I grab on, sucking like a man who's dying of thirst sucks on a clogged straw. "Yes-o-yes-oh-yes," she says in low guttural rasps. She pulls in breath, holding it in, waiting, and anticipating my next deep thrust. Air gushes from her lungs as I push down. The nipple bursts free. "Roll over," she rasps. "Let me?" Rocking my hips, I pull out, and then turn over on my back. It's as if passion is suddenly ignited like the blue flame of a welder's torch. She's on me in a second. Above, her hands cup both breasts, squeeze them, then release them to their own weight. I feel her hand guiding my cock back in. As I hold Tara's soft waist, she uses short movements, lifting, revolving, and settling my cock deeper and deeper into the depths of her subterranean self. Travel across her incredible, wiggling clitoris is as overwhelming as it is bizarre. She rises, lowers, in, out, in out, faster and faster. Tara's soft little cries mirror each stroke. Devastating ecstasy swings her head from side to side. Chunks of sweet-smelling hair slap at my face. She stops, gasping for air. The moment presents time to relish this astonishing, energetic beauty. Tara is absorbing every possible erotic nuance. In contrast, fucking Janet is like screwing a reluctant statue. As echoes of our sex squabbles spin into foggy oblivion, I clutch at Tara's willing body. I can prolong this no longer. Together, we roll over. Blind, animal instinct seizes all senses. There's but one target, one goal. Giving Tara's glorious, loving, sucking pussy the biggest, most satisfying orgasm she's ever had. My tip is lingering, just in her. Tara's hips rise, and then settle. Her pussy is impulsively demanding, using that astonishing sucking talent to yank and snatch at every centimeter. Each plunging stroke is distinctive. She's loose and loving for a moment, then suddenly tight as a vice. Her pulling pressure is enormous. With a thundering heartbeat, my cock thickens. Her fingernails claw at my back. Pressure sucks my cock in like a vacuum cleaner stuck on high. Oxygen bursts from her lips as my chest falls to hers. Breast skin feels hard and sweat-slick. Mashed to my chest, her nipples expand and contract as her lungs gasp at air. Brute force holds my cock deep in her inner womb. Slowly, she undulates, teasing my chest hair with her stone-hard nipples. An uncontrolled, throaty groan explodes from my mouth. I have to shake my head to decipher her magic. Sucking pressure is one thing. What incredible feats of bodily control allow her to move her clitoris laterally? She releases. I pull out, then growl, pushing in again, deeper, slowly allowing her amazing gift to bring the impending, effervescent climax closer and closer. "Yes-yes," she pants breathlessly, body shuddering from head to toes. Her legs curl around my back and lock on hard. "Oh yes Jim, do me, do me. Fill me, flood my pussy with cum. Yes, I want it now-now-now." "Tara. Tara-Tara, oh Tara," I pant, pumping her feverously. "Jim-Jim-yes-yes. Fuck me, love me, fuck me, yes love me. Oh-gracious-yes, fuck me deeper. Good, righttttt, thereeee. Oh, fuck fuck fuck, I love-love-love it." Using her hips, she lifts, matching each driving, groaning, thumping, wild rhythm. Pussy pulls, releases, pulls, releases. It's in-out-pull-suck-pull-suck. My palms push against the mattress. Glistening, sweat-coated breasts stand like twin, trembling brown-tipped pinnacles. Like an archer drawing a bow, she bends. Her cunt clamps around my cock with the heat and power of a blacksmith's forge. Her lovely face melts into view. Lips tighten. Her forehead furrows, mind perhaps clawing for the orgasm bubble that's about to burst. Sweet pleasure-release is building in my every nerve -- every muscle, every gland. She screams with each belly-slapping plummet. Fingernails dig and scrape at my back. From deep in her throat, she spits out wild grunts, shrieks, moans, and groans, collapsing limp as a feather, body trembling in spasm after orgasmic spasm. "More, Jim. Dammit, more-more!" Her voice is demanding. "Fuckin-a, fill me dammit, fill me!" A galaxy of stars explodes. A potent force grabs my cock, slamming it, surrounding it with powerful contractions. Lights flicker out. Fireworks sparkle, and then burst, like bullet exploding a crystal vase. Suddenly, my body is flooded with wild pounds of drowning pleasure. Simultaneously, Tara's mighty love muscles convulse, pulling, extracting each pulsing, captivating, orgasmic spurt. Tara's pleasure shrieks are as if a branding iron is singeing her beautiful skin. Each fiery surge lashes my body tighter to this sizzling, thrashing, orgasm-rich woman. Locked in each other's arms, we're tumbling down the deepest and darkest of wells. There are warm and glittering fragments - fragments that I, and perhaps her, will never forget. Physically drained, yet passion still wonderfully alive, we come to a breathless yet peaceful rest. With a deep sigh, Tara's body relaxes, hips still undulating, taking pleasure in perhaps in each second of her ebbing delight. "Ummmm," she coos, her half-shut eyes flickering like a gaslight with spent passion. Soft, sweat drenched breasts feel slick on my chest. Lips place a light and simple kiss on my mouth. My lips graze each eyelid, her nose and chin, then kiss the tip of each coffee-toned nipple. For five silky minutes, our minds and bodies remain cinched together, jointly sharing the smoothness of cooling perspiration, dwindling breaths, and the sibilant splash of the rain. Her clitoris, as if perhaps sheltered in these cozy moments, continues to tickle my cock with little pulsing wiggles. "You were wonderful," she whispers in my ear. "You're pretty wonderful yourself," I whisper back. Her lips peck at anything reachable. Did I say Janet screws like a statue? Wrong figure of speech. By comparison, how about milk toast? I look into her eyes. "Tara?" "Yes, Jim Becker?" "If you ever want to drag someone through a swamp again, I'm your man." She giggles softly. There's a slight sound of sorrow as she unfolds from my arms. There's a slurping sound. Immediately, I miss the warm feeling of her pussy hugging my cock. Sitting up, her long fingers smooth out her hair. "How do you do it?" I say staring into her lovely and glowing face. Her smile is impish. "Simple. I get naked, lie down and let you do all the work." "Don't make jokes. You did something, something I've never felt before." "Did you like it?" "It felt amazing, like magic. You've got to tell me how you do it." Reaching across the mattress, she squeezes my hand. She gets to her feet. Moonlight gleams off the pearl-white trails that are running down her lovely legs. "The rain has stopped, so let's go outside." "Like this?" "Sure, why not? It's a warm night and the trees won't mind." Arms intertwined, we descend the stairs. Outside, the air smells rain-washed clean. Cool bluish moonlight splashes across the beauty I've been so fortunate to have explored and enjoyed. Part way across the moat, she stops. With Asian delicateness, she cleanses my cock. So good does it feel that I curl my toes in the mud. Placing a final kiss on the tip, she stands. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" I ask grazing a nipple with my finger. Tara takes a deep breath as if struggling with deeply buried emotions. "You do not know so many things. There are so many things that you have to feel. Walk with me?" Hand in hand we wade through the moat and into the jungle. The war-wrecks look eerie in the ghostly moonlight. As she'd done earlier, she's staring at that helicopter as if the wrecked machine has some sort of spiritual significance. "How much do you know about your father and what happened to him?" she asks. "Only that he flew helicopter gun-ships. In 1978, he just disappeared. Army's listed him as missing in action ever since. Not knowing the truth has been a nightmare. Then your father's letter came. I'm here to take his remains back to Virginia for burial. End of story." "Not quite. You see, I owe my life to you Jim Becker." "How so? We just met yesterday." "Just listen as I speak the truth. War creates enemies and friends. Sergeant Minh Von Dong fought for the North, while Lieutenant Clifford Becker fought for the South. Circumstances brought them together in that helicopter over there. On that day in 1978, they were enemies turned friends. Together, they stole that helicopter and flew to Song Bo to rescue Vietnamese women and children burned by American napalm. A missile struck. Ground-fire shot my father's arm to pieces. There was an explosion, fire, crash, death. Lieutenant Clifford Becker pulled Minh Fon Dong out of the burning wreck and dragged him to that hooch over there to hide. "Go on." "Viet Cong come. They know of my father and his friendly relationship with Lieutenant Becker. Viet Cong have little compassion for their own countrymen who collaborate with the American enemy. That is why to this day, the police stalk my family and me constantly." "So that's why that cop at the airport was so interested in us." She nods. "To protect my father, Lieutenant Becker surrendered. Viet Cong tortured him for days. But he refused to reveal where Minh Von Dong was hiding. Your father was a very brave man." "Stubborn too." "They take him away to a prison camp Hanoi. There, he died a painful, dreadful death." Tears are standing in her eyes, but not spilling over the lids. Warm naked breasts touch my chest. She rests her head on my upper arm. "Tara, tell me the rest please?" "Your father - he - he gave his life - so I might - live." Her voice stumbles, overwhelmed with emotion. "Easy-easy, Tara. It's okay." She grits her teeth to compose herself. "Do you understand?" "I'm still confused." "You see, without your father, Tara Fon Dong would never have been born. I would have no life, no love, no husband, no children, and no happiness. Such a dept can never be repaid to your father, so I choose you for the most precious gift I have to give." We hold each other tight. "Now you know the truth," she whispers. I'm spent and speechless, even mute to her loving fingertips gently wiping away the tears from my cheeks while her other hand gently strokes my cock and testicles. Such a loving woman I have never known. The ceremony in Loc Chao is poignant and uncomplicated. Tara's armless father watches proudly on as three monks present Tara with a like amount of mementos: Lieutenant Clifford Becker's jacket, dog tags, and a few scraps of bone dug up from a simple grave in some forgotten corner of Hanoi. Tara's long blue skirt rustles as she steps over to where I'm standing. Bowing with ceremonial reverence, she lays what remains of Lieutenant Clifford Becker in my hands. "Good bye, Jim Becker," she says pensively. "Debts are now repaid." * The Russian airliner lifts into the evening sky leaving Hanoi far below. Lieutenant Clifford Becker's life will now close with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia. But the nightmare of living Jim Becker's life without Tara is just beginning.