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Postcards Ch. 01

By: pocketrocket



Prelude: Economy Flight

Author's Note: This short section is largely a repeat of the end of How [K]itten Met [T]eddybear. If you have read that story, you can skip this chapter.

***

Depart: 9:20 a.m., Arrive: 12:05 a.m.

Sat, May 26

Philadelphia (PHL),Los Angeles, CA (LAX)

Travel Time: 5 hr 45 mn

Distance: 3,406 miles

Flight: IT641

Aircraft: Airbus A301

Class: Economy

Meal: For purchase

Sean:

Every girl supposedly dreams of her wedding. I had no such illusions about Sheila, but I thought the Ball would lift her spirits. No joy. After a couple of dances, the two of us were back at schmoozing, so she never got out on the floor. I had more luck sending CC after kegel balls and restraints. It tickled my fancy when Sheila decided to wear one of the silk scarves over her hair. It was easy to visualize the same scarf over her eyes, while I put her body through its paces.

Once we were in the Bentley, things were better. Sheila wanted to get close and snuggle. I could sympathize, but we had a lot of traveling to do before we reached the south Pacific. Instead I had her open the picnic basket and pull out the nosh.

Sheila had liked the cheese and crackers from our first date, so I had selected food along the same lines, plus fish. We had rosemary flat bread, neufchatel, smoked oysters, pickles and an assortment of condiments. On the side were oranges and pears, followed by coffee and 85% cocoa solid chocolate. California was hours away and I had no illusions about airline food. Even first class food is marginal and we were stuck in coach.

Sheila seemed pleased to have something to do. Working on a tiny cutting board, she spread the neufchatel evenly on the bread, added lines of sriracha and wasabi sauce, topped them with smoked oysters and slivers of sweet pickles, then rolled and sliced it like so much sushi. I was impressed. Where we were going, I could get her training with a certified sushi chef and fresh off the boat fish. Sheila would like that. I peeled and sectioned an orange. When it was all ready, I had an inspiration.

Leaning close, I whispered, "Imagine that scarf on your head has been folded and used to bind your wrists behind you." Sheila's eyes widened, but her hands moved behind her back. "Now, another scarf has been folded and bound over your eyes. You are helpless and blind. You hope that I will sate the hunger you feel, but fear I will only give you food. Is this not so?"

Sheila closed her eyes and said, "Yes, Sir, it is so." Her scent told me I needed to take action to save her dress. Fortunately, there were napkins handy. I had her raise up, so that I could pull the hem of her dress up to her waist. I put three folded napkins on the leather seat, then let her sit. I informed her, "It will not do to have this car smelling like the Mercedes. I gave Russell a bonus for keeping you on the road with such distraction." As I said this, I pulled two fingers through her moist folds. On the word "distraction" I put my wet fingers under her nose. Sheila flushed, but made no response. That's my girl.

This was the kind of play I could continue for hours, and I intended to do so in the week to come. However, we were nearing Princeton, so I needed to hurry things along. I fed her slices of roll up, wedges of orange and bottled water. When I finished, I told her that her hands and eyes were free, so that she could pour coffee. I ate by feel, because watching Sheila was important. She managed to unstack the cups, pour the coffee, stir in cream and unwrap the chocolate without letting her dress cover her lap. Again, we were out of time.

I said, "Well done. You may cover yourself and enjoy the coffee. I promise to dip some chocolate in you, at some point, so you can compare flavor. For now, just think about the balls in your pussy and try to relax. We can take them out on our second air leg." This time her eyes went wide, then narrowed. I needed to stay on guard.

Sheila:

As the car pulled away from the house, I thought of my first view of the house seven days earlier. It had been a life changing week, but I thought of Sean's house as the end of the road. Silly me. It had been the beginning. So much more happened in the last week, my mind could not take it all in. The one surety was Sean. He seemed to think along the same lines, because he took charge.

Our drive to the airport in Philadelphia would take less than an hour. Even so, Sean had brought food. At his direction, I made two rolls of cream cheese and shell fish. I would have served them, but Sean had other ideas. He told me to consider myself bound and blindfolded. I let out a mental sigh of relief and told him this was exactly what I needed.

The first thing Sean did was have me raise off the car seat. He pulled back my skirt so that I was not sitting on it. Before I was allow to sit, he put a stack of napkins on the glove leather seat. As he worked. he made an embarrassing comment about the trip back from Brooklyn. I had no clear memory of that drive, but the car still smelled of sex on Friday. There is good embarrassing and bad embarrassing. This was not the good.

Before I could decide what, if anything, to do about it, Sean ran his fingers through my cleft and held them under my nose. Not good. I was not a puppy that had just shit on the floor. There was a limit and Sean was getting very close. Maybe he sensed it, because he changed the subject to coffee and chocolate. Just to prove I could, I kept the skirt up at my waist as I served him.

Sean ended the scene and gave appropriate praise, not that I cared. Then he jerked the chain again, by reminding me of the ben wa balls. That was one step too far. I spent the rest of the ride thinking how Christine would handle the situation. She had a gift for finding blind spots.

Sean:

Sheila was pissed and I didn't blame her. She had been following my lead like a good little submissive. The problem was that she was not a submissive. We have CC to set that standard. As near as I could make it out, Sheila found direction soothing. I had the requisite mentality, but giving it free reign could lead to trouble. It just had, though not for the first time. I needed to make a conciliatory gesture.

To complicate matters, we were in heavy traffic near the airport, so time was limited. If the silk scarf had been any less visible, I might have missed it. I told her to give it to me, then cross her wrists. Sheila glared, but there was no hesitation. I folded the scarf into a narrow cord, then draped it over one of her arms. Sheila's reaction was a study in emotion.

She settled on a questioning look. I answered, "When you wish me to use it, return it." She threw her arms around my neck and mashed my face into her shoulder. I said, "I love you too, Kitten, but we need to get on a plane. I plan to punch your admission into the Mile High club, though not on this first flight." That earned me a laugh. When we separated, Sheila had on her public face. She pulled out a mirror and checked her makeup, but it was pure form.

Airport security is everyone's idea of inconvenient. Our luggage was pre-checked, but we both had a carry on and separate computer bag. After the wait in queue, with more time for me to put on my shoes and belt, we needed to run for the gate. It is the only time I ever envied pumps. Our plane was in final boarding, but any catch is a good catch. In a few minutes we were settling into our cramped seats.

On top of everything else, the only available seats were in coach and not together. I asked the steward if he could fix this, but we were stuck til after take off. One aggravating thing about overbooked flights is that there are standby passengers. Even though we had rushed to board at all, there was a delay for more people to board. In fact, we were so late we should have been bumped. I did not know if one of Gerald's people had called ahead, but I planned to check.

Eventually, we were told to stow our electronics and fasten seat belts. Some time after that, we turned onto the runway and lifted for California. When the seat belt light went out, I was ready to get up, but the woman in the aisle seat decided to dig in her bag. Finally I told her that I had come straight from my house and had not had time to visit the restroom. Never lie when the truth will do. I was glad of it when I saw Sheila's amused smile.

Unfortunately, I really did need to go. I gave Sheila a proper hug, then headed for the line at the facilities. When I returned, Sheila was sitting in my seat. The aisle seat was empty. I was about to ask where the woman had gone, but realized it was pointless. Sheila confirmed my guess with a simple nod. God, I love competent people. I offered Sheila the aisle seat, which she accepted. After that, the flight was almost enjoyable.

LAX was not. There are worse airports—O'Hare comes to mind—but nothing is convenient in Los Angeles. Once again we needed to hurry. We were in terminal one and needed to get to TBIT in under twenty minutes. This time I was glad I was not wearing pumps. I will never know how Sheila can make walking in heels look so easy.

Several breathless minutes later, we reached our departure gate. To my surprise, there was a sign with Sheila's full name on it. Like hell. You got to Sheila through me. Holding the sign was a well turned out man of about thirty or thirty five. I went up to him and asked, "Why do you want Mrs. Richards?" He started and said, "I cannot ... Sean Richards?" Point for him. I nodded.

He said, "I am authorized to give this to you. You must be important, because AA bought me a ticket to Vegas, just to get me in the terminal." I knew I liked Aaron Aldermann. The man handed me a CD wallet, which I opened. Inside were four CD or DVD. One had a post-it note saying, "Play First." To thank him I said, "Good luck at the tables." He smirked and said, "I would rather get lucky off 'em." I just nodded, glad he did not work for me.

Sheila may have been spending too much time with CC. Her only question was a raised eyebrow. I handed her the wallet. She looked inside and nodded, as if expecting something like it. She didn't even ask who sent it. I found that comforting. Sheila reads me like a novel. At least she was not the only one.

I would have given her my present, but they called boarding for first class. We had crammed into five hours of economy to make this flight. This leg would be in style and I hoped she could sleep. We would arrive about six AM local time, in Honolulu, even though it was eleven hours in the air, plus an hour changing planes. Tuesday would be worse. The Marshall Islands are on the other side of the date line. Coming home was nonstop to JFK—ten air hours, but seventeen by the clock.

This whole trip was goofy that way. Scheduling late had made careful plans impossible. For some obscure reason, I wanted Sheila to see Kwajalein Island, where I had been stationed briefly. I had planned to go on to New Zealand. The closest I could get to Kwajalein was the national capital at Majuro. Continuing on to Australia or New Zealand proved impossible on short notice. However, the vagaries of plane schedules would take us to Guam on the flight out. That would be interesting. Guam is more Japanese than American

It was a twisted schedule. We had rushed to LA to catch the last flight to Hawaii. Richards Enterprises participated in a timeshare on one of the small islands. I would have taken the whole week, but it was already booked through Wednesday. Instead we would fly to Guam, spend two days, then on to Majuro, leaving 11:30 AM Tuesday, arriving 12:40 PM Wednesday—a three hour flight. We would stay the night and back to the big island, leaving Thursday morning, arriving Wednesday afternoon. Then it was charter float plane to the island condo for three days. Sunday it was back to Hawaii, then on to New York. I told Helen to expect me briefly on Monday afternoon. We needed to recover from all the travel.

This time, we had our seats together. As soon as Sheila was in her seat, the computer bag came out. It was the perfect opportunity to give her the gift. I pulled out my own computer bag and handed her the new laptop. Technically, this was a business expense, which I would have no trouble justifying. It was a high end gaming laptop, with 3D graphics, top available graphics card, max memory and a terabyte drive. It was loaded with her preferred video software, the software Columbia Pictures preferred and their encryption package.

Sheila looked overwhelmed and I had not yet gotten to my gift. I waved her to silence and told her that she was now the Vice President on a digital graphics division. These were the appropriate tools. It was the simple truth and she knew it. After giving her a moment to absorb it all, I handed her my gift. It was a professional grade CAD platform, with a tutorial, and subscriptions to three architectural and design magazines. Sheila's eyes teared. As I hugged her, I said, "Don't thank me. I plan to drag you into a bathroom and fuck the lights out." Sheila said, "You damn sure better."

Cursing from Sheila? Oh boy. I unzipped the umbrella pouch on the computer bag and showed her the contents. Inside was the flogger she had given me. Sheila didn't say a word, but her eyes lit and her lips twitched up. Oh boy, again.

Why did I plan for twelve hours before we could get any real privacy?

Sheila:

Sean was across the line, but I let him run where he wished. At first, it seemed he was going to go seriously wrong, then he won it all back with a sweet gesture. I had come to understand the silk scarves were restraints, which made sense. Always get the client to handle the restraints. Sean took the one I had out and fondled it, then he gave it back.

I almost cried. First he had done a scene with imaginary restraints, which itself shows a great deal of trust. Then he recognized when he had overstepped. Finally, he returned the restraints, so that I could choose the time of their use. I did not have a single client I would trust that far. That said, I never married a client. It made an interesting symmetry.

This was my first time to the big airport in Philadelphia. Once was enough. We rushed to get on a flight to Los Angeles. According to Sean, most airlines stop running at eight thirty. Our flight, on NoName Air, was at 9:45 PM, probably because of extra bookings for Memorial Day. It would make our connection time tight. Worse, the flight was overbooked, so we were packed in like kids on a school bus. Even that was not enough. After us, they still had to load standby passengers. Lovely, but not without benefit. It gave me time to find Sean in the crowd. When he went to the facilities, I showed my ring to the woman sitting adjacent and asked if we could exchange seats. The word honeymoon was magical.

The flight to LAX was five hours. It was the first time I had been able to relax and chat with Sean in days. Given all that happened that week, this was not surprising, but that did not make it welcome. Instead we talked about all sorts of inconsequential things, like the way Sean's ice cream churn had gone over and the way Francine had hit it off with Dr. Foxworth. Eventually, talk drifted to our property group and my new position at Richards Enterprises. Somewhere in there, Sean turned cagey. I was not sure why. Eventually, we both napped. I could get used to sleeping against Sean's shoulder.

Los Angeles International Airport, LAX, is world famous. To me it looked like a bigger version of Philadelphia. We ran through the concourses to our new gate. This time it was Hawaiian Air. Near the desk was a man with my name on a card. Given the timing and the place, I could guess what it was about. Sean gave me no chance to speak to him. Instead he returned with a CD wallet. That was nice. I had not packed one. As expected, the contents were from Columbia Pictures.

We were interrupted by the boarding call. This time we had First Class seats. I stowed my carry on bag and started to get out my notebook. Sean stopped me, so he could give with a new computer. It was above top-of-the-line. Before I could say anything, Sean waved it off as a business expense. No wonder he did not want to talk about work. He had a point. It was the sort of laptop a business executive would carry.

He then gave me his present—a professional design suite, with tutorial, and a ton of online accesses. It was perfect. I wanted to learn design, for the work we would be doing on the house. I hugged him, but he cut off anything I might say, telling me he intended to extract sexual favors. I told him he had better, saving stronger language with difficulty. My pussy was a swamp. Sean took the opportunity to show that he carried the kangaroo hide lash in his computer bag. Correction, I only thought my pussy was a swamp. I did not dare sit down, or the dress would be soaked.

Since we had time during boarding, I took a turn in the toilet. Not only could I deal with the excess moisture, I wanted to extract the ben wa balls. Popping them out almost made me faint. With difficulty, I refrained from giving myself relief. After washing the balls, I tied them in the red scarf. Holding them up, two balls swinging in an improvised sack, I thought of another pair of balls and what I wanted to do to them. Oh my. Why had Sean scheduled us for a whole night apart?

As I exited the the toilet, a couple of the ladies saw the bag of balls and gave me knowing looks. I showed off the ring. Everyone got excited. One of them asked, "Are you, um...?" I nodded, blushing. She said, "Are you...?" I nodded again, blushing hotter. That brought a lot of exclamations, with many of them also blushing. I guess the Mile High Club is a popular fantasy with women as well as men.

A flight attendant shooed me away, with a wink. I made my way back to my seat and powered up the new laptop. It was Windows 8, so I needed to learn another new operating system. That kept me occupied until we were told to stow all electronics. Soon enough we were pressed into our seats by acceleration. For the first time, I left the continental United States.

Flights have rituals. Every flight has a safety briefing, telling you than the seat cushions float and that oxygen masks will drop down if there is pressure loss. After seeing one, you can tune them out. Once the plane reaches altitude, the flight attendants bring around drinks, then food. On the cross country flight, I picked at barely edible chicken and rice. This time I asked for vegetarian and received a tasty curry-like stewed vegetable dish, also with rice. On the side were green salad, fruit salad and a roll. Normally I do not eat much, but I inhaled all of this. Sean's dish looked like roast beef.

After the meal, we received drinks. I would have passed, but Sean asked for champagne. This led to our wedding being announced to all of First Class. Fine. Sean insisted I get more wine, or something stronger, to help me sleep. That was when the six AM arrival sank home. I drank a screwdriver while Sean had Irish whiskey. Eventually things started to settle in for the long ride, with several people trying to sleep. That was when the flight attendant winked at me and gestured toward the back.

Almost before I realized what was happening, Sean and I stood in the little hallway where the toilets stand. Another flight attendant gestured to a door, I went in, closely followed by Sean. There was barely room for one of us, much less two. Francine's advise made much more sense. Working my leg up beside Sean, I raised it over my head, then rested my ankle on his shoulder. His hands were busy below his waist. Once his member was clear of his pants, he shoved the skirt of my dress aside, then guided his prick into my waiting sex.


Postcards Ch. 01



As a quickie, it was at least as good as the one in the cloak room, but shorter. I had a little orgasm on entry. Sean lasted only a few strokes. I came again when I felt his warm seed. I was not longer a virgin in any sense, save anal. I expected to lose that one in the next few days. In the mean time I tried to memorize the smell of my husband, the feel of his hands on my ass, even the roughness of his trousers. Then he surprised me.

We turned, so that my back was to the sink. He told me to put my hands on the counter and be ready to take weight. Once I was ready Sean put his hand behind my knee and picked my other leg off the floor. With my knees and toes against the door, he ate me. His first touch was not gentle and it escalated from there. His tongue dragged across my exposed clit, then he sucked it like a soda straw. When he paused for a breath, I relaxed slightly, only to feel his teeth. My locked jaws kept me from screaming—barely.

As he set me down, he asked, "Was it worth the wait?"

Sean:

I fantasized my first airline sexual experience for twenty years. Nothing in my imagination came close. For one thing, no one could anticipate Sheila. Certain elements perhaps, such as her impossible measurements, but not her uncanny grace or wicked humor. It was flattering that she thought me her equal, much less head of her household. So, I tried to make the Mile High Club about her and for her.

In some ways it was easy. The crew had been tipped to our honeymoon. One of the fight attendants cued us that the way was clear. Once inside the commode, Sheila's flexibility made positioning simple. I could see how other couples were too cramped. The problem was pacing. Several days of building frustration primed both of us to blow, which we did. Fortunately, the sink gave me an idea. I had Sheila brace her arms, then picked up her free leg. With both thighs on my shoulders, I could slide into her crotch.

The position was awkward. I almost dropped Sheila a couple of times before I positioned things so I could lick her properly. Once I did, it was easy. Sheila's sex was spread wide. Even her clit was poking out of the hood. Since there was no need for foreplay, I went straight for the gold. Hearing her scream through locked jaws is one of my favorite memories of the trip. I asked her if it was worth the wait. She was too winded to reply.

After that, things had to go downhill. The seat was comfortable, but I was too keyed up to sleep. Sheila spent the time learning her new computer.



Postcards Ch. 02



Author's Note: This is another Sean and Sheila story. For the beginning, try Kitty & Teddy, LLC. This is more a travel chronicle than a sex story, though some airplane sex is required. ;-)

Chapter 1

Depart: 1:45 a.m.
Sat, May 26
Los Angeles, CA (LAX)

Arrive: 6:25 a.m.
Sun, May 27
Honolulu, HI (HNL)

Travel Time:
5 hr 40 mn
Distance:
2,556 miles
Flight: UA6041
Aircraft: Boeing 777-200
Fare Class: United First (Z)
Meal: Breakfast

Sean: 

The flight to LA turned out to be nicer than the flight to Hawaii. On the first leg, the narrow seats forced us together. We talked a lot about very little and a little about a lot of different things. It was a comfortable time, even though the physical crowding was inescapable. We even slept, leaning against each other.

The second leg, from LAX to Honolulu, was first class, including champagne. There was plenty of room. With the help of the fight attendant, we managed physical intimacy. When the time came, we could make a credible bed out of the seat. It was neither as comfortable or as relaxing as the crowded flight to LA.

The first surprise came after we touched down. As we exited the secure area, there were two signs with our names. I was not surprised to see one, because Helen is that kind of efficient. In that I was correct. Trina Brooks, the travel agent Richards Enterprises uses in Hawaii, came to meet us—at 6:00 AM on a Sunday. Unfortunately, it was to confirm that she had been unable to get the timeshare before Thursday. This happens when you book last minute for a holiday weekend. 

The unexpected sign was from Columbia Pictures—again. This time Aaron Aldermann sent us a wedding gift, in the form of a young man named George Kada. His title was Event Facilitator, but he was a bilingual gofer. The studio sent him to provide us with celebrity service. He and Trina practically hissed at each other. In one of the smarter moves of my newly married life, I looked to see what Sheila thought. 

Catching my glance, Sheila asked, "Is there any chance of getting a shower and an actual bed for a couple of hours. If not, we will crash in the club." That brought them both up short and they both recovered together. Trina said, "Let's get you breakfast, first." George finished, "We can work on bed and bath while you eat." They glared at each other, but I knew the look. We would be well taken care of. 

Sheila: 

There is something about forced intimacy that is memorable. When people tell their stories, stalled elevators and flat tires figure prominently. Our first flight was like that. We were shoe horned into an overbooked flight, but Sean and I had each other for company. It was nice. I even slept a bit. The second flight had many more creature comforts and Sean punched my Mile High Club ticket, but I spent much of the flight on my new laptop. Not a bit of sleep. When we reached Honolulu, it was 6:30 AM local time, but past noon on my body clock.

At the exit, we found two people pleasers waiting. One was a travel agent employed by Richards Enterprises. The other was from Aaron Aldermann and Columbia Pictures. They had that look and neither wore a ring. It made no difference. If either one could get what I wanted, I would let them start an affair in peace. Sean gave me the go ahead, so I went straight to the point. 

True to my first read, they answered like twins. Normally, I would bet they would be in bed before midnight, but it was early. My guess was before dinner, then food and more sex. Again, it made no difference. They were motivated to perform.

Breakfast could have been better, but I have had worse. Francine would have been in heaven. It was a buffet located just outside the airport. As we ate, Sean and I practiced nonverbal skills. He agreed that the two would probably leave us to find their own room. Normally, I would have taken Trina to the powder room, but I had studio leverage with George. Sean had similar pull with Trina. 

When it came time to head out, I went up with George to pay the bill. As the attendant was swiping the card, I mentioned Aaron Aldermann and stated that I would let him know how grateful I was. Then I inquired about the plans. We would be getting backdoor service at a small hotel. The room was rented, but already empty. Provided we were out by noon, everything was good. I told him that he and Trina should stay close, but [wink][wink] I did not think we would need him for anything. George had the courtesy to blush.

When I checked with Sean, he gave me the go ahead, so we went to the hotel. Before eight o'clock Sean and I were in the shower. He shaved me and I shaved him. When we collapsed on the bed, I could not stay awake long enough to kiss Sean good night. My mistake. Sean kissed me awake to fix the problem.

My honeymoon proved what an asset an experienced friend can be, or not. I had packed my carry-on bag the night before. What I opened bore no similarity. Instead of two basic changes and three sets of underwear, I found one nice outfit, four sets of matched designer underwear, a one piece swimsuit, sunglasses and four smaller bags—a toilet kit, a small drugstore (strictly over-the-counter), condoms and toys, and makeup. On the top was a note: "Get tourist clothes to wear on the plane. FM" You have to love her or strangle her.

We were short on time and I was short on clothes. Sean threw on a pair of shorts and a golf shirt. I held up the slinky black thing that Francine had packed for me. Sean made a valiant effort not to laugh, then gave it up. He made it up to me with a hug, then undid it by watching me put on the lacy bra and panties. There was no point in even asking about the corset. I managed to get the bag closed, with it inside, before there was a knock on the door.

Trina had managed to put most of her look back on. George had not tried. It would have been pointless to try hiding the hickey just behind his jaw. They both saw the direction of my gaze. Trina blushed, but George's nostrils flared. Interesting. I opened my bag long enough to find an antibiotic ointment. George's shirt was off before I had a chance to say anything. As I dabbed ointment on his scratches, I whispered in his ear, "Resale shops usually have old silk ties. They have so many uses." George did not reply, but his breathing quickened. 

The irony of him getting some, while I was not getting any—on my honeymoon—was almost painful.

Sean: 

I have had spur of the moment decisions work out well. Hiring CC was one example. Seeing Sheila without die stille Mädchen seemed slightly off. It was already natural to think of them as a unit, though they had only been together a little over a week. It had never been voiced, but I knew that if I wanted a threesome, I had only to ask. Indeed, Jo indicated that CC was more sexually expert than Sheila. 

All that was speculation, because I was getting very frustrated. For reasons that were now unclear, I had us flying halfway around the world, past the International Date Line, in just over a day. Nineteen of those twenty six hours were in the air, plus all the time changing planes. It reminded me of the dreaded Space A (seating if and when available) on MilAir (military transport). 

Our time in the hotel was inappropriate, illegal, and worth every cent of the bribe. It said interesting things that the room was available this easily on a holiday weekend. Even more interesting, Trina had offered it with no sign of reluctance. It made me wonder how common this sort of thing was in Hawaii—and elsewhere. It would not shock me to learn that it was business as usual, at least for non-Americans. 

Regardless, the time had come for us to haul ass, but Sheila had nothing both suitable and clean to wear. Correction, she had a matched set of lacy undergarments. I could loan her a shirt, but my pants would be hopeless. Fortunately, Francine had a suggestion. Sheila put the old dress back on. Without the corset, the fit was snug, which meant the dress had been tailored. I might as well get used to that. In most cases, Sheila and off the rack did not compute and not just because of her measurements. 

When Trina and George walked into the room, they both did double takes of Sheila, then a third. Neither chose to speak, but I guessed Trina had first noticed the same dress, then noticed the different fit. George was likely trying to figure out what was different. I told them that we wanted to grab some casual clothes before we hit the airport. George just nodded, but a light went on in Trina's head. I caught her eye and looked pointedly at my wrist. Even though I wore no watch, she understood my point. 

As it happened, we had to go only a block to find a strip mall. Rather than go to the T-shirt store, Sheila and Trina headed for a resale shop. I was a bit worried, because of the schedule, but Sheila clearly knew her way around. In less than 15 minutes, there was a stack of things on the counter, while I searched for my Army Reserve ID. Back in the car, I sat in front with George, so that Sheila and Trina could argue with the luggage. 

Rather than park the car, George pulled up in front of the terminal. Trina got out and hugged Sheila. I shook hands with George, then embraced Trina as she wished. While I did so, Sheila walked around to George's window and handed him a small package rolled in a checkout bag. George flushed, turned white, then blushed for real. What could Sheila find in a consignment store to produce that sort of reaction?

Once we were on our own again, we rushed through the lobby to security check in. We were in luck concerning the length of the lines. Even better, the lines moved quickly. Once through, Sheila and I headed straight for the restrooms. I relieved the hydraulic pressure and made it back out in plenty of time see Sheila emerge. Wow. I was tempted to brag about my girlfriend, because Sheila's outfit brought out the teenager in me. 

In theory, it was a simple print, white and pink flowers on a red background. It was mid length, but I suspected it was a full length Petite or Misses size. It had to be, because the waist fit. This meant that Sheila's incredible breasts filled the dress to overflowing. Woof. But, that was not all. Completing the outfit were a white handbag and white wedgie sandals. Sheila had her hair pulled over her shoulder, held in place with a fancy clip. It was how I posed it our first meeting. Peeking out of the handbag was the red silk scarf. 

Sheila was discretely saying she wanted to give up all control. There was nothing I could do about it, yet, so I made do with a close hug. I whispered in her ear, "It looks like rain. I need to get out the umbrella." Sheila got a little wet right then. From that day on, "umbrella" was a loaded term and weather references often carried double meaning. 

Sheila: 

My time with Sean was regrettably short, but I had other issues. I could tell Francine's repacking was going to come in handy—the magic bullet dildo jumped to mind—but it left me short a set of clothing. Realizing I could find something at the airport, if necessary, I put on clean lingerie and the wrinkled dress. Temporary measures are rarely comfortable. 

Our guides were at the door. My unkempt outfit was the first thing Trina noticed. George was oblivious. He was keen on getting us to the airport, but the three of us overruled him. Having Sean's backing, without needing to ask for it, was becoming one of my favorite things. George need not have worried. There was a suitable resale shop practically next door.

The Clothes Line was a consignment shop, rather than a thrift store. As soon as I made it through the door, my camera came out. It was not large, but the array of bright colors was breathtaking. Francine would be jealous. It was the sort of place that deserved a whole afternoon, but I could spare 15 minutes tops. Since Trina had come in with me, I sent her to find accessories in white. I then asked the owner what she had for my size, knowing it was unlikely. 

I assumed she would try a sarong or similar wrap. To my surprise, Ioki, the owner, took me to the teen section and began pulling out dresses. The second one was perfect. It was a red cotton print, with white lotus and pink hibiscus blossoms. It was thin enough in the waist, always the first problem, with the bosom designed to be loose and blousey. On me the dress was snug enough in the waist and almost adequate up top. I would have liked it a bit longer. though it was probably intended as full length, it was just past knee length on me. To compensate, the irregular bottom hem made the length look intentional.

I did not make it to the mirror. Trina's face, when I emerged from the changing room, was sufficient. She had found a nice pair of cork wedge sandals and a white bag with gold fittings. Both hit the floor as she gaped. It is usually nice to get reactions, but this was a bit much. Ioki expressed her amusement with a birdlike twitter, then made another contribution. It was a lovely brass hair clip, lacquered white at the grips. I pulled my mop to one side and let Ioki set the teeth. Only then did I look in the mirror.

I almost did not recognize myself. It is rare that I find anything fitted to fit me and the bustier accentuates the problem. So I buy tailored. Since I have my clothing made, the styles tend to be uniform and conservative. There was nothing conservative about this outfit. It was flamboyant, sexy, yet still showed class. I knew Sean would love it. Out came the camera and Trina took a picture of me with Ioki. 

On the way to the register, I passed a rack of mens ties. I grabbed a handful without looking. Some would be for Sean to use later, but a few would go to George. He could let Trina use them, or not. I also resolved to find something to thank Ioki for her expertise. That would be trickier. It was something to think about as I changed my things from one handbag to the other

It was fortunate that I had a puzzle to consider, because it kept me from worrying about Sean's reaction. George's was everything I could hope for, but Sean's reaction made my day. He pursed his lips to whistle. Then he pulled me into one of his full body hugs. I smiled, at the thought of my Teddybear giving bear hugs. It was so comforting to give myself into his embrace that I almost missed his comment. I would never again think about umbrellas without remembering that moment. 

Sometimes you have the best times when you are not having a good time.

Chapter 2

Depart: 2:15 p.m.
Sun, May. 27
Guam (GUM)

Arrive: 6:00 p.m. +1 Day
Mon, May. 28
Honolulu, HI (HNL)

Travel Time:
7 hr 45 mn
Distance:
3,801 miles
Flight: UA2011
Aircraft: Boeing 777-200
Fare Class: United Business (Z)
Meal: Lunch

Sean: 

When we reached the gate, a virtual fist fight was in progress. It was virtual in the sense that both men were battling only with wills and words, but the intent for physical harm was clearly stated in their body language. My Japanese is rudimentary, but I gathered that both believed they deserved First Class seating, but only one would be able to upgrade. I waved an airline employee over.

It took little time to explain that Sheila and I were in First Class, but that we would be willing to move down if they could find me an itinerary I liked. He escorted me to the counter, where a senior employee performed her magic in the booking computer. Helen had not been able to find a flight to Kwajalein Atoll, but airline employees have better access. The solution was not perfect—no First Class was available—but we could get to Kwajalein on Monday and depart on Wednesday, skipping Guam on the flight back. The airline would refund the difference between First Class and Economy, pay for the hotel on Guam, plus give us triple miles. 

That should have settled it, but I forgot about Japanese honor. Lord protect us from those saving face. The two Japanese businessmen heard that we were giving up our seats. Accompanied by an airline employee named Kiku to interpret, they insisted on thanking us. Sheila stood two steps back, on my left, with her purse clutched in both hands and eyes down. The two businessmen were too refined to stare, but their eyes kept flicking to Sheila.

Things started the usual way. They insisted I take their First Class seats. It was possibly even a valid offer, which would allow both to step down gracefully. I declined of course. They politely inquired as to my name and occupation. That was when things became bumpy. One of them had done business with Richards Enterprises import/export division, which put him on the mailing list for the catalog. It was a small fucking world.

That put the conversation in a wholly different light. I could not deny knowledge, but I hoped it would end there. Things like the catalog were hot topics of discussion in Japan, but not in airport terminals. No such luck. The one without a catalog offered to take the coach seat in exchange for one. This was a serious offer, but one I was not going to take. A catalog was a cheap favor, which would get me a new business contact. This was also good face. 

The PA interrupted the next comment, announcing First Class boarding. Sheila held out her cell phone, with the number displayed large. She was offering to exchange numbers. Since she had not been part of the conversation, this was irregular, I needed to introduce her. The question was how—wife or Vice President. I decided wife would be less complicated. Talking directly, I fumbled my way through the introduction. Foolish of me, but I am proud of my spouse.

The older of the two nodded, as if this cleared up an inconsistency. Normally a Japanese person of importance talks through subordinates. In family matters, this pattern is often reversed. The younger man was startled. The charitable view is that he assumed Sheila was an employee of such low status that she was not allowed to speak. The alternative is much worse. 

He was quite embarrassed and tried to cover with a compliment and polite show of interest. Sheila did demure very well. She accepted the compliment with a simple nod of the head. Given that she was American, that was close enough. Unfortunately, the polite interest took the form of a question—how long had we been married? I did not have to answer, because Sheila's color did it for me. Even the older one expressed shock. 

That was it. Both firmly insisted on trading their First Class seats for our Economy seats. Honor demand it. In exchange, I promised to email them each a picture from our wedding. On cue, Sheila brought up the two of us on the merry-go-round. They were bowing happily when they stepped into the boarding queue. We could have gone at any time, since we were now back in First Class, but I wanted to give Kiku a gift. Again, Sheila anticipated me. This time she chose the four women, walking arm in arm in their ball gowns. From Kiku's wide eyed stare, it was clear she recognized Francine. Then she gasped and covered her open mouth.

I was getting tired of these small world moments. I was not surprised that Kiku recognized Francine. She has a bloggers posting her every move, often with pictures. This went deeper. I later found out that the Beacon's Sunday coverage had been picked up by AP, Reuters and BBC. Kiku had figured out exactly which wedding the pictures were from. This was not going well.

I never had a chance to say anything more. Kiku, in a very American mode, embraced Sheila and dashed off. I could not help but notice how much better Sheila was at running in heels. While we were working through the gate, the story was working through the airline staff. When we boarded, the Lead Flight Attendant helped us to our seats and stowed our baggage. 

Champagne arrived without request. All the female attendants felt the need to touch Sheila. The males gave me appraising looks. It had to stop. I motioned the Lead Attendant over. She already understood that things needed to calm down. I cut the apology short and told her that Sheila would be glad to show some photos, but not for a couple of hours. I also told her about the two Japanese men in Economy. She assured me that something could be arranged for their next flight.




Postcards Ch. 02



Then I settled in for eight hours of flying over water.

Sheila: 

Martha once told me of a party she had attended. As a game, the couples told of things that went wrong after their weddings. One teen bride spoke of not drinking all morning, then draining half the communion cup during the Mass. She was plastered at the reception. One man told of skipping carnal relations so that he could catch the Packers vs. Bears playoff game. One college professor told of having their flight grounded by weather and spending the wedding night with nowhere to go. Someone asked what they wound up doing. He sprung the trap, "I don't think that's any of your business." His very attractive wife said, "Stan, what did we do?" Face palm time.

My honeymoon was going to be one of those stories, but I was loving it. Teddybear thought he was in control, but it was an illusion. I trailed along, channeling Christine and that professor's wife. The idea was to hide in plain sight. I was surprised how easy it was and how well it looked. Dressed as arm candy, I attracted appraising looks from almost all the men. Sean may not have realized it, but he was in full bear mode.

The situation at the at the boarding gate was illustrative. Sean heard a couple of Japanese businessmen arguing. I learned later it was about which could get the last First Class upgrade. Sean, always the businessman, went to the counter and offered our seats if the airline could get us where Sean wanted to go. I have great faith in Helen's abilities, but we were booking late for Memorial Day weekend. She could not make a connection. A young man quickly fixed that. 

Sean thought that would end things, because he was focused on his deal, not the larger dynamic. I expected ripples and was not disappointed. The two Japanese men were enjoying their argument and did not willingly give it up. When they insisted on thanking us, Sean tried to be obsequious, which is a stretch at best, worse when he gets protective. I found it interesting that one of the Japanese men picked up on it, but the other did not. 

An airline representative named Kiku served as a translator. She was clearly out of her depth, because she was fooled by my disguise. She understood that Sean was bristling threats, but not why. When Richards Enterprises was mentioned, the effect was dramatic. The younger man did regular business on the import side. His scorn evaporated to the point he was making genuine apologies. The older one looked amused until I came up.

They did not know it was me, of course. As a regular business associate, the younger man had received the auction catalog. When it was mentioned, the older man took notice. Sean told me my name would be world famous, but this was ridiculous. To move things along, I pulled up Sean's contact information in 18 point. In a bad move on my part, I showed it to them, instead of giving it to Sean. That brought me into the conversation. Sean bypassed Kiku and introduced me himself. Even the younger one picked up on his pride.

Sean's business stature caused a change in the nature of the conversation, but nothing like this. Both the Japanese men reevaluated me. The older one nodded, as if Sean's protectiveness now made sense. The younger one realized he had come close to stepping in a steaming pile. As he back filled, he put his foot squarely in the middle of another issue. 

It was innocent enough. He payed me a compliment and asked how long we had been married. I could accept the flattery with grace, but how was I to say we had been married less than a day? I felt my color rise, which led to shock from both of the businessmen and Kiku. From that point, there was no option. We had to accept our First Class Seats back. 

Neither of them would hear of any objection, which I understood. Even a dignitary will differ to a newlywed bride. The problem was how to acceptably say thank you. Simple words were not enough. I nodded deeply to each of them. Being American, my lack of style was forgivable. In this case, the thought counted. Then I asked Kiku to have them call my phone. There was a moment of confusion, but they complied. 

Rather than a picture of the ceremony, I chose to send them the two of us in the carrousel. That seemed to do the trick. They each bowed two or three times before they moved to board the plane. That left Kiku, who had been a good sport in a difficult position. For her, I chose an image of me with Christine, Siobhan and Francine. It was another misstep. Sean had warned me my image work would make me famous. He said nothing of my wedding. Kiku recognized Francine and jumped straight to the right conclusion.

She said something that probably translates to, "Oh my G_d", then grabbed me. I was not prepared for an embrace, but allowed her to work through her fluster. At the time, I did not know that the Honolulu paper had run Frank Costello's story about our wedding. Kiku informed me that she had been following it for days. Oy vey. If she had, then all the girls she had lunch with had too. There was no escaping it.

Sure enough, once we had moved into the aircraft, the attendants rolled out the VIP carpet. Before I was fully settled in, a glass flute of champagne was on my tray. Francine lives for this kind of thing. I was willing to donate my share. Fortunately, Sean was able to calm things down a bit, but I could hear whispers all over First Class. 

All things pass. Eventually we were airborne. That was when I found out about Frank's article going worldwide. The Honolulu Star-Advertiser was not the only paper. I was asked to sign the London Times and the South China Post as well. When Newsweek and People came out, we went through the whole thing again. Sean was surprised we would make glossy publications. Then Barrons hit the stands, with a new article by Winifred Smith and Michael Gordon. People wanted Sean's autograph.

That was yet to come. Once we were airborne and meals had been served, Sean took me to the bathroom stall again. Rather than have me against the wall, Sean pushed down his pants and drawers, then sat on the toilet. Looking up at me, he pulled down my panties and let me step out of them. After a long sniff, they went in his shirt pocket. I pulled up my dress skirts and straddled him. My first small orgasm came before he had penetrated my folds.

Not for the first time, I was glad I had Siobhan for a sister. She and Christine had long IM talks on a range of subjects. One thing they discussed at length was Christine's version of Latte, which has nothing to do with coffee. The other night, Siobhan's scholarly toned and clinical descriptions made my pussy moist. This was my chance to try it out. I kissed Sean and told him to leave everything to me. 

Lubrication was not an issue. Sean had kept me on sexual edge for days, with only momentary release. Some of that had not been intentional, but results were what mattered. The other side was that Sean was probably primed to blow. As with many areas of my life, pace was everything.

Sean gasped as I lowered myself onto his erect member. I reveled in the fullness, taking a moment to orient. When my pussy squeezed down, Sean gave another gasp. It was nice to know all the years of vaginal exercises had not been wasted. It was almost as if I had been preparing for this moment all my adult life. Maybe I had been, without realizing it. Whatever. For the first time in weeks, I felt fully prepared.

Now that I had tested the milker, it was time to do the grind. In this I had an advantage over Christine, in that I had seen a demonstration. It was done fully clothed, in Casual Sex?, an otherwise forgettable romance movie. The actress was Mary Gross, who seemed so girl-next-door. It always gave me hope. 

Siobhan's description was long and involved, but the concept was simple—roll up then roll back. The practical application took some trial and error. Getting the friction right was an issue. If I bore down hard, the sensation was too intense and Sean would come quickly. Letting up entirely, I could maintain the tension, but not increase it. I wanted some variety in the technique, both to give Sean a satisfying experience, but also to get one myself. 

I settled into a rhythm. I would roll forward and down while clenching my vagina til Sean's penis brushed my cervix. That sent stars through my vision and the effect on Sean looked similar. I would release and do two or three cycles before bearing down again. The plan was to get as much of Sean's milk into my pussy as possible. Hopefully, I could do that without passing out. 

As plans go, I have had worse. It did not take long to get both of us breathing heavily. I backed off on the tension, to prolong the build up. One clench in three became one in five, but Sean started to cool. I clenched twice in a row and almost brought him. I worked through one in four for a while, then brought him to the edge again. One more respite before the big finale. 

I rested, doing nothing but grind for several moments. When Sean was as relaxed as he ever was going to get, I bore down hard through a full grind cycle, then stood up enough that only his head was in my tunnel. Clenching my pussy for all it was worth, I dropped my full weight onto his lap. When I hit bottom, Sean's prick hit my cervix and the airplane disappeared. This was not seeing stars; everything went white. I am almost certain I lost consciousness, at least for a moment. 

When I was able to see normally, Sean looked like he had run a 10K in a personal best time. It was certainly how I felt. His arms pulled me close as we both fought for air. Some undefined time later, we kissed and started to untangle. I had only to smooth the dress, though I expected to leak on it when I sat down. Sean took a moment to wipe our combined fluids off his member, before he pulled up his pants and refastened his belt. I grabbed a handful of paper towels for later. 

We were about to leave the cubical, when I noticed my panties in Sean's shirt pocket. He followed my gaze and pulled the panties out. Smiling, he thrust them most of the way into his pants pocket. That done, he gave me another hug and opened the door—to a cheering gallery. 

Sean: 

Every time I think I have Sheila figured out, she shocks the hell out of me. 

On the flight to Hawaii, we punched our tickets in the Mile High Club. I was not even thinking that way when we boarded the plane for Guam. Instead, I was coping with our sudden celebrity status. First the Japanese businessmen had a copy of the catalog, then the flight crew were starry eyed over our wedding. We were even asked for autographs. The big line of reporters outside the gate should have tipped me off, but I don't think of myself that way. Sheila yes, eventually, but not me.

Once we were in flight, things settled back to routine. Meals were served, books and magazines came out, movies were started. Without anything specific in mind, I took Sheila to the commode. Once we were inside I dropped my drawers and pulled down her undies and sniffed them. That was when Sheila took control. 

To pull down Sheila's panties, I parked on the commode. Though I had dropped my pants and drawers already, sitting was purely for convenience. Since I was already seated, Sheila could simply pull up her skirts and straddle me. I was OK with that. Sheila let out a throaty sound when she settled onto my cock. So far so good. What next?

Almost as soon as my mind posed the question, Sheila's impossibly tight pussy squeezed my prick. Again, so far so good. Then, Sheila started moving—without moving. Sitting perfectly straight on my lap, she began to pump on my cock. At the same time, she was gripping and releasing it, without ever letting it go. I thought my previous lovers were skilled, but nothing had ever felt like this. 

Describing it takes longer than the reality, but the reality stretched on and on. Sheila could read me like the morning paper and was a mistress of timing. The night before the wedding, I gave her a five minute time limit. Sheila teased me for about four minutes and fifty seconds, then ended it roughly. This was more in the same vein. Once, twice, three times she brought me to the edge, then backed off. I was panting like the last hundred yards of a close race. She was not much better. 

For the ending, Sheila returned to an old method. Breaking her rhythm, she partly stood, til I was almost out, then let gravity do the rest. The sensation of my prick slammed into her end wall pushed me over the edge. I spurted like a fire hose for at least three spasms, maybe more. While this was going on, Sheila's eyes rolled back, then came back down. She may have lost consciousness for a second. When I put my arms around her, she was limp as a washrag.

When our tiny room stopped moving, I kissed Sheila and helped her stand. We both grabbed paper towels, myself to wipe the cum off my privates. Sheila may have intended her towels to protect her dress. This was wise, since I had no intention of returning the panties. Even if I was willing, I doubt Sheila would want to wear anything yet. I opened the door to find we had drawn a crowd.

It was one of those moments you wonder about later. I am sure most of the men were in awe of my prowess. Sheila looked well fucked and I felt done out. The issue was that I was too tired to care. Sheila, who is intensely private, barely blushed. We staggered back to our seats and collapsed. My one clear recollection is of the lead flight attendant staring, open mouthed. 

I did not sleep so much as pass out. Some time later, I came to long enough to notice a blanket had been put over me. It was not until we were about an hour from Guam that I finally woke up. Sheila was working away at the laptop I had given her. She paused to blow me a kiss, keeping a little smile as she returned to her work. I tried to do the same, only to find I had no reception. Instead, I went back to sleep, not to be woken til final approach.

Guam is a little spot in a lot of blue. During my time in the Army, I had passed through twice, but never left the airfield. On one occasion, we did not even deplane. When I made plans for the trip, stopping here was an unexpected benefit. While an American protectorate, Guam leans heavily to Japan for its culture. I always wanted to see it. Unfortunately, we were again scheduled to catch a plane, though this time we had a layover worth mentioning. We would have time for dinner and a real bed, though not a whole night.

As we began to leave the plane, I was surprised to have Kiku waving to us. She must have been one of the flight attendants in Business or Economy class. She told us that the two businessmen wished to take us out to dinner. Given the way our identity had spread before the flight, I suspected they had seen a newspaper with our picture. I wanted time alone with my wife, but it was not to be. Even if I was willing to offend the businessmen, Sheila would not refuse Kiku.

Sheila and I took our bags into the restroom. I had changed to a clean shirt and underwear and added a tie. I knew from experience how to keep my jacket mostly unwrinkled, so I thought myself presentable under the circumstances. Then Sheila emerged in a simple dress, pattern stockings and heels, all in black. It was a traffic stopper of an outfit. Not for the first time, I felt like a duck next to a swan. When we met the two businessmen again, they politely greeted me, but their eyes were only for Sheila. If I had any doubts about her loyalty, their attitude would have grated. Instead, I was amused. 

Kiku told us that they would like us to try a quality Japanese meal, since they knew there was none in the United States. I thanked them and did my best to slide into Japan mode. To Kikusan, I explained that Sheila had almost no experience with Japanese food, but that she was a very quick study of manners and protocol. I knew Sheila would surprise her, but I did my best to give warning. The two businessmen were on their own.

The restaurant was called Lotus Blossom. It clearly catered to an international clientele, since signs were in English, Japanese, Chinese and Korean. Kikusan was the designated spokesperson. We shed our shoes and were shown to a private room. I was given the place of honor, with Sheila in the wife's position. Had I any doubt, Kikusan explained the protocol as we went. Before taking my position, I asked to properly introduce myself and my wife. I had hoped to avoid bringing this up, since it was sure to cause embarrassment, but I could not keep thinking of them as Older and Younger.

Kikusan performed the introduction with no prompting, confirming my belief that she had figured out exactly who we were and where we were from. Unsurprisingly, I was introduced as part of the Richards clan. The older businessman was named Takenaka Kenji, of the Toki clan, Takenaka being the family name. The younger was named Abe Hotaka, of the Abe clan. I began to understand why the younger was not particularly deferential to the elder. Abe clan outranked Toki clan and Hotakasan was direct line, not scion.

Introductions complete, we knelt at our places. Tea arrived. Kikusan served everyone. As we sipped the first cup, an American looking woman asked for our orders. When I asked Kikusan to ask Kenjisan to order for us, she immediately looked to him, indicating she understood English. She also understood Japanese, since Kenjisan spewed out an order with no hesitation. Before she left, our order taker asked if Sheila or I would need assistance. I told Kikusan that her assistance would be quite sufficient. 

Sheila had been silent to this point. Once we were again alone, she extended her tea cup to Kikusan. As Kikusan filled it, Sheila asked if a question would be permitted. Kikusan bowed and made the inquiry. Permission was granted. Sheila asked how the two men's ancestors had brought honor to the Sons of Nippon. It was shrewdly done, because we did not have to say another word for the rest of the evening. 

As elder, Kenjisan went first. He told of his great grandfather's meritorious service in the Burma campaign during WW II. Prior to that, his great, great grandfather had served on board ship during the Russo-Japanese War. He had witnessed the destruction of the Russian fleet by the holy-wind (kamikaze). His family were artisans associated with the Honda group of businesses. 

Hotakasan was from minor nobility. His clan could trace ancestry to an Emperor. His great uncle had been a naval pilot, killed at Midway and his grandfather had commanded a succession of naval craft, until his death in 1943. His thrice great grandfather had been an envoy to China during the Boxer rebellion. The family owned several businesses which supplied services and parts to Sony. 

While our hosts were talking about themselves, the meal passed in front of us. To my tastes, it was no better than we had in Philadelphia, with the exception of the grilled fish. That was excellent. The vegetables, rice, sushi and condiments were all what could be eaten in a good restaurant back home. For the fish, I suspect it was fresh off the boat, if not off the pier.

While our hosts were playing one up with each other, Kikusan was watching Sheila with growing fascination. I must admit, Sheila is easy to watch, but Kikusan was raised in a culture that values grace and fluidity. I think she payed attention at first only because I had warned her, but she was soon pulled into the perfection that is Sheila. 

The dinner ended with warm sake. I was reluctant and Sheila does not drink alcohol. That was OK for her, but I could not refuse. In spite of napping on the plane, my eyes started drooping. When we rose to leave, Kenjisan noticed Sheila's grace, for the first time I think. Kiku gave him no time to stare by expressing my admiration for the meal—it had been good--and for the two of them. I did my best to bow correctly (I'd had training, but not Sheila's talent). 




Postcards Ch. 02



Outside we stood at the taxi stand. Hotakasan offered the first cab to us, but Kikusan declined for us. I found it interesting the he was doing all the talking. That was the subordinate's role. In spite of the difference in rank, Hotakasan deferred to his elder. 

When the cab departed, Kiku almost exploded, "I thought they would never leave. Come on."

Sheila: 

I understand Christine in many ways, but her exhibitionism eludes me. I was shocked and a bit appalled that we had people listening at the door. That said, I felt proud that Sean's virility was demonstrated. Admiring looks were everywhere, from both sexes. I was happy to give him all the credit. I just wanted the dividend. I was not checking an ovulation tester, but the timing was about right. 

That thought, added to my post coital glow, wafted me into a nice nap. When I rejoined the flight, most of first class was asleep. It seemed like a perfect time to examine my new computer and the CAD package Sean gave me.

Design always intrigued me. Certain things were right, while other things were not. In architectural design, I was often distressed with how the functional interacted with the esthetic. The saying is that form follows function, but often the form inhibits the function, or it services only one function. For example, my old apartment wasted about 30 square feet on unneeded hallway. Converting that space to storage would make the apartment much more livable. 

That apartment was history, though we might keep it to have a place in town. However, Sean had given me a whole floor in the old house to play with. To learn the controls, I tried recreating Siobhan's room from memory. I was getting close to having the windows right when the lights came up in the cabin. I reached over and nudged Sean. 

Landing was a drawn out process. Had I realize how long it would take, I would have let Sean sleep another fifteen minutes. Had I known what was coming, I would have found a way to hide. In succession we were approached by Kiku, which I did not mind, and the two businessmen, which I did. We were quickly sucked into a reenactment of the date in Philadelphia. If anything, the restaurant was a step down, though just as pretentious.

Part of it was easy. I wanted them to do all the talking, so I asked about their families. As expected, the older one, Kenjisan, came from lesser family. Though he was older and more accomplished, he deferred in many ways to Hotakasan. All I had to do was keep my eyes on my food and let Hotakasan's mouth pass the time. It gave me an opportunity to study Kikusan's mannerisms. 

Kikusan was about my age, i.e. late 20s. I quickly found her giving me nonverbal cues, much like dealing with Christine. Following her hands, rather than her voice, I found the meal very instructive. I almost lost it when I realized she considered Hotakasan a bigger bore than I did. 

The dark spot was when he started talking about going to Hollywood. Sony owns Columbia Pictures. We may not have been eating with Aaron Aldermann's boss, but I would not be surprised if they knew each other. Fortunately, the moment passed quickly. Hotakasan wanted to talk about Sony's next age, not yet released electronics. If he was not such an ass, I might have been interested.

Not soon enough, I declined an offer of warm sake. That was followed by the rituals of departure. In this Kikusan was invaluable. Mirroring her, I bowed to Kenjisan and Hotakasan. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I detected subtle approval in Kenjisan's answering bow. Him, I could do business with. Hotakasan needed to be slapped a few times by reality. 

Kikusan summoned cabs and Sean insisted they take the first one. When the cab finally pulled away, Kiku relaxed and invited us along in her cab. Sean asked where she was taking us. It was almost 9:00 PM and we had an 8:20 AM flight. Kiku promised to get us some rest and to the flight on time. 

She did not promise to get us to our hotel, because she was taking us home, for some definitions of home. A group of flight attendants leased a large flat close to the night clubs. They had a place to shower, secure storage, quiet beds and a kitchen. Socializing was done elsewhere. We saw the flat long enough to drop our things. In the next building was something very like a campus coffeehouse. Kiku led us into sudden quiet. 

The reason was obvious. We were dressed like American tourists. Half the people in the bar were in airline uniforms of some kind. Kiku simply used the silence to introduce us—in Japanese and something else, Philippine maybe, or Korean. Then she said, in English, the merry-go-round wedding. Sean blushed, which was a first.

It appeared no other introduction was needed. Justin had released several still photos and clips of the ceremony, our ride on the carrousel and the dance. Entertainment Tonight had picked it up for the Francine angle. I gathered there were already YouTube videos. Needless to say, we were the hit of the evening.

We stayed three very educational hours. Sean found a dozen people—mostly men, though there was a French woman pilot—to talk business with. I was mobbed by the female population. We talked esthetics, mostly. My wedding dress was a central topic. When I mentioned the corset, talk moved to figure control. Flight attendants have to stay thin. 

Somewhere along the way, Kiku asked where I had studied etiquette. Somewhat confused, I told her I only studied dance. This brought several nods. When I asked what they were nodding about, Kiku said that I moved too well to be untrained. Picking up how I had followed her mannerisms, she told me that I had bowed correctly for a person of her station, but not my own. 

Fifteen confusing minutes followed, after which I called time. Kiku then showed me four basic bows that would suit most situations. They all said I did remarkably well for an American. I opened the door again by asking when to use each one. It suffices to say that Japanese courtesy is complicated.

The owner of the bar, simply called Mamasan, decided to offer us tea. I recognized this as an honor, but also as a teaching moment. With apologies for the unsuitable setting, our hostess had a young girl, called Murisan, serve us formal tea. Kiku coached me quietly at each step, while Murisan carefully placed the cups, measured the leaves, poured, stirred and served. Each action had several distinct elements, but the point was to do all of them in a single fluid motion. 

The entire process took several minutes. Long before it was complete, I noticed that all the talking had stopped. Only Kiku's quiet voice broke the silence. When all was completed, Murisan lowered her hands and her eyes. That had to be my cue. Using one of the four bows Kiku had shown me, I said, "Domo Murisan. Arigato." 

Murisan looked up and flashed a toothy grin. Mamasan shooed her off to bed, since it was a school night. After Murisan had gone, Mamasan turned to Kiku and asked her to thank me for her daughter's education. It was not often a great lady would come to call, much less one so gracious and polite. 

Great lady?

Sean: 

Kiku took us to a flat, where we dropped our bags. Next door was Teahouse/Sake Bar that also served Starbucks. Francine would love it. To that end I stuffed a menu in my pocket. In short order Sheila was dragged off for girl talk. I was not left alone. News of Sheila's commode top performance had spread, though I was getting the credit. Knowing I was not that good made it very easy to be humble.

Still, one thing led to another and I started talking shop with a Hawaiian clothing importer. Trade restrictions, import duties and officious inspectors are the same the world over. Imports turned to general business. Guam has two main industries—US military and Japanese tourism. Some call it Japan's Hawaii, though it is more like their Puerto Rico. Hawaii is the Japanese Hawaii. 

Talking shop lasted a while. Several people came and went. The Air France pilot was quite interesting. My bad French was the first she had heard in weeks. She knew of our wedding, but did not want to brave Sheila's circle of admirers. It was a good thing she was paying attention to Sheila, otherwise I would have missed the start of the formal tea.

It would be easy to say this was not really a formal tea, because many things were off or simply wrong. Like Sheila's dance with Francine, which was not really ballet, that would belie the seriousness of the young girl and Sheila's focus on her. Quickly the talk through the whole house died as we watched the dance of hands and utensils that is a Tea Ceremony. Sheila's rapt attention is one of my enduring memories of the trip.

When it was done, everyone congratulated the girl, who grinned widely. One of the others had a video camera out. With some translation help, I was able to get a copy of the video on a thumb drive. By the time that was finished, Sheila and I needed to go. Kiku led us back to the flat, where we took a quick shower and crashed on a futon. 

Much too soon, we needed to get back on an airplane.

Sheila: 

After Murisan's performance, it was time to go. Sean was talking business, through multiple intermediaries. A thumb drive was produced and handed to Sean for some cash. My interest spiked. Sean handed more money to someone and waved at the room. That's my Teddybear, buying a round he would not drink.

Kiku led us back to the flat, where we enjoyed a shower and fell asleep on a futon, covered only by a sheet. We had missed our hotel reservations, but that was nothing. I would not trade the Tea Ceremony for all the money I owned. I also slept like a rock.

Kiku woke us while it was still dark. She brought in a tray with tea, rice grilled fish and a London Times. On the front of the Entertainment section was a picture of me dancing with Francine. At least it was under the fold. 

We ate our simple breakfast. Before we finished, Kiku returned bearing gifts—lots of gifts. The Tea House had joined together to give us souvenirs. There were pictures, hand crafts, jewelry, shells, all of the things people buy to take home. Though we were on Guam only fourteen hours, we have as much memorabilia as the rest of the trip combined. One item that touched Sean was a folder from the WW II memorials, in both English and Japanese. I was at a loss what to say. Sean used that. He told Kiku that I was speechless, which was the highest praise he knew. Kiku looked to me for confirmation, but I could only blush. 

There was so much, I wondered what to do with it all. Kiku had thought that through. She brought out a battered Army footlocker, which held everything with room to spare. Into the spare space went my flower dress, the little black dress, assorted shoes and Sean's suit. Kiku had connections which would get the locker to Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. 

If that was not enough, Kiku had personal gift for me. It was a locally made sarong, to wear on the plane. Words were so inadequate and there was no chance to do anything more. At airport security, I hugged Kiku with feeling. Sean extended a business card. Kiku looked uncertain, til she saw my wide eyed stare. Trust my Teddybear to find the right gesture. Sure enough, I would see Kiku again when we returned to Hawaii. Right then, we had a plane to board. This flight did not offer First Class. 

I could use a vacation from all the travel.

Sean: 

The evening at the Teahouse merged into a short night at the flight attendant's flat. Our rest was brief. It had been more than ten years since I had a sergeant kicking me out of bed at zero dark thirty, but I had a flashback. Kiku got us up, washed and fed with just as much efficiency was that Master Sergeant. Even that did not prepare me for the gifts.

There was a large box full of touristy stuff. Nothing valuable, but there was a broad selection of things from the island, from a nice conch shell to pictures and handcrafts. One thing I would I would have liked to see was the WW II memorial. In the box was a bilingual brochure showing what we missed. Kiku even had a mailable locker for us to store it in and means to get it to Hawaii. 

I was more than touched, I was impressed. I told Kiku that Sheila was the most verbally gifted person I knew. For her to be speechless was the highest praise I could imagine. Still, I had to try. I offered Kiku one of my business cards. Of course, she was confused, but Kitten explained it to her. I had a feeling they would be in touch for years to come. 

Then it was time to fly. It had been many years since I had seen Kwajalein Atoll, but it had made a lasting impression on a green Second Lieutenant. I hoped Sheila could grasp what I had seen there.



Postcards Ch. 03



Author's Note: Kwajalein is a real place, as is the battle, the sunken Prinz Eugen, even the two pine trees. I encourage you to google the island. 

Chapter 3

Depart: 8:20 a.m.
Arrive: 5:40 p.m.
Tues., May 29	
Tues, May 29
Guam (GUM)	
Kwajalein, Marshall Isl (KWA)

One stop. Time on ground 0.45

Travel Time:
7 hr 20 mn	

Distance:
1,590 miles	
Flight:UA755
Aircraft: Boeing 737-800
Fare Class: United Economy (Y)
Meal: Breakfast
No Special Meal Offered.

Sheila:

The previous night had a surreal quality. For one thing, it was the middle of the day in New Jersey. Sean can fall asleep any time, anywhere, which is a skill I envy. He says he needed to learn it in the Army. While he slept, I lay awake, considering where we were and why we were there. The flights added up. Over six hours to LA, six more to Honolulu, then almost eight to Guam. Counting boarding, taxiing and offloading, that is more than a full day inside airplanes, with more coming. 

Sean had not told me why we were flying all this way. I knew he had served in the Army, which seemed to be relevant. There had been an occasional mention of our destination, but nothing that would explain spending half a honeymoon in crowded airplanes. I fell asleep wondering.

Kiku got us up, dressed, fed and to the airport. She was so different from Christine, yet the selfless attention to detail was the same. Kiku made me feel at home and I would miss her. The airplane did not improve things. On this flight, everything was Economy and crowded. Many of the travelers were US military in uniform. Sean knew the ranks and service designations. He chatted easily with an Airman and a couple of Marines. I tried to disappear.

Presently, we were cleared to take off. It was interesting to watch the safety lecture in a language other than English, though I had no idea which one. Sean explained that English is always used on American flagged airlines, which this was, but also the country of origin or destination. It did not sound like Japanese, so I would guess the island tongue where we were going.

I had never flown before Saturday, but I was beginning to feel like a seasoned traveler. While I wanted to pull out the laptop, I knew there was no point before the flight attendants finished serving the meal. It was worth the wait, because breakfast was unusual to my taste. I ordered the french toast and tea. Sean ordered sausage and eggs with coffee. 

My toast came with a side of Spam, macadamia nuts and a fruit salad. I gave the Spam to Sean. The bread was sweet, even before adding the coconut flavored syrup. Green tea made a nice counter point. It was an enjoyable breakfast. Sean's sausage and egg were served on a bed of sticky rice. He also received a fruit salad and nuts. Sean told me the sausage was derived from Portuguese cooking. In Hawaii, it could be found everywhere, even at McDonalds. I was happy to let him have it, though I tried a taste. It was nicely smoky.

After breakfast, the trash was collected and another round of drinks distributed. Sean pulled out his PDA, only to find there was no reception. Inquiries were made. Internet access was not available on this flight. My Teddybear grumped and growled for a while, then asked for some magazines. 

I pulled out my new laptop and started the process of reviewing the CDs Aaron Aldermann sent. It soon became clear they were victims of their own ambition. The director had put too many things in the scenes. This forced long camera shots, to get everything in the frame. Details were too small and attention was divided. It came out a confusing hash, difficult to follow even in slow motion. 

It was a familiar issue, but on a larger and more expensive scale. The cameras in my studio have motion tracking, but it is never precise. Choosing the correct angle, focal length and time is critical. In this case, I needed to do all that and also create a place holder in the larger image. Worse, these were not stills, but video. Unlike a lipstick shot, I needed to retain the action. It made for an interesting problem. 

One asset was that the video was already discrete shots. I could easily pull out one every five or ten seconds. Those I could crop and enlarge like I always did. That seemed like a plan. I selected one chase sequence and began cutting it up. Before I was half finished, the flight attendant was telling me to put away the computer and fasten my belt for landing. Almost four hours had passed.

Sean had given me the window seat. Since I could not work, I raised the blind and looked out. The tops of clouds looked very much like they appear from the ground. Sean was hiding a smirk. He knew that the ground was not visible and had not told me. It should have been irritating, but his childlike delight was infectious. I shook my head and called him Teddybear, which made him grin wider. About then, we dropped down into the clouds.

Clouds are much more interesting from the inside. We were moving through a blanket of gray, while raindrops made wet lines on the window. Almost before the novelty wore off, the plane popped out of the clouds for a moment. I could see a vast expanse of water, before we plunged into more gray. This pattern repeated almost to the ground. We emerged from a cloud with the runway clearly in sight. Within moments, we touched the ground. It was thrilling.

Sean: 

After we lifted off from Guam, my first impulse was to check my messages. I resisted, because the flight attendants were passing out drinks. Kiku had efficiently gotten us breakfast, but I needed a coffee fix. Soon after, the meal cart came down the aisle. I was pleased to recognize an Hawaiian menu. Sheila was having the French toast, so I took the other option, which turned out to be egg, sausage and rice. As always, fresh fruit was provided. 

Sheila was rather taken by the effect sweet bread has on French toast. She had eaten half before adding the coconut syrup That was another treat. She gave me her fried Spam. My own meal was disappointing. Rather than a fresh fried egg, it was a rubbery sheet. The sausage was not bad, but they managed to get the sticky rice wrong. Not enough vinegar perhaps. At least the fruit salad was good and there was more coffee.

Once breakfast was cleaned up. I decided it was time to do something useful. I pulled out my phone, only to find there was no reception. Sheila was working away at the Columbia Pictures project, so I had no complaints about her productivity. I found this profoundly ironic. Of the two possible vacation problems, the more annoying is when things run better in your absence. 

I went to the commode, alone. I asked for magazines. I did a number puzzle. I played 2048 on my phone. In short, I fidgeted. This was a familiar situation, though I was years out of the Army. "Hurry and wait" is the expression. Hurry to be ready, then wait until scheduled. Since the Army was metaphorically dragging me out to the South Pacific, there was a certain symmetry. It did not calm my fidgeting.

Instead I found a peace watching Sheila work. Most people hate being watched, but she did not seem to notice. I could see why. Even I found her work engrossing. The studio supplied video clips, from several angles, of a foot chase in some sort of industrial space. There were two groups chasing, with Will Smith and Ben Affleck running. All three groups interacted, so it was hard to follow what each group was doing. Multiply that by the number of cameras. 

Sheila stopped one video and started pulling stills out by the time stamp. Smart. Reduce the problem to a manageable scale. Once she had broken the sequence into about twenty stills, she started cropping segments out of each still. 

During the catalog work, Richard expressed awe at Sheila's ability to find, without pausing, exactly the right crop. This was my first chance to witness her doing it. To my eye, Sheila spent more time working the interface than she did deciding what was important. The obvious place to focus was the actors, but she also focused on the effects of their passage. One nice cut showed a pile of boxes falling, with the pile beside it bowed out, ready to collapse. 

It was not until final approach that I realized I had spent three hours watching Sheila work. Holy flaming shit Batman. Once again, I was reminded that I married up.

Sheila: 

Landing at Majuro was like waking from a pleasant dream. It had been some time since I had been able to throw myself into a project. Sean's catalog was a project, but there were many different threads I needed to track. This was simple in concept, but rich in detail. The creation fugue was exhilarating, but left me feeling drained. 

When Sean made no move to get in the exit flow, I asked what was going on. He told me we had a forty five minute stop in Majuro, the national capital. It was like a bus stop. Some would get off, while others got on. The rest of the trip was a short hop. When I asked how short, Sean laughed, "New York to DC, plus a little. Maybe Stamford to DC. Out here, that means next door. There's nothing between but water." My stars. 

It proved to be a good subject. I had looked up Kwajalein and the Marshall Islands, but Sean had been there. He talked about how the islands were very different from my conceptions. From the air, they looked like shoestrings dropped on the floor in a vaguely closed pattern. This atoll was one of the largest in the world, as was the enclosed lagoon. Wet was larger than dry by well over a hundred to one. It was like stretching out our little city and wrapping it around Delaware. Our city limits cover a fair amount of farm land, but still.

I noticed that almost everyone boarding the plane was in Army uniform. Sean explained that Kwajalein was almost completely US Army, with a sprinkling of other services. We had permission to visit from the Pentagon. I almost asked how Sean managed it so quickly, but he was already explaining. He had been wanting to visit for years. The necessary approvals had been obtained and maintained. Adding a spouse was simple. It made me wonder what else Gerald had in his locked files.

Getting off the plane put us in the grips of Army Intelligence. Sean had military ID and his permits—they referred to them as orders—plus the marriage certificate. No one ever spoke to me, except to ask for photo ID. Eventually, things came to a head over my laptop. The Army wanted to know why I was carrying such sophisticated image handling software. Sean gave them one of my business cards. That led to another discussion. I was surprised to hear Gerald's name mentioned several times.

Calls were made. Time passed. More calls. More time. Eventually, Sean was scolded for bending regulations, but we were allowed to leave—without my laptop. It would be returned when we boarded the plane. It was dark outside. I was very glad they provided a car and a driver, named Sergeant Johnson, though perhaps spy was closer. He had something of Gerald in his carriage. 

Whatever his other duties, Sgt. Johnson took us to something like a motel, helped check us in and carried our luggage to the room. I was politely, but firmly, told not to touch anything. Once inside our room, I let Sean give me a long hug. For a little longer, I leaned my head against his chest. When we broke it was for a quick, chaste shower. I was hungry, which meant Sean was probably starving.

The street outside our motel reminded me of Atlantic City in July, except for all the uniforms. Most of the uniforms were of the PT variety, i.e. black shorts and a gray T-shirt, both with the Army logo. Beach togs were likely a violation, but every other soldier was wearing them. Civilian clothes tended to be loud. My Hawaiian beach bunny dress would not have not fit in, quite. I considered the potential impact of putting Christine in it. It made me wish we brought the chest, until I considered what the spooks would have thought of its contents. Better not to have it. 

Sean inquired after the nearest PX. It turned out there was only one, but it was nearby. That answered one of my questions. We were on a military base, beach footwear not-with-standing. The PX turned out to be a three building cluster near, the air strip. Surrounded them was in a sort of mini-mall. The only open stores were Pizza Hut, Burger King and a coffee shop called Green Beans. We stopped at the Pizza Hut long enough to place an order, then went to the PX.

I did not know what to expect. It was sort of like a Target split between three buildings. There was a PX, a PXtra and an Express, whatever that meant. We never went to the Pxtra. Sean said it would have tlarger, more expensive items, like weight training equipment, furniture and elctronics. The PX had a little bit of everything from soft lines to books. We went there first. 

In soft goods we acquired two beach towels, two pair of beach togs and a wide brimmed fake-straw hat for me. The next aisle was assorted "tactical" gear. Sean opted for something called a boonie, which was a rollable hat made of digicam fabric. The sunglasses they were in a locked case, so we had to wait for help. Sean selected two pairs of Oakley's. At over $100 a pair, I would never have considered them for myself. 

From there we went to the Express, which was like a Walgreens without the pharmacy. One row was a selection of magazines, mostly up to date. At the end of the row was a standing rack of postcards, one of which caught my eye. It was a condolence card. I was unsure whether to be sorry it was there, or glad that no one had needed it. Sean noticed where I was looking. He said, "I know. You never forget flying with a flag covered coffin. It changes you." There was nothing to say to that.

One wall was cold storage, mostly drinks and ice cream, but also frozen dinners and meat. Sean grabbed a bottle of juice, two bottles of water and a frozen Snickers. In sundries, Sean added suntan lotion, zinc oxide and a box of razor refills. As we waited to check out, Sean grabbed some refrigerator magnets, with pictures of aircraft and the names of Iraq bases. They were marked down from $1.99 to $0.25. 

Outside there was an area of picnic tables. Sean put the bags on the table and left me to watch them. He had only been gone a minute or two when three soldiers decided to hit on me. A small shake of the head was enough for two of them, but the other was bolder. I let a little of Cynthia into my gaze, which sent the boy stumbling back on his friends. Behind me, Sean said, "Is there any trouble, Ma'am?" I said, "No trouble, Sergeant. They mistook me for someone else." They scattered so quickly that Sean snorted. It was his good, "That's finished" laugh. Spare me the other one.

Given my recent meals, American style pizza was a welcome change. Sean told me that The Exchange owned the world's largest Burger King franchise. Nothing says USA like a burger and fries. After a month outside the wire, that taste is like coming home. His point could be made for pizza as well. Conversation drifted to the subject of MRE's, about which little good is said. Sean's expression was, Meal, Rarely Edible.

By the time we made it to our room, it was almost midnight local time. Sean was dragging and I was dead on my feet. Sean had me strip and lay face down on the bed. As his massages went, it was a quickie, but he untied knots where I did not know I had muscles. Pausing, with his hands on my ass, he asked, "Do you think they are listening?" I turned completely pink, but answered, "Would that be good or bad?" Sean chuckled and gave my fanny a quick slap. 

Sean: 

I had forgotten how anal the US Army can be when they set their mind to it. I had proper authorizations and valid orders, but our last minute change of plans raised flags. Add to that the brand new marriage and security noses began twitching. Before we arrived, the intel guys had decided to keep an eye on us. The fancy laptop with fancy software was icing on the cupcake.

The worst of it was that we passed the sniff test. Once they had met and talked to us, the hackles went down. That was where the Army's anal retentive nature kicked in. Once we were flagged, they had to follow through. Someone, somewhere would ask questions. So they kept Sheila's work computer and gave us a nanny, but they threw us a bone. Sergeant Johnson was probably neither a Sergeant nor a Johnson, but he had a car. 

He took us to our room, which was likely for mid level VIPs. We were not allowed to touch our bags while they were in transit, but they were left with us when the door closed. I was not sure what to make of that. It made no difference, because I wanted food and a shower. 

Showering with Sheila can be a lot of fun, but this was purely a quickie. Once we were ready for the street, we stepped out. As expected, we had a shadow. My guess was that things were slow, so they were practicing. We went to the PX and food court. I ordered a pizza, then introduced Sheila to one of my benefits. The PX is never cutting edge, but they go where the military goes. One can be a slice of home when you need one.

As expected, I was able to outfit us for fun in the sun. I was tempted to get a left side thigh holster for Gerald, but decided that it could wait. Even though it was marked down to a buck, I did not want the spooks seeing me buy it. Not yet anyway. I did pick up some picture magnets.

When we made it back to the Pizza Hut, our pie was ready. I ate most of it, of course, but Sheila managed two slices and part of a third. For her, that's a lot. I made sure she drank plenty of water. Kwaj is equatorial, so dehydration is always an issue. Every soldier and most athletes know you can sweat faster than your gut can handle new water. Prior hydration is key and I expected a lot of sun the next day.

By the time we reached our room, Sheila was about ready to fold. I told her to strip down and lie on the bed. Sheila replied to command voice like a trained recruit, quickly and without emotion. She had shown the red silk clear back in Hawaii. It seemed a long time ago, but this was not an appropriate venue. Still, something could be managed. It gave me something to think about while my hands put her to sleep.

When I woke, it was dark outside. By the time I finished with the latrine, that had changed. The sun rises quickly in the tropics. Sheila was still asleep, which gave me a chance to find a few things. Not the scarves. I wanted her to hand me the scarves. I needed a waterproof cover for the bed, some towels, shaving cream and a good razor. When all was assembled, I threw back the sheet and popped her ass with a towel. Sheila is so fair skinned, you can see her whole body blush. It was a shame to let her tan, but what would a trip to the tropics be without one?

Once she was fully aware, I told Sheila that I had seen one of her scarves, but not both. She understood that this was an instruction, so she stopped acting shy and went about her task. That transition is one I treasure whenever I see it, which is surprisingly often. It can be very useful in business. Employees want to understand their duties. Simply making the duties plain has a calming effect. The trick is not to overdo it.

Sheila, being Sheila, also understood my other point. There was a good chance the room was monitored. If so, they would get audio but no explanation. While Sheila was fetching her restraints, I put a garment bag on the mattress and covered it with towels. The situation was far from ideal. I could use the headboard, but there was nothing at the foot, not even legs. The bed was on a solid pedestal. Oh well. Needs must make do.

Just as I turned, Sheila threw her arms around me and gave me a big kiss. Then she stepped back a pace, lowered her gaze and presented the scarves. No. I was not a master and she was not a slave. I lifted her chin til our eyes met. Far from fighting it, Sheila may have had a twinkle in her eye. I stepped out of character a bit and embraced her man to wife. She stiffened with surprise, then melted into my arms. Sheila claims I give the best hugs, but I privately disagree. Hers are the best and only I get them.




Postcards Ch. 03



We separated far enough to kiss, which also took a while. After proper consideration, I gave her a wry half smile and nodded toward the bed. Sheila actually squealed as she jumped on it. I loosely tied the scarves on the bedpost and allowed her to slide her her wrists in. There may have been a some amusement at my knot skills. I didn't practice knots as much as Sheila did, but I did manage a blindfold from a small towel. That done, I picked up the ice bucket, with its wash cloth in hot water. Once I had started, it occurred to me that Sheila could have held the water. Maybe next time. 

To say Sheila was ready is an understatement. I would do something about that presently. For the moment, I took the cloth and wrung most of the water out. Using care—and many refreshments of water—I washed everything between her legs and cheeks. The rough fabric elicited some squirms, but nothing more. When everything was done, I squirted a generous amount of shave gel on my fingers and lathered it up. This went everywhere I had washed. 

I got up from the bed to fetch the shopping bag from the night before. I opened the box of fresh razor heads and changed the blades. Sheila listened closely, her breathing heavy but regular. Starting on the right thigh, I removed the foamy gel. Washing the razor often, I removed all her hair, except a small bumper above the cleft. Shaving is nice, but baby smooth is getting old fashioned.

There was one area I could not easily reach. Rather than struggle with it, I put a hand under Sheila's ass and lifted. Sheila, understanding my desire, raised both her legs and hooked the ankles behind her wrists. This allowed me to reach all the little hairs around her lower vulva and anus. The water was still warm, but very soapy. Rather than add soap to the cloth, I wiped her with it cold. Once all the white was gone, I had Sheila lay out. I rolled rolled the cloth and touched Sheila's chin. She opened her mouth to accept the cloth.

Had we more time, it would be the perfect set up for an afternoon of pussy teasing and tongue fucking. Instead the restraints and gag were symbolic. Still, I could do a little teasing. I stroked Sheila's anus with one finger, making sure to use a lot of nail, but no pressure. With my tongue I probed as deeply as I could, but I avoided the clit. There was no convenient timer, but I counted licks to one hundred. 

When I drew back, Sheila gave a definite whimper. I blew on her and said, "Come." At the same time I shoved my finger into her anus and bumped her clit with the only thing handy—my nose. The results were gratifying, though unusual. Sheila settled, almost as if something had drained out. She lay limp for a moment, then rolled out of the posture, slipped her hands from the scarves and pulled the washcloth from her mouth. Her embrace was the real message, but she said, "If you are going to sail the yacht, you will need to learn some knots." What can I say? Sheila is an expert.

Sheila: 

It was sweet, but almost embarrassing, watching Sean try to work up to a BDSM scene. Our first time he had everything laid out for him. Afterward, he said he followed the map I gave him. I combed through the video. Once I could strip away the emotion, to analyze my own responses, it was obvious what reactions he was cuing to. I must have been pretty desperate to respond so strongly. For Sean, it was easy. All the props he could wish for were close at hand. The real skill was taking charge. Sean is very good at pushing. 

This was different. We had no setting, no props, no negotiations. Sean had no idea where to go with the scene. He settled on shaving. As a scene, it had possibilities. When we were back in New Jersey I intended to do it for Christine, though with refinements. Sean's scene wanted distractions. As it was, it was very close to vanilla sex, but I found I liked vanilla sex with Sean. He gave me a nice slow shave, followed by a nice slow pussy lick. Sean finished his tongue bath, poked my asshole and bumped my clit, I was able to come on command. That was emotionally satisfying. It was also a new sort of climax. 

This orgasm melted through me like a warm wave. When I masturbate, the goal is usually to relieve tension. Occasionally, I resort to self bondage, but always to get a big finish. Even if I managed multiple orgasms, there was a sharpness to the climax. This orgasm was more like one of Sean's massages. It left me loose and relaxed, mellow and satisfied.

I spit out the awful tasting gag, rolled out of the posture, pulled my hands from the restraints and pushed off the blindfold, which takes more time to say than to do. Sean was anxiously awaiting his grade. When did I become his teacher? I told him to work on his knots. Sean would hear what I did not say. There were better ways than words to tell him I appreciated his efforts, clumsy as they were. 

I rolled to my knees and pulled down Sean's pants. He had been so intent on me that he was still flaccid, but that changed quickly. Sean pulled back to step out of his slacks and shorts. By the time he stepped forward, little Sean was at attention. I chuckled at the irony as I took him in my mouth.

One of the advantages of having Christine is that she could do research for me. Between the internet, Jason and several of Jason's professional contacts, Christine had done a crash course on fellatio. I received daily reports by email. For me, it was book learning, but at least I knew the theory of the expert blow job. It would not be as patient as Sean's cunnilingus, but men are usually quicker to cum than women. 

I started by licking around the head of his penis. Once I had his full attention, I licked my way down the front of his shaft and played with his balls for a while. Teabagging is such a rude way to put it. I have always been fascinated by men's balls. They are so sensitive, so fragile, yet so vital. In the studio, I mostly left them alone. Since I had Sean's balls to play with, I did, using only tongue and lips. From his reactions, Sean found it interesting as well. Presently I started to work back up the shaft, nibbling as I went. 

Deep throating is a skill I had not perfected. I could take about half his length before my gag reflex drove me back. That being the case, I focused more on the head. I could rub the head with my lips while still sucking like a vacuum. 

Almost before I became serious about the theory, Sean fountained in my mouth. Stupid girl. Pay attention to the boy. I swallowed the cum as I prepared to be apologetic, which would have been the wrong move. One look at Sean's face told me he was composing poems in my praise. Why did so little matter so much? 

I began to understand the old spit vs. swallow distinction for like vs. love. I was prepared to do far more for Sean, while he was willing to accept any unambiguous offering. Strange how that worked, but I could see the basis of a long term relationship—each partner willing to do more than the other asked. Whatever our respective internal dialogs, it was time to cuddle. I crawled into Sean's embrace and was content for a while.

.

All things pass. I thought about our plans. Sean wanted to see the beach, then something else. Tears started to roll.

Sean: 

When I fingered Sheila's ass and bumped her clit, I was hoping for a reaction. What I got was unexpected. Sheila's whole body seemed to sigh and relax, rather like a successful massage. Before I could bask in the glow, Sheila demonstrated how symbolic the restraints were. In one continuous motion she spit the gag, slipped the hand ties, pushed up the blindfold and rolled forward on her knees. The first thing to slow her down, for a moment, was my belt buckle. Before I had time to assist, Sheila had her hands on my floppy cock.

It may have started soft, but quickly rose to the occasion. Starting with the tip of my prick, Sheila slowly worked her way to the base. That much was standard stuff. When I was willing to take lovers, several had shown skill at fellatio. Sheila quickly left them behind. She licked my sack and sucked on my testicles, one after the other. I came close to coming, before she decided to move back up the shaft. That gave me a spot of relief, but only a spot. The expression in high school was suck-the-chrome-off-a-trailer-hitch. I didn't last two seconds. 

It was bad enough that I quick shot, but Sheila was taken by surprise. She took the full load in her mouth, with only a little escaping to one side. Though her eyes widened, she swallowed without hesitation. I cupped her chin with my fingers and wiped the small spill with my thumb. Sheila sucked it off. There was nothing left but to say, "I love you." 

In a heartbeat, Sheila was in my arms. For that instant, all was right with the world. I stroked her lovely hair and told her how special she was. With most women that would be part flattery. Sheila really was exceptional and I was one to know. What I don't know is how to deal with a sobbing woman. Sheila was soaking my shirt.

So we stayed there, kneeling on the bed, while Sheila had her cry. I may have little experience with tears, but courage I knew from watching Jo cope with school. I had some concept of the cost of keeping a good front. God knows Sheila dealt with a lot of shit in the last two weeks. What I had seen was bad enough. From what Jo told me, I had not seen the worst of it. 

As the issues rolled through my mind, I was tempted to slap my forehead. In addition to closing a business she had spent a decade growing, Sheila had also moved out of her home. The first thing I did was drag her halfway around the planet. This was on top of symbolic things like her favorite foundation. Way to go Clarence. Toting that much baggage had to be exhausting. At least I could put her to bed.

I wrapped Sheila in the bed cover and lay her down. Then I pulled up my pants and checked out the room. Like a decent motel room, there was a coffee maker. I was glad to find it also had a variety of tea bags. When the tea was done, I took it to Sheila and got her upright. While she sipped on it, I tossed an undershirt on the bed and went to start a shower. 

When I came to fetch Sheila, she hid her face behind the styrofoam cup. I could still see her smile. She had to be thinking of the two times I all but carried her to her apartment. That got me to laugh. I had also given her a shirt one of those nights. That eased my mind a bit. Sheila had commented on how well she slept those two nights. 

So it proved. We curled up under the sheets and were dead to the world for several hours. The phone rang at 0800 (8:00 AM). It was our nanny/watchdog/driver Sgt. Johnson. Thirty minutes later we met him at the desk. He was bearing gifts and a change of attitude. The gifts were hot drinks and sweet rolls. I loaded my coffee while Sheila sipped her tea. Both of us were sizing up Sgt. Johnson, who had the decency to squirm. 

One thing I have learned in negotiations, the first one to speak loses points. Sheila seemed to know such things from birth, because her question was entirely nonverbal. After about ten long seconds, Sgt. Johnson sighed and said, "Which version do you want, official or off the record?" I love it when they cut to the chase. Without bothering to check with me, Sheila stood and picked up her purse. She answered, "That would be, 'Off the Record.'" Sgt Johnson did not seem surprised.

We made our way to the official car. Bicycling is normal on Kwajalein, so nothing is far. However, speed limits are at a bicycle pace, so we spent about five minutes traveling to the Memorial. Sgt. Johnson talked the whole way, but it was summed up in his first statement. "They want to get you a security clearance."

I was not the one they wanted cleared.

Sheila: 

Sean was incredibly sweet, though clumsy as his totem animal. I was touched at the lengths he went to give me what he thought I wanted. Simple sex would have done that better, but it would not have been as thoughtful. Once we were done, he held me, as he often does. I relaxed a bit too much. Once the tears started, there was no stopping them. I hate being a girl, but there it was.

Fortunately, this put Sean back in his comfort zone. Crying women he could handle. He made me tea and found me a cotton pullover shirt to wear overnight. After a quick wash, we went to bed. I slept like a rock. Something about Sean getting all protective helps me sleep.

Morning brought reality. The day was well started when the phone rang. As I would have guessed, it was Sgt. Johnson. We had thirty minutes to get ready. As Sean and I showered, he told me to wear my swimsuit under my clothes and bring a hat. That meant a lot of time in the sun, so I insisted he rub me with sunblock. When I returned the favor, I spent extra time on parts that rarely see sun. Sean did not seem to mind.

When we went to the lobby, Sgt. Johnson had tea, coffee and rolls. Something significant had happened. If the refreshments were not a big enough clue, his entire attitude had changed. Sean could see it as well as I could, so we waited. I had only time for a few sips before Sgt. Johnson caved. He asked if we wanted the official or the not-repeatable version. A lobby is not a good place for confidential discussions, so I stood to go. Sgt. Johnson looked at Sean, but Teddybear backed me up.

It was a short drive. Along the way, Sgt. Johnson told us many things. It added up to invasion of privacy. They had opened my laptop and gone through the contents. This was a military installation. Sean had given me warning. We had been "debriefed" the day before. Sgt. Johnson was very apologetic in saying I had no right to privacy. It still burned. Worse, they wanted a favor. They wanted me to apply for a security clearance.

Sean was watching me closely. On one hand, he was amused at how deep the shit was getting. On the other he was being very careful not to get in my way. Sgt. Johnson, to his credit, was handling me like a priceless Ming vase. It took no great genius to figure out that he was Military Intelligence. What must have seemed like a token assignment was giving him experience on hostile ground. 

We were spared a blow-up by arriving at the chapel. Sean had flown me halfway around the world to see this, so it made an effective diversion. Sean pulled Sgt. Johnson aside, so that I could read the plaques in peace. It was quickly clear why. The chapel was a memorial for the 372 marines and soldiers who were killed in the fighting. The stained glass window was from the 50th anniversary of the battle. Like all chapels, it was a solemn place. Sean had done well to let me see it alone.

Outside the chapel was the actual memorial. This had more history. The number of casualties was light, because the Japanese were unprepared for a combined arms landing. Historically, this was the first US attack on Japanese home territory. It went very well. The next round of assaults, in the Solomon Islands, was much more expensive. 

From the memorial, we walked toward two towering trees. Sgt. Johnson fell far behind, having a lengthy cell phone conversation. As we approached the trees, Sean took my arm. It was a cemetery for the Japanese soldiers. The memorial chapel was for 372 American military. According to the plaques, the dead, in this cemetery and one on another island, were not counted. The estimate was close to ten times the number of American dead. What shocked me was the last line. Only 51 Japanese were taken alive, out of an estimated 5000 garrisoned in 1943. I understood why Sean had been so affected.

As we turned to go, Sean stopped at the two tall trees. Taking the end of one branch, he held it out for me to inspect. It took me a moment to make the connection, then I gasped. They were Norfolk pines, which are sold every winter as live Christmas trees. These were outdoors and nearly a hundred feet tall. Hmmm.

Whatever Sean's intent, my black mood had broken. It was a good thing, because Sgt. Johnson had an invitation. Colonel Harlan and his wife wanted to meet us.

Sean: 

I had to give Sgt. Johnson, whatever his real name, points for preparation and perception. First he brought tea with the coffee, then he knew enough not to press Sheila. I was a veteran. I knew how the military can be. Sheila was a small town girl with a closed circle of friends. On top of that, she was very private. She did not take well the news that her laptop had been searched. Fortunately, we had other things to occupy our attention. 

I went into the Army after two years at Brown, largely to irritate my mother. After basic and advanced training, I was assigned to learn artillery at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. That was where I met Gerald. It had to do with an unexploded artillery round, in a place it should not have been. There were no casualties, but there could have been several. The investigation was grim. 

During my interrogation, I was able to explain how the shell had arrived at its resting place, which earned me nothing but a nod. At the time I was miffed. When the courts martial were posted and my name not among them, I was much more grateful. Names on doors changed and things went back to normal for almost everyone. 

For the rest of my tour, I was a trained seal. As part of my duties, I took every advanced class in sight. Occasionally, with little or no warning, I would be stuck on a plane and flown to West Fleabite. My job was to figure out the physical trajectories of various, often dangerous objects. That brought me, and Gerald, to Kwajalein. For decades, the Army used the lagoon for missile tests. Things went wrong and my skills were needed. 

It was a long temporary duty (TDY), almost six weeks. My classwork was forwarded, so I had something to keep me busy while on duty, but there are a lot of hours in a week. My off duty time let me explore the island. It did not take long to find the memorials and the cemetery. Between them, they changed my life. Gerald watched it happen. Of all the people I had met since, I thought Sheila would come closest to understanding. 

The memorial chapel was first constructed within a year of the battle. Through the years, it has received several upgrades, including a large stained glass window on the 50th anniversary of the battle. As a soldier, I thought it fitting, but wondered at the small number of casualties. Then I discovered the cemetery, though mass grave would be more accurate. No one knows how many Japanese soldiers are buried there. It is well over one thousand and could be close to three. 

An estimated 1500 Japanese never had a chance to fight. They were killed by shell fire and bombing prior to the landings. The landings came from the lagoon. Most of the Japanese positions face the ocean. For the defenders, it was a nightmare. They were disorganized, outnumbered and outgunned, with their backs to the sea. Yet, they often fought to the last man. Out of close to 5000, only 51 were captured, many too wounded to hold a weapon. That sort of ferocity resonated with me. 

Sheila used the chapel to calm down. Chapels are good for that. As I hoped, the memorial and the Japanese cemetery had their effect. The understanding in her eyes made all the cost and trouble worth the trip. It also gave Sgt. Johnson his opening. A Colonel and his wife wanted to pay a social visit.

I had no illusions why the Colonel wanted to talk. The intel guys had seen what Sheila could do with images. The government has a great many images. Sometimes they want the images analyzed. Richards Enterprises was about to enter the world of criminal investigations, spies and terrorists. Approaching in his civilian persona, the Colonel could represent civilian branches, as well as Dept. of Defense. His wife probably had different reasons for wanting to meet us. Fame is its own punishment.




Postcards Ch. 03



We piled back into the car, traveled to HQ, where we transferred to a van. While we waited, an aide informed us that we had been moved to a suite and that Sheila's computer would be waiting at the desk. It is always nice to be loved, but being needed is often more practical. Colonel Harlan kept us waiting only a few minutes, which meant we were high priority. He introduced his wife Glenda and a Navy rating named Sanchez, then excused himself.

While wives technically have no rank, in practice they borrow their husband's. It is rare to find a career officer of advanced rank with a wife who is not a seasoned politician. One of the many ways that female officers are handicapped is that they have no "in" to the Officer's Wife's Club. Olivia Harlan was exactly what I expected from a senior officer's wife. Her initial interaction with Sheila would be informative.

Sheila was no politician, but power games were a professional interest. She played First-Speaker-Loses again. After a couple of seconds, Mrs. Harlan's eyes widened in appreciation. Hers were not the only ones. Sgt. Johnson and Seaman Sanchez both stared. Sanchez started to speak, but Johnson quelled him with a gesture. I counted ten seconds then nodded to Sgt. Johnson. He looked a dagger at me, but picked up the cue.

He said to Mrs. Harlan, "Excuse me Ma'am. What is the itinerary?" Smooth. Mrs. Harlan showed a little teeth, with her eyes still on Sheila. Then turned to Sgt. Johnson and asked if we had eaten. In answer, he opened his document case and pulled out a note with Army letterhead. Mrs. Harlan glanced at it, then turned to Sheila.

"You look like a salad eater. The dining facility has soup and a salad bar. Around here, soup is an art form. Does that sound acceptable?"

Sheila dropped her eyes and said, "You are too gracious." Risky, but well aimed.

Mrs. Harlan was too experienced to gape, but the surprise was clear. She stared at Sheila for a moment, then turned to me, "Young man, I hope you understand what you have here. She's a jewel." Preaching to the choir.

I replied, "You are not the first to say so. One of the Powers-That-Be in New York calls her a goddess." To Sheila I said, "Play nice. Mrs. Harlan is taking us to lunch and, I am guessing, a boat ride." To Mrs. Harlan, "Sheila is an accomplished fitness trainer. Pushing is second nature and I have never met anyone with better timing." Sheila glanced at me and I winked, then the ladies embraced. That covered all the forms.

Once the ice was broken, Mrs. Harlan started chatting like a taller, plumper Francine. She would show us off at the Dining Facility, then we were taking one of the Army's small craft out to the wreck of Prinz Eugen, then to the north island, Roi-Namur. In my six weeks at Kwajalein, I had never seen where the Marines fought. We would get the grand tour.

Lunch was exactly what I remembered. The Dining Facility was off regular hours, but part was open 24/7. The salad bar was disappointing, but the soup was even better than advertised. I put pastrami, baby swiss and onions on a dark tortilla-like flat bread and toasted it all. I added mustard and lettuce, then rolled it. To the plate I added slaw, pickles, two bags of chips and the soup. Sheila had a bowl of spinach and green onion, dressed with vinegar and a bowl of soup. I trimmed the excess bread off my roll up, then cut a two inch piece for Sheila. 

Mrs. Harlan looked at Sheila's tray, then at me. I shrugged. She rolled her eyes, but said nothing. SN Sanchez and Sgt. Johnson topped off their caloric intake in best military form. Mrs. Harlan, who now wanted to be called Glenda, talked of everything but Sheila's birdlike eating habits. She finally asked if Sheila was offended by her eating a larger lunch. That produced amusement from both of us. Sheila said, "My friend Francine can eat five large meals a day and not gain weight." Glenda looked hurt. Sheila continued, "She goes through life constantly hungry." That earned a more thoughtful look.

On the way out, everyone, including Sheila, stocked up on bottles of water or Gatorade. Trust a fitness professional to understand dehydration. I also grabbed a couple of Cliff bars and an ice cream sandwich to eat on the way. I managed to get Sheila to eat a bite of that. It was not til we reached the dock that I realized we could get seasick.

Sheila: 

Meeting Glenda Harlan was interesting. My studio brought me in contact with the occasional spouse. I had cover as a fitness trainer, which was low status. Rather than tolerate constant putdowns, I learned to defend my ground. I was not a fitness trainer; I was the fitness trainer. The best at anything commands respect. Glenda fired the first volley by using her husband to make introductions. I countered by not paying due homage.

There were three men watching. Two of them understood in depth what was going on. They hushed the Navy kid. Sean was counting under his breath. At ten, he forced Sgt. Johnson to break the silence. Sean was good at this too. Sgt. Johnson asked for an itinerary. Before long we were headed for brunch at something Sean called a D-Fac, short for Dining Facility. The Army thrives on abbreviations. If I ever sent a message, I would close with an R.S.V.P. and U.N.A. (use no abbreviations).

The D-Fac had posted hours, which this was not, but also had a section open all the time. Glenda promised me a salad bar and good soup. She had not promised soup and a good salad bar, so she earned points for accuracy. I made do with spinach and onion tops from the bar. The soups were vegetable beef, curried chicken with rice and corn chowder. I chose the chicken. 

Sean put pastrami, cheese and onions on a large, dark tortilla. The entire mess was loaded into a moving belt toaster. I would bet money what he did was strongly prohibited, but the result looked tasty. Sean trimmed the extra bread and gave me a piece. How sweet. Glenda watched the whole show with tented eyebrows, but did not venture a comment until we were almost finished. When she did, both Sean and I laughed aloud, because we both knew how Francine ate. When I explained that Francine was always hungry, Glenda looked thoughtful. We all grabbed extra drinks for an afternoon in the sun.

Our next stop was a tiny Navy outpost. For reasons that are not clear to me, Army people do not handle boats while on duty. This particular boat was smaller than The Other Shoe, Sean's vintage lake yacht. It was considered a boat because it only operated in the lagoon, even though the lagoon was salt water and larger than Delaware. 

We cast off from the dock and Glenda turned tour guide. She pointed out the WW II landing locations, which were all on the lagoon side of the island. The Japanese had not understood that our landing craft could cross the reefs. Most of the defenses were on the ocean side of the island. She showed us two small neighboring islands, which were taken first. They were used for artillery placements. 

Between Army and Navy lobbing shells and planes dropping bombs, one third of the islands occupants died before the landings started. According to one source, the island looked like it had been dropped from a plane. The wonder was not that the Americans killed ten times as many as they lost, but how they managed to lose so many. Even in this sort of rout, the Japanese proved tenacious.

Presently, we passed out of sight of the big island. Glenda expounded on the fish life in the lagoon and how it was different from the ocean side. After a while, we came upon the resting place of a famous German warship, the Prinz Eugen. Sean explained that it had steamed out with the Bismark on the battleship's only voyage. Even I had heard of the Bismark. 

The ship rested top down on a slope. The hull looked like giant rusted knife, stuck edge up in the lagoon floor. The nose disappeared in the depths, but the rear stuck out of the water, with the propeller entirely dry. From a distance it looked unimpressive. As we pulled closer, a gull spread its wings, giving me a scale. Each of the three blades was wider than I was tall. 

Germany lost the war and the Prinz Eugen. After the war, the US Navy used the cruiser to evaluate the effects of atomic bomb blasts. The bombs did not sink the Prinz, but it became too irradiated to salvage. A small leak went unrepaired until the ship capsized and sank. That was 1946. It still sits in shallow seawater doing what radioactive things do. One popular T-shirt says "Prinz Eugen Diver." There were too many levels of irony to sort.

After seeing the Prinz' resting place, Glenda had Seaman Sanchez open the throttle. It was my first experience with motion sickness and I was glad we had a light lunch. Sean looked like he was doing well not to hurl his meal into the ocean. Glenda looked entirely too pleased for this to be an accident, but she asked the Seaman Sanchez to slow us down a bit. It was a ways. I was glad for my hat, the lathering of sunscreen and especially the bottled water from the Dining Facility.

Glenda was an efficient tour guide. As we approached Roi-Namur, she pointed out the landing sites and 

the Japanese defenses. While Kwajalein had been an Army landing, Roi-Namur was a Marine fight. It was not as heavily used as the big island, which meant that more was left from WW II. Sean had never visited this island, so he listened with interest as Glenda pointed out details of the anti-aircraft placements and pill boxes. Most faced the wrong direction. More irony.

One thing about the military. Where they go, shopping goes as well. The Exchange Service operated a small store and some fast food stands. We bought Dramamine and some frozen yogurt. Seaman Sanchez suggested we get back, because a small storm front—he called it a squall line—was coming toward us. I was glad for the Dramamine all the way back.

Sean: 

Being entertained by a senior officer's wife was surreal. It quickly became clear that we were not her first guests. She was a social science teacher at the high school and a history buff on the side. I learned more about the GI landings in fifteen minutes than I had in a month and a half of poking around off duty.

No tour of Kwaj is complete without seeing the wreck of the Prinz Eugen. It always reminded me of a broken sword stuck in the coral. I asked Mrs. Harlan if she could provide Sheila with some good quality images of the ship. Her eyes lit up. I guessed she was a camera bug as well.

Roi-Namur is off the Army track a bit. Nothing on the atoll is far from anything, but this was considered Marine territory on an Army base. I had never visited, nor had I missed much. There were more preserved Japanese emplacements, but nothing truly different. We purchased some Dramamine ad headed back. SN Sanchez had the throttle open the whole way. 

By the time we reached the small boat dock, the sky was dark and wind was up. I was hit by a few drops before I followed Sheila into Sgt. Johnson's staff car. We sat for about five minutes watching rain pounded on the windows. When it slacked, Sgt. Johnson asked me where we were going next. When we hesitated, he suggested the pool. Worked for me.

Growing up on a lake, I understood the attraction of clean water for swimming. We would get plenty of surf when we arrived back in Hawaii. This would give me a chance to to see Sheila in her bathing suit before then. When I told Sheila where we were headed, her only question was whether they had awnings for shade. With her fair skin and indoor habits, it was a valid question.

On the whole, the pool had mixed results. School was out for the summer, so there were a lot of kids and teens. On the other hand, Sheila stopped conversations as she walked by, playing with her wedding band. I quickly decided that was the best thousand I had ever spent. Much to my surprise, Sheila did not know how to swim. Since this was not the time or the place to learn and since Sheila actively avoided getting any sun, our time at the pool was brief.

Once an afternoon in the water was out, our choices were limited. The only shopping on the island were the various Exchanges, a grocery store and some weekend only shops. We did go to the main PX and purchased a few souvenirs. There was a nice "Prinz Eugen Diver" T-shirt, which was popular on the island, but I had qualms about claiming what I had not done. We made do with matching T-shirts showing the outline of the atoll. For GeraldI picked up the left side draw hoster, which I had seen the night before and a coffee mug showing the atoll. After that we went to our new VIP suite to catch a nap.

At six o'clock we dressed for our dinner with the Colonel and his wife.

Sheila: 

Once we returned to the big island, we had three hours to kill. We tried the swimming pool. Sean liked my swimsuit, but there was nothing to do. I did not know how to swim and I was not about to expose my skin to tropical sun any more than necessary. We left after only half an hour. On the way back, we went to the main PX, which had a little of everything. Sean looked through a lot of the souvenir T-shirts, but only chose two, plus a nice coffee mug and a holster for Gerald. 

I could tell his return to Kwajalein was not what Sean expected. There are old sayings about how things change while you are away. That said, I thought I could see why we had come. The island's history had made an impression on him. Given that he had quit an Ivy League school after two years, to serve as an enlisted soldier, said something. Not long after his time in these islands he had gone home to take over the family business. 

The metaphoric answer was in the trees at the Japanese cemetery. In New Jersey, you could by the same variety for a live, table top Christmas tree. Here, those trees were many stories tall. In 1946, the Japanese had lost 10 times as many as they killed, but the signs were there of the bitter struggles that would follow. Sean decided he needed to show the same sort of fighting spirit. I had been appalled by the risks Sean took to investigate and hire me. I understood, a little, why he was so driven. 

That was undoubtedly why he had dragged me halfway around the world. Sean is many things, but eloquent is not among them. He can deliver a speech, but not write one. That would be my role. Leave it to Teddybear to drag me halfway around the world to make me feel at home, but it worked. My worry was that he would keep pushing. Sean was nothing if not pushy. I fretted about his potential for excess.

We did not return to our room. Instead, our things had been moved to a suite. From mid-level VIPs, we had been promoted to genuine VIPs. I suspected that was me. Sean was a reservist. If the Army wanted him, all they had to do was activate him. I could speculate about what the Colonel wanted, but I was certain he would tell us at dinner. In the mean time we had a suite to nap in. The irony was that it only served to remind me of the high tech shower in our bedroom in New Jersey. I could tear down that whole addition if they left the shower.

I am told that nothing in the tropics is ever formal. Certainly the clothes for the evening were not. Rather than wear my remaining nice dress, Sean suggested a sundress and sandals. Once again, I regretted sending my flower print to Hawaii. I made do with a simple cotton dress and wedgies. Sean wore slacks and a flower shirt we purchased the night before. I was worried about being under dressed, but Sgt. Johnson nodded approval when he opened the car door.

Dinner was in a private room attached to the Officer's Club. Once again, our VIP status was apparent. At a guess, I was sitting where Congressmen and Senator's wives had been seated. When Glenda entered, dressed in a floral print, I was able to relax. Colonel Harlan wore his duty uniform, rather than his dress greens. I may have been important, but not enough for him be foolish. 

Dinner was preordered. We were served sushi as an appetizer. The meal was steamed vegetables, rice and grilled fish. It was enough like our meal in Guam to be surreal, but only a little. The difference was in the table conversation. Glenda mentioned that she had some pictures of the Prinz Eugen she could give me. That led to a conversation about photography in general. She was surprised that I was not a camera bug. I told her that finding everything worth seeing in a pictures was challenging enough.

That—finally—brought Colonel Harlan into the conversation. He asked about my training in image processing. I was self taught, but I doubt he believed it. Sean jumped in with some things Peter said. Since Peter is a professional photo geek, his opinion carried more weight than mine. The irony was that the Army would not need Peter, but did need me. Sean and Colonel Harlan were soon buried in negotiations. I glanced at Glenda, who rolled her eyes. I was the subject and Glenda was the host, but we were still dismissed when it came time to talk business, or so it seemed.

Without apparent warning, Sean and Colonel Harlan turned their attention to me. I had missed something important. For me, that was an unusual feeling and I did not like it. Fortunately Sean was giving cues. He rubbed his chin with his thumb, which was one of Gerald's "I'm thinking" gestures. I raised eyebrows and asked, "Gerald?" Sean shrugged and turned to Colonel Harlan. He managed to say, "Do you think Major...?" before Colonel Harlan was nodding vigorously. I nodded once and that was that. Sean and Colonel Harlan went back to discussing details.

I turned back to find Glenda staring at me. She asked, "What just happened? Sandy does not act like that. He just doesn't. Who's Gerald?" That posed another set of potential issues. It was best to use trigger words. If we were being recorded, I wanted them paying close attention. "Gerald is our head of security. He was in CID during his Army years. They need a liaison. More than that you will have to get from the Colonel." If that would not shut her up, things were hopeless.

It was a moment of deja vu. I had seen Francine speechless and the expression was almost identical. Glenda started to speak at least three times, but she was an experienced military wife. Some subjects are forbidden. As she subsided, with an injured expression, I noticed Sean and Colonel Harlan were watching. From Colonel Harlan's expression, this was not normal activity for Glenda. Sean, with his usual perfect timing said, "Gerald says Sheila can deliver a thirty minute brief in fifteen seconds." 

Sean's not bad at that himself. Colonel Harlan stared at him for a moment, then barked a laugh. One laugh led to two, then more until he slumped in his chair and held his side. Glenda looked insulted, then confused, finally concerned as the laughter continued. Colonel Harlan reassured her, "Don't worry dear. This is way above my rank. I can kick it upstairs, get a gold star in my book and that will be the end of our involvement." 

I wished he left it there. He continued, "Go talk about their wedding, or something. It's in the papers." 

Sean: 

Things were very awkward. Kwaj is set up to handle civilian VIPs, but they tended to come from Congress or defense contractors. We were neither. The whole situation reeked "security clearance" and we had none. When I was in the Army, I had worked on some of code worded investigations, but that was then. Now I was uncleared and too important to bully, but at least I knew the steps to the dance. Sheila had no security ties to anyone and no experience with OpSec (operational security). Colonel Harlan could not know how naturally things like this came to Sheila.

Dinner opened with some very nice tuna, served as sushi. The main course was more of the fish, charcoal grilled, with rice and steamed frozen vegetables. Typical Army to serve no local produce. As usual, Sheila ate like a bird. As usual at a business meal, I did not taste the food. Instead, I listened to Colonel Harlan try to tap dance in his minefield. It became clear that the Department—meaning either Army or Defense—was not willing to grant Sheila the necessary security clearance without a trusted handler. As both husband and CEO, I was considered too involved to be suitable. 




Postcards Ch. 03



We turned to the ladies. Glenda Harlan was shocked that attention was directed her way, but Sheila was the important one. She looked disoriented. I tried to memorize the expression, since I doubted I would see it again. As a clue, I pulled on a non existent goatee beard. Kitten picked it right up. Her question was simply Gerald's name, but Colonel Harlan was well briefed. He agreed before I could get the full name out. However, something else caught his attention. 

It turned out to be Glenda. Her expression cycled between shock and disbelief while Sheila spoke to her, using loaded terms like "security" and "CID." Glenda started to speak three times before giving it up. Colonel Harlan was stunned to see his wife speechless. I told him how Gerald summarized Sheila's ability to pass compact information. He barked a laugh, as I hoped, then huffed a couple more before giving in to hilarity. By the time he stopped laughing, Glenda was quite concerned. Colonel Harlan comforted her by saying he could pass the buck, in good conscience, and was glad to do so. Then he tipped Glenda to the wedding. Ouch.

Once Glenda had a girl subject, she was on home turf. In no time she dragged Sheila off to meet the other officer's wives. Considering the amount of coverage, that conversation could last a while. Or not. Sheila could be very short when she felt the need. It left me to talk shop with the Colonel, which was a bit weird. During my time in the Army, I was a trained animal. I did my act on cue, but discussions never involved me. At most I would get questions on procedure or a specific detail. Gerald was the one talking to the Colonels and Generals, often very unhappy ones. 

Back then, Colonel Harlan would barely have spoken to me, much less felt the need to chat or confide. That evening it was the opposite. Colonel Harlan was on the bottom looking up. There is a saying that Pentagon Colonels get the coffee. That is usually taken to mean that they run errands, but there is a second meaning—sometimes they are asked to leave because they are not cleared to hear the discussion. This was such a situation. Colonel Arnold Sanderson "Sandy" Harlan wanted to get the low down from me, former Staff Sergeant Richards, because he would not get it through channels. Shit.

How did I sum up the woman I married? I settled on the proposal. I started with the ring. Finding Earl Clancarty's bride's ring was a landmark in my life. I spoke of the process of getting a ring made for her hand, buying the dress and the lace cover. I tried not to mention costs, because Sandy blanched when I mentioned the first one. Still, it made a nice yarn up to the point I was going to ask the question. I described the restaurant and the appetizers, then fell silent, lost in my memory. 

Sandy—when had Colonel Harlan become Sandy?—waited me out. I liked his judgment. When I was fully back in the room, he asked, "How did you pop the question?" 

This was the point of my story, so I allowed myself a smile. "I didn't, not really. Sheila asked me what the job was." That required more explanation. Sandy was very impressed with my habit of making job offers off the cuff. I knew I was unusual, but never thought of it as a talent to be admired. I found myself explaining how I hired Curtis and later CC. That led to Justin and the catalog. A lot happened that week. 

I worked my way back to the restaurant, resetting the scene. I continued, "I had given her two checks that day, totaling over $40,000. Sheila thought it was too much, so I explained—in detail—why it was worth every penny and cheap at the price. She just listened, turning ghostly white. She never moved, never made a sound. When I finished, she asked me..."

"What position?" Sheila and Glenda had come up behind us. 

I could play along. "What do you mean, 'What position?'" 

"CC said you had a position to offer me. What position?" Sheila remembered it word for word.

"Spouse." My answer was easy to remember. 

Sheila said, "Then he went down on one knee and offered me a two hundred year old Irish wedding band, which will fit my pinky finger. He had this one made to my size." She showed Glenda her wedding band. Sheila doing girl talk, who'da thunk it? Still, even the Colonel was impressed with the claddaugh ring. 

We talked a bit about the symbolism and the lineage of the original ring, which led to the dress. We must have spent half an hour telling stories about the wedding preparations, before talk returned to mundane issues. We would be flying back to Hawaii in the morning. Glenda was clearly taken with Sheila, so I extended an invitation to visit us if they were ever in our part of world. 

Sheila: 

I dreaded questions about our wedding. For a while it was easy, because Francine's name was magic. We were in an alcove of the officer's club, where several of the wives gathered. Glenda introduced me to everyone, then asked about the newspaper story on the wedding. There was a lot of talking until one of the younger women pulled up an article on her PDA. There was a picture of Francine and Siobhan. I explained that Siobhan did not feel comfortable in a dress, so she wore the suit and stood with her brother. Someone asked about the short woman next to Siobhan. I barely started to answer before the room filled with variations of, "Oh my God. That's Francine Martel." All of the smart phones came out.

For one of the few times in my life, I hated technology. Googling my name with Francine's turned up a lot of things that had not been in the papers. That was not bad. The ladies talked among each other about each new tidbit. Then someone tried looking for video. The screens on smart phones are tiny, but big enough to show my duet dance with Francine. It did not take long before someone found a laptop. The stream was jerky, the picture quality was mediocre, the sound was not even that good, but it still was unmistakably me dancing. 

Suddenly all the attention was on one of the younger women, while her attention was on the screen. Glenda noticed my confusion. She quietly told me that the woman, Becky, was the music teacher at the high school and taught dance on the side. When the dance ended, Becky looked up and asked how long we had rehearsed. It caught me off guard and I could feel my face heat. I said we had spent a couple of days working together. It was true, though the days were almost fifteen years before. 

Becky was not satisfied. She asked if I always did the man's part. That caused a stir and Becky had to explain that I was dancing the part of the Prince, to Francine's Sugar Plum Fairy. She turned to me and asked who had choreographed the modern version. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Glenda stepped in and told them all to give me some room. That left me with the floor. I fixed my mind on the press conference, where I showed naked pictures of myself. If I could do that, I could survive this. I started with Oskar Gruber's studio and worked my way through that night in Manhattan. I told them of the days we were short on boys, so I had played the Prince in practice. 

When it came time to do the reprise, I remembered those sessions with Francine and channeled the Prince from the night of the performance. I had almost escaped, when I mentioned the company that loaned me Mikka. At the word "Bolshoi" the entire room went silent. At that point someone in the back found a reference to my night at Lincoln Center. I wanted a big rock, so I could die in privacy.

Fortunately, Becky knew enough to explain to the others, more or less. My breathing was returning to normal, when I heard the words, "Oh, much better." Everyone looked at me again. I figured Becky told them I was a better dancer than she was. I had jumped to the wrong conclusion. Becky actually said I was a much better dancer than Francine, which I would have protested had I understood. 

In a way it was good. Glenda used the pause to pull me out of the situation. We retreated to calls of "Congratulations" and "So nice to meet you." Glenda pulled me from the room into a storeroom, off the kitchen. I had not realized that my heart was racing until I tried to center myself. Deep breaths. When things finally approached normal, I felt like I had just finished a workout. 

Glenda apologized, "I'm sorry, my dear. I did not realize how shy you were. You cover it well." Shy? Martha's words rang in my ears, "It is so nice to see someone pull you out of your shell." Was I really that bad? Apparently so. Even Sean had commented on my layers of armor. I had let Sean inside. Now there was someone else. I reached for Glenda and pulled her into a family hug. She was surprised, but returned it in full measure. As we hugged, I felt a weight lift from my soul.

We separated and repaired our makeup. Glenda insisted that I say good bye to the other women. That proved easy enough. I told them that Glenda could forward me their emails and to make sure the one she had was current. Glenda nodded full agreement, which satisfied everyone. I planned to send a them all a nice behind-the-wedding folio. There was plenty of material.

In that pensive mood, we came back to Sean and the Colonel. Sean was telling him how I spoiled his proposal. In keeping with a theme of quashing Sean's lines, I jumped in with, "What position?" Teddybear never missed a beat. We said our lines to the end. Sean even went down on one knee again. It was a comforting memory, which I needed after my panic attack with the wives. I even enjoyed when Sean picked me up again, though he did not carry me away.

Instead, he set me back down, so I could explain everything. Sean was grinning like a fool as I walked Glenda through the events leading to where she had come in. Glenda was shocked that I was paid so much money for just a few days work. The Colonel backed Sean, citing Mark Twain, "The difference between the right word and almost the right word, is the difference between a lightning bolt and a lightning bug." From that perspective, I could see Sean's point. Glenda asked when we had eaten dinner. Sean and I cracked up.

I laughed until tears came, waving to get Sean to continue the story. I could tell this would be a favorite for years to come. By the time I was able to stick in my next bit—about texting Francine an engagement announcement, then pulling the battery out of the phone—Glenda and the Colonel were laughing with us. It was the perfect end to the evening. As I hugged Glenda good night, she promised to come up next time they visited the Capital. 

As Sean shook the Colonel's hand, he gave me a sideways look. I was getting lucky. Glenda's low chuckle told me she understood exactly what Sean had in mind. I blushed. She leaned close and said, "You like your man aggressive and you chose well. It's why I picked Sandy." I knew there was a reason I liked her.

Sean: 

For a dinner that had started very tense, things finished remarkably well. I could see that Glenda and Sheila had bonded. The nature of the trial would wait for another day. It was clear Sheila had pulled through it, probably with Glenda's help. Role playing my flubbed proposal seemed to be the perfect tonic. In retrospect, it really was funny.

The capper was when Glenda asked what happened to dinner. Sheila laughed to tears, but retained enough control to urge me on. I had seen Sheila out of control and did not want to go there again. The contrast to this night was dramatic and sexy. All the laughter left Sheila flushed bright pink. The sight pulled at something in my groin. Except for the one exceptional round in an airline commode, this honeymoon had been short on nookie. It was time to change that.

As I shook Sandy's hand, I glanced over at Sheila. She saw and understood. My Kitten rarely misses anything. I was a bit surprised when Glenda also picked up on it. She whispered something to Sheila, which made her blush again. In a heartbeat my shorts were much too tight. Sandy didn't miss that. I think Glenda could look forward to a nightcap as well. For myself, I thought in terms of a quicky against the wall, then a shower, followed by a more serious fuck. We could not get out of there fast enough.

Naturally, life intrudes. I wanted one more look at the monuments, both American and Japanese. In the dark, the stained glass window of the chapel was noteworthy. I still felt the towering pines at the Japanese cemetery made the heavier impact. I could not think of them without thinking of the $12.95 version I saw every Christmas. The irony was too deep for me to read.

As we pulled into our parking place, I looked down at my wife. She was curled up next to me like a cat near a space heater. I had decisions to make. The night before, I had tried to be Studly von Dominant. Sheila told me to work on my knots. I needed a different approach. This time, instead of worrying about how she felt, I would get my rocks off, then worry about the rest. My first impulse—a quick fuck—seemed to be a good one. Maybe that was a clue. I could fulfill my fantasies and tell Sheila about it afterward, as if she would not figure me out. 

Whatever else was true, Sheila was going to be ready. When she and Glenda returned from meeting the other ladies, Sheila had been flushed. I knew that look. Something had set her heart racing. When she came down she would be horny as hell. The military calls it post action prick. The hormones for fear and sex are the same. Before I thought to check, Sheila's scent filled the car. 

If I let her, Sheila would drape herself all over me. Under the circumstances, some directions were in order. That, I knew how to do. Using my best don't-fuck-with-me voice, I whispered, "You're acting like a cat in heat. Show some decorum or I'll walk you through a check out line at the PX. Then everyone will know what you are." Sheila sat up straight, but the pungency cranked up a couple notches. Poor Sgt. Johnson. He was going to have to explain why his car smelled of horny woman.

There are commercials showing a car. A spokesperson pulls an unseen cover away, revealing a different car underneath. On Sheila, my orders were just as transforming. In her usual flowing, unhurried fashion, she uncurled, placed her feet on the floor, hands in her lap and eyes forward. Only the scent remained the same. 

When we reached our quarters, I walked around the car. Sheila had not moved. I opened the door and extended my hand. She grasped my hand and flowed to her feet, thereby setting a pattern for our married life. I extended an arm, which she took. I assured Sgt. Johnson that we would need no further assistance. As he drove off, I considered my wife. Alfred Hitchcock referred to Grace Kelly as a snow capped volcano. In the press she was an ice queen—cool, beautiful, distant. Privately she seduced her married leading men. It was a thought I would share with Sheila, some other time. 

For the moment, I intended to use her as a fuck toy.

Sheila: 

Saying goodbye to Glenda filled me with mixed emotions. We connected, but would not see each other before Sean and I left, if ever again. Meanwhile Sean was riding male hormones, so I foresaw sex in the very near future. A few minutes earlier that would have scared me, but my own hormones were beginning to take over. 

In any event, the near future could wait a few minutes. The sun set and darkness fell almost as fast as we could get from the officer's club to the car. Sean wanted to see the two memorials after dark, which was worth the extra look. The back lit window of the chapel was memorable, but my enduring memory is of the tall trees at the Japanese cemetery, silhouetted against the horizon's fading glow. Sean never explained why he took me to Kwajalein, but I understood. Like Siobhan in Elizabeth, a life transition had taken place there. 

All these things were going on while I held Sean's sleeve and snuggled close. As we left the cemetery my thoughts turned to him and what I wanted to do. Warmth flooded the lower half of my body. Sean's only reaction was to tell me to behave. Yes, Sir. I sat up straight while I savored the idea of calling him Sir on a military base, where he did not rate the courtesy. I started doing warmup stretches in my mind, to keep from fidgeting. It was not far to our new suite, but the speed limit was a slow crawl. 

When we stopped, Sean immediately climbed out his door. He had not given me instructions to move, so I channeled Christine and sat still. Sean walked around the car, opened my door and extended a hand. That gave things a pleasing symmetry—I was obedient, while Sean was attentive and helpful. That would work. One more small piece slid into place. If married life was a jigsaw puzzle, I could start to make out the picture. 

Sean gave me his arm. I held it while he dismissed Sgt. Johnson. We walked for a few minutes in the warm night, but Sean was merely prolonging his anticipation. If I read him correctly, he was going to have me quickly and harshly. My juices started to soak past my panties and make my thighs greasy. For control I turned each step into a four beat routine—Toe, up, heel, down, Toe, up, heel, down. One, two, three, four, Five, six, seven, eight. It worked well enough to get me to our door. Sean unlocked the door, then held out his hand. He did not want my hand in return.

In full view from the parking area, standing under a light, Sean wanted my panties. Rather than be coy and minimal, I did a Christine. Bending over slight to reach the hem, I raised my skirt. Holding it in my teeth, I put both thumbs in the silk shorts that Francine had provided and pushed them all the way to my ankles. When I reached bottom, Sean said, "Stop." It was not spanking position exactly, but it would do quite well.

Sean calmly pulled up my skirt with one hand and placed his other full on my left glute. Muttering, as he often does, he said, "Cheeky." and chuckled at his pun. Having felt the same about Christine, I knew what would come next. The question was how? Sean did not know his knots, but he worked out regularly. He understood warming up, nor did he disappoint. 

I had asked for a spanking, so Sean wanted me ready to enjoy it. I had been saucy and impudent, so he kept me bent over in the entrance while he caressed and pinched my cheeks, moving up to little fingertip swats. He worked carefully, covering everything from thigh to top of the arch. He took long enough that I was starting to feel the position, which was a while. Most of my clients would have broken posture long before. 

Sean must have realized it, because he stopped, with the heel of his hand on my tailbone. He started to muse under his breath. I caught phrases, such as "too public' and "sit on the plane" but nothing complete. While he thought, his middle finger stroked my anus. That, apparently unintended, stimulus was harder to take than the posture or his light spanking. I concentrated on breathing slow even breaths.

Fortunately, Sean is decisive. He made up his mind and gave my ass an echoing slap, which sent tremors through my body. I took it as permission to continue, so I stepped from my panties. Sean was busy opening the door. As soon as it swung open, he waved me through. Even before the door closed, his hands were opening his fly. He was going to have me against the front door. Anticipating his desire, I place my back to the door and raised one foot. Sean grabbed the ankle, placed it on his shoulder and plunged deep on the first thrust. 

My world exploded. Sean slid in easily until our pubic bones bumped. It may not have been exactly what Christine gets from a pubic bump, but I saw stars. His hands went behind me, to pull me into the next thrusts. There were only three. With each I was on the edge, but not over it. On the forth thrust, Sean shot his load. Even as I mentally whimpered at not gaining release, I treasured the warm feel of his sperm. For some reason, I have always felt that was the moment when we conceived our daughter. 




Postcards Ch. 03



The rest went quickly. I dropped to my knees and cleaned our juices off Sean's penis. I started to respond, but Sean shook off the possibilities and went to an armchair. He sat and gestured to his lap. I lay a across his legs and received a nice hand spanking. Sean must have done some research, because his placement and technique seemed straight from a manual. Again, he brought me close, but not to climax. 

We showered, rather I showered him. What cleaning I received was purely from being in the same flow of water. Once I dried him, he toweled me roughly, then told me to put on my heels and bring the scarves. He had me cross my wrists behind my back. My eyes were lowered, but I could see him carefully folding the scarves into wide ribbons. He used one scarf to tie my wrists. The other scarf he threaded through the first at right angles. His first bond had been a bit loose, but the second took up the slack. That night I would have no complaints about not being properly bound. After Sean checked the knots the last time, he told me to snap my fingers if I needed attention. The meant I was gagged, though not physically. 

It was still early, so we watched the last half of The Thomas Crown Affair. It was on TBS, so the language was edited and topless parts were blurred, but the movie still affected me. Parallels from Crown to Sean were unavoidable. As always, my favorite part was when Faye Dunaway says, "If she's anything like you, she won't know what she's losing until it's gone." The look of realization on Pierce Brosnan's face is perfect. 

I wept when she reached the helipad, only to find a servant waiting. I ached as she put on her battle gear, but it was not working for her. At the climactic moment, Sean said with the movie, "There's no need to cry there, lassie." while he dabbed my eyes with a tissue. I put my face in his chest and bawled. Sean's arms around me were much more comforting than my bustier had ever been.

I must acknowledge Sean was very attentive. With my arms tied at the wrist, I could not even wipe myself. After my cry, he held a tissue to my nose for a blow, then took me to the bathroom to pee. He gently patted me dry, then led me to the vanity. Of all the events of the trip, that was the most memorable. I sat in a ladder back chair, forced to see my naked body, while Sean carefully brushed my hair. He went far beyond a hundred strokes. When he was finished, my unwashed hair glowed. Sean then braided it into a rope and wrapped it around my head. Where had he learned all this?

It did not matter. These little mysteries would provide musings during the coming years. I had the security of a clearly marked place in Sean's life. I quickly fell asleep, safe in my husband's arms.

Sean: 

When I dismissed our watcher, I assumed he would send someone else. I took Sheila for a short stroll to allow everyone into place. My intent was to take Sheila inside and rattle the door a bit. Sheila had other ideas. When I asked for her panties, she pulled up her skirt and pushed the panties all the way to her ankles. It showed how limber she was, because her fingers were brushing the ground, in spite of her heels. I told her to freeze in that position.

I did not know if we were being watched in the strict sense. I expected some form of alert system if we chose to leave, but eyes on the door would be a bit much. Still, it was possible. I lifted Sheila's skirt and ran my had over her beautiful ass. Bent double as she was, the glutes were stretched to the limit. I began to play with them. I started with simple touch, but soon worked my way to taps and baby swats. I was waiting for some sign of fatigue. Dream on. 

I had escalated to enough force that my fingertips tingled and Sheila looked like she could go on all night. I stopped and rested my hand on her ass bone. From this side, the double hump of her ass invited me to the center. I stroked he asshole with one finger while I considered. The bottom line was that we were too public. A little show was one thing, but I was not going to get naked out there.

So, I gave Sheila one real swat, then opened the door. Sheila read my mind, because she put her back to the door and raised a foot. I put it over my shoulder ad plumbed her on one thrust. Sheila may have orgasmed on penetration. If so, it was the only one she got. Four pumps and I shot my load. Without command, Sheila dropped and licked the juices off. She was so submissive, I was reminded of CC, which would also go with the exhibitionism. I could play that game.

First, Sheila had requested a spanking. I was willing, but she needed to able to sit in a plane for eight hours. That meant no flogger. Instead I raised the skirt and gave her a hand spanking, focusing on the place where leg meets cheek. In a way, it was a lot like giving massage. I could gauge the reaction to know where to apply more force and where to avoid. When the entire bottom was a nice pink, I stood her up and headed for the shower.

Sheila never hurries and never drops or tosses clothes. None-the-less, she was undressed before I was, testing the water temperature. I let her soap me all over and wash my hair. When she was done, I turned off the water. She dried me while still dripping. I dried her, then told her to get her tall heels and the scarves. I cross tied her wrists behind her back, taking care to use up all the slack. Learn to tie knots, indeed.

That was when I realized I was disciplining Sheila for her off hand comment. Good. I would let her in on the secret in the morning. At the time, I wanted to do her hair. When I was very small, I watched Gram Sparks brush her waist length hair. Instead of shooing me away, she treated me like a young girl, confiding all the secrets of traditional hair care. I was too young to be offended and was full of interest, since my mother was very thorough about locked doors. Thirty years later, I had my first practical experience. Sheila seemed to enjoy it.

It was still a bit early, so I turned on TV. AFN is a mixed bag. They give a range of free programming, but never the premium offerings. I settled on an old favorite, starring Rene Russo and Pierce Brosnan. A few people had compared me to Thomas Crown, but I was interested in seeing how Sheila related to Katherine Channing. Nailed that one. By the time my cue came, I had a tissue in hand and a box nearby. When I told her there was no need to cry, it all came out.

Sheila was to dignified to cry loudly, but everything else was possible. She cried; she sobbed; she shook; she whimpered. Through it all she clung to me like I was her life preserver. Maybe I was. Eventually she cried herself out. I took her to the bathroom and let her pee, while I dabbed at her swollen eyes. Sheila blushed when she reached for the toilet paper and found she couldn't. I patted her dry and helped her stand. Sheila would not speak, but she put her forehead on my shoulder, which I interpreted as a thank you. 

I took her to bed. It was not the most comfortable position for her, but she was out like a light. Normally I can sleep when I wish, but not that night. It felt like sentry duty. Guarding my wife was the one thing I wanted most to get right. That night I held her and whispered in her ear for hours. 

Eventually I needed to get up. After checking Sheila, I started texting. It was well before local dawn, but my messages would reach Curtis and Gerald about three in the afternoon, their time. In Gerald's case, I doubt I was the first contact, but official confirmation is always welcome. As waking hours approached, I called down for coffee and danish. It may not have been a hotel, but VIP service is VIP service. The suite had a tea set. I was making a pot for Sheila when she stirred. 

I called, "It's about time you woke up. Get up and bring those scarves here, in front if you can manage." If? Sheila ran her bound hands under her ass and feet as easily as I rise from a chair, and much more gracefully. I asked, "Danish or croissant?" Sheila sat on one of the stools and indicated the croissants with her eyes. Interesting. She wanted to continue the play. Worked for me. 

I poured her tea and added half a creamer. I held the cup to her lips so that she could sip. Next I tore the croissant to small pieces and fed her, pausing for the occasional sip. When that was done, I ate my cheese danish and drank my coffee. Sheila watched every move. About half way through, I looked at the tied scarves and nodded to her. As I completed my roll, she tried to escape the bonds. It was not close, but given more time, she could have managed. That's my girl. 

I untied the strained scarves with difficulty, then pulled her close for a kiss. We stayed a long moment, forehead to forehead, reluctant to move on. Sighing, I said, "We're done. You need to get ready." Sheila nodded and turned toward the bath. I said, "There is usually an afternoon shower in Hawaii. I'll be sure to bring the umbrella." Sheila's pace quickened.

Sheila: 

Going to sleep in Sean's arms was one of the best moments of my life. His arms protected and comforted me. When I woke, I still felt contented, though his arms were no longer around me. During the night I had come to a realization—Sean truly did defend me. The irony was that I wanted to stretch contentedly, but my wrists were tied. 

Sean noticed that I was awake. He told me to come get tea with hands in front. It was a relief to bring my arms forward. According to the clock I had been bound for over six hours and my shoulders ached. Sean asked me to try slipping my bonds, but they were too much for the short time he allowed. Silk is very strong and his method was effective. The glint in his eye told me that he remembered my comment about learning knots. In the future, I would need to be sure such comments were intentional. I smiled as I recalled some lines of TV dialog. Q: "Are you going to shoot me?" A: "Not by accident."

Sean kissed me. We leaned together for a while, then he said it was time to get ready. He untied my wrists and I went to shower. Already, it was strange to do it alone. Feeling a little impudent, I rolled one of the scarves and used it to tie my hair back. After that it was all business. The bags were packed and ready, but I had not used my computer since it had been returned. I checked it carefully until there was a knock on the door.

Colonel Harlan met us at the airstrip. He conveyed Glenda's well wishes and a small gift. It was native handcraft from a nearby island. I told him that I would send her some images that were not on the internet. His smile was a bit crooked, so my irony was not lost. Sean chuckled at his discomfort, which earned a glare, but then Colonel Harlan's laughed. His parting shot was, "I hope you get a good liaison. You'll chew a bad one up." Sean grunted agreement. 

Hours later, as we approached Hawaii, the captain announced that rain was expected. Sean and I both laughed. I bit my lip in anticipation.



Postcards Ch. 04



Author's Note: This section contains an attempted mugging, with the possibility of of rape. This passage is non-erotic. If violence distresses you, use caution.

Chapter 4

Depart: 9:15 a.m. 	Thu., May. 31, 2014
Kwajalein, Marshall Islands (KWA)

Arrive: 6:42 p.m.	Wed., May. 30, 2014, -1 day
Honolulu, HI (HNL)

Flight Time:6 hr 35 mn
Travel Time:7 hr 27 mn
1 Stop. Time on the ground is 52 minutes.	
Distance: 2,446 miles	

Flight: UA1655
Aircraft: Boeing 737-800
Fare Class: United Economy (Q)
Meal: Dinner - No Special Meal Offered.

Sheila: 

There is an old joke. A student answers a professor by saying, "I have a deficient education. My high school did not offer mind reading." I hoped Sean's school did offer mind reading, because I was going to test his skill. 

Sean: 

Arriving at the airport in Honolulu was the same, but different. As expected, there was a sign in the exit area. Unexpected were the second and third signs. The expected sign was held by George Kada, with Trina Brooks at his elbow. The somewhat unexpected sign was held by Kiku Toda, or Toda Kiku if you were in Japanese territory. She was an airline employee, so getting our flight information would not have been difficult for her. The truly unexpected sign was held by a Sergeant First Class named Tanner. I started with him. Sheila was busy hugging Kiku and Trina. 

SFC Tanner said, "General Buehrle would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience." That was Army speak for get the bags and use the bathroom, but nothing else. I was about to ruin his day.

I asked Sheila, "There's a General that wants to talk. Do you want to make time to see him?" SFC Tanner looked annoyed when I looked to my wife. It paled to shock when I suggested that we might refuse the invitation. To a sergeant, Generals are next to God. This particular sergeant had ass-kissing-lackey embossed on his forehead.

Sheila knew the type. "We can go down to baggage while he figures out the details." 

Sure enough, by the time we reached baggage claim, SFC Tanner had a cell phone attached to his ear. After a while, he held it out to me.

Phone: What the hell did you say to Roscoe? He hasn't been this wound up since Hillary visited.

"General, I have not spoken a word to him. I asked my wife if she wanted to accept your invitation. It was Sheila you wanted to talk to, wasn't it? She's the talent. I just run the company."

Phone: Run it pretty damn well from what I've seen. But, you're right. She is the person of interest.

"General, I am going to speak plainly. We are on our honeymoon. Half our time, so far, has been in airports or on planes. We have three days scheduled, on an island, in a luxury time share. You are not going to compete with that."

Phone: Not awed by my august position are you Sergeant? I am guessing that you won't go to the island today. I can offer you VIP accommodations and a traditional luau. Your wife can try hula...What's so damn funny?

"Sorry General, but my wife studied ballet—Bolshoi and Carnegie Hall. Tourist level hula will not impress her. As to the other, we have arrangements for tonight. I plan a nice meal, a long shower and serious sack time. Based on the VIP accommodations we have seen so far, that would be a No Go."

Phone: I can see your reputation is not exaggerated. How's this. I will get you a boat to take you to the island. One of my people can ride along. Reputation? What reputation?

"That sounds workable. I have a request. Send food, a saw—suitable for bamboo—a knife and lashing. Sheila is starting to complain about missing workouts."

Phone: OK. I'll bite. All that is easy, but what does it have to do with your wife's workouts?

"Ballet bar. She wants to stretch. I have video you would not believe. I assume Roscoe is available in the morning. He isn't really named Roscoe is he?

Phone: [laughing] No. His given name is Michael. Roscoe comes from Dukes of Hazard. Give him the phone. I'll tell him his agenda.

SFC Tanner left. When I approached my crew, George was speaking Japanese to Kiku, looking impressed. That would be House Toda. Kiku had some serious Japanese connections, even if she was American by birth. I told Sheila about the General and his offers. Once SFC Tanner was gone, Kiku led us to baggage claim, where our footlocker waited. We took out a few things, principally a change of clothes for Sheila, then sent it on to JFK. It can be nice when an airline is cooperative. 

By the time we returned, our flight was on the baggage carrousel. We loaded up and went to the big SUV George had waiting. Kiku hugged Sheila, then gave me a formal bow. I was unsure what to make of it. Kiku left without explanation. The rest of us went to our (mid range) hotel.

Compared to some of the places we had slept, it was nice. Compared to my usual traveling accommodations, it was Holiday Inn. However, we had reservations at Colony House, which was as close to a five star restaurant as Waikiki gets. There was time for a quick shower and change, then back to the car. George dropped us off, leaving his cell number with Sheila.

Dinner was excellent. We had the mahi ceviche and steamed snails as a appetizer. Sheila ordered the snapper and mushrooms, with pilaf and stir fried greens. I had the prime rib and madeira sauce, with heart of palm salad and breadfruit. Sheila did better. We lingered over tea and coffee.

After dinner, George deposited us at our hotel and said good night. It was still early. Our hotel had an agreement with a local gym, so we went to sweat a little. The gym was as second rate as the hotel, but it had a suitable elliptical trainer. I did some no resistance work and watched Sheila on the mat. A gym trainer took one look and kept going. They ignored me, which says all that is necessary about the quality of the establishment.

Sheila did some stretching, then began something resembling martial arts katas. It was mesmerizing. I tended to stop my own workout to watch. Eventually, I moved from the elliptical machine to the weights, so I would not be distracted. After about half an hour, I was told the gym would close in thirty minutes, so I threw in the towel. That was when I made the biggest mistake of my life.

Sheila: 

I was glad to see George and Trina at the airport. Trina was letting George take the lead, which said interesting things. Seeing Kiku was a bonus. She told me she would try to be here, but was not sure she could juggle her schedule. I introduced everyone. Kiku and George were soon conversing in Japanese. Trina looked a little put out, but I waved her off. This would not end well for George. 

There was another person wanting our attention. Since he was in uniform, I let Sean handle him. No joy. The soldier may have been paying attention to Sean, but it was me he wanted to take somewhere. Sean was an excellent buffer against idiots. It was one of the things I liked best about our relationship. Sean jerked the soldier's chain a few times, then we went to baggage claim. 

Our flight was not yet on the carousel, so we went to the missing baggage desk. They had the footlocker from Guam. Kiku had handled it as misrouted baggage. They let me open the locker and do some swapping. My purse and carry-on bag were lighter and I retrieved the flower dress. The footlocker was forwarded for pickup at JFK. It can be nice having someone on the inside pulling strings.

By the time we finished repacking, Sean had disposed of the soldier. We collected our bags and went to George's car. Kiku said goodbye. We would keep in touch, but parting is never fun. Things were very quiet on the drive to our hotel. 

We checked in, showered and changed for dinner. The restaurant was better than the hotel. Sean had his usual beef, while I had some outstanding fish. After dinner, sipping tea and talking was one of the best parts of the trip so far. If we did not have a ride waiting, we might have stayed for hours. I suspect George and Trina would not have minded, but it would still be an imposition.

It was still daylight when we returned to the hotel. Sean sent George off, telling him we had a ride in the morning. That would be our soldier. Whatever. Sean was good with such details. I was reading a poster that started, "Free Gym Visits." Our rooms allowed us to use a nearby gym at member rates. After three days in airplanes, I was dying for some work. Sean made arrangements for the hotel to take us over.

The "Fitness Center" was about what I expected for a second (or third) tier hotel. They had the bare minimum of equipment, a few free weights and no help to speak about. For myself, any open floor was good and overdue. I felt tugs doing a simple split, much less actual stretching. Rather than anything strenuous, I kept myself to some martial forms. It was enough. I was soon lost in the ritual of stretch, hold, shift, hold... 

Surprisingly, only one trainer came by to offer "assistance". I showed him my ring and he backed off. I smiled as I thought of what Sean might have done to him, if he was pushy. My Teddybear is very protective. It gave me a glow that had nothing to do with exercise. My lactic acid levels were just starting to get warm when Sean told me they were closing. I thought a walk would be a nice cool down.

We had gone less than a block when I noticed our shadows. They waited til we were in front of a row of closed businesses. That cut off one direction of escape. We found out later it also gave the police security video, so the muggers were only half smart. Sean would say half wits. In any event, there were three of them—one in front, one out of an alley, one from behind. Given my early experience at the warehouse, I should have expected someone bird dogging the gym.

Things developed normally. The leader accosted Sean, while the other two moved to cut off our escape. That lasted only a few seconds, then the two others—call them Big and Stupid—moved to flank me. What began as attempted robbery was turning into attempted rape. That was good, because it brought them closer. My face would have warned them, but they were watching Sean and Boss.

Sean is not the most impressive physical presence, but he has a significant advantage. He never hesitates. All I needed to do was provide a distraction. Either Big or Stupid would do for that. I needed both within reach, then it was a choice of which knife hand was easiest to disable. Stupid lived down to his nickname. Not only did he bring the knife within reach, he took his eyes off me.

I reached cross body to grab Stupid's wrist. My other hand went behind his elbow and pushed. Simple leverage started him moving and the arm bar kept him going. He was halfway around the circle before he started screaming. I sent him crashing into Big, dislocating his shoulder in the process.

If Stupid was stupid, Big was worse. When he saw his buddy coming toward him, he put out his hands to block, including the one with the knife. I did not see the blade bite, but I heard it. We would need an ambulance. With the knife out of play, it was trivial to kick the side of Big's knee. He went down, bellowing. 

I looked up in time to see Sean sucker punch Boss. Ouch. The Army, or someone, had taught Sean how to pivot for power. He did his best to punch through Boss' sternum. Everything connects to the breast bone and it had to be broken. I just hoped Sean had not broken his hand.

The whole confrontation had taken a minute or two. The fight took only seconds. We spent five hours dealing with the police.

Sean: 

Back home I travel with a guard. My staff has three certified martial arts trainers. I think Sheila might take them all down. Everyone comments on how she understands motion on a deeper level than mere mortals. They never consider what that means in a fight. Add a willingness to do permanent damage and you get a dangerous package.

At the time, I thought nothing of the sort. I was focused on giving Sheila a chance to run. One of the three was clearly the leader. I turned to face him and said we didn't want trouble. He said trouble was free and we could have all we wanted, then he laughed at his own joke. Half wit. I settled my weight. Mr. Leader shook his head and lifted his shirt to show a .45 revolver, as if I missed the bulge. 

Once he showed the piece, he stood upright, so the bulge was more pronounced. This ruined his balance, interfered with his ability to draw, but it was not the dumbest thing he did. He stopped watching me to check out Sheila. I readied a punch and waited for an opening. Sheila rarely disappoints. This would not be one of the times. In quick succession I heard a high, girlish scream, a thud, and a baritone bellow. Mr. Leader completely forgot about me, so I punched at his solar plexus as a reminder. 

That fast, it was over, except for the reports. My punch missed the plexus, but impacted near the sternum. Good enough. That said, I am the first to tell anyone that a job is not done til the paperwork is signed. The truism came home to nest. Spare me cops and their reports. Given the noise, we soon attracted attention. I was still dialing 911 when an elderly woman looked out of a window. I asked her what the address was. She never answered.

The first officials on the scene were Navy Shore Patrol. That would make sense. Mugging seamen is a centuries old tradition. They had no jurisdiction, but I was able to get useful information. Next on scene were the fire department and EMT. This proved fortunate, since one of the thugs was close to bleeding out. Finally, Honolulu PD arrived in force.

Had we been hurt, things would have gone quickly. Muggers hurting tourists is normal. Tourists hurting muggers is unusual. Slightly built women sending knife wielding men to the Emergency Room is strange. They wanted us to explain the strange. When a lawyer called, asking for us, they got insistent.

Curtis is grumpy at three in the morning. He got over it. After the usual, "Don't say anything." he contacted a firm in Honolulu. Within five minutes the firm contacted the police. In half an hour a defense attorney, named Daniel Ngo, arrived and presented credentials. This did not endear us to the police, who kept saying, "If you are innocent, you have nothing to worry about." No one is innocent. Ask a priest.

We spent several minutes giving our story to our lawyer. He obtained statements from the responding officer and made calls to the hospital. That was when we learned one of the thugs almost died. The EMT team was still at the hospital, but the fire crew had returned to the station. Danny promised to get their statement before they went off shift. Everyone forgot about the Shore Patrol until Sheila asked why they were gone.

More calls were made. The two SP at the scene were off duty, but the office faxed their report over. Danny promised to follow up. I asked to talk to the SP Officer of the Day. More eyebrows went up. I told the OD that I was escorting a civilian of military interest and asked him to forward the situation to General Buehrle's office, with copy to the Judge Advocate's office. One of the cops mouthed, "Oh, shit."

With everything going on, it was a wonder they let us go to our hotel about 3:00 AM. Danny Ngo walked us to our room. He unbent enough to say things looked good. Our sceduled departure was an issue, but he expected it to be workable. He wished us good night and left. Before he was out of sight, Sheila had me in a bear hug.

Call me dense. My first reaction was to wonder why Sheila was feeling threatened. It took a minute or two to unravel that she had been afraid for me. The two knife wielding thugs were an inconvenience. She was worried about the .45. She knew, if it came to a choice, that I would sell my life to give her a chance. It was the biggest compliment anyone had ever paid me. I stroked Sheila's hair and promised. I would never let it happen again. I was still reassuring her when she fell asleep.

Some habits are hard to break. I had been up all night at Kwajalein. In Honolulu, we went to bed at 3:30 AM. I was up again at 7:00 AM. My call to Schofield Barracks was quickly routed to General Buehrle himself. It was going to be that sort of day. After listening to the Cliff notes version, his reaction was the same as mine would have been. "Damn, Richards, are you sure you want to be married to that?" I told him to read Cordelia's Honor by LM Bujold. He surprised me by getting the reference, saying I thought well of myself. Since I was cast as Aral Vorkosigan, he had a point.

The fallout was that he would send a JAG officer to meet with the police. Sheila and I were due at ten o'clock. Hopefully, between the JAG and Daniel Ngo, our visit would be brief. A call to Curtis informed me that nothing major had happened in the last four hours. A call to Danny Ngo informed me that the smaller thug would survive, but would loose a length of intestine and some use of his arm. His partner would never walk without a cane. In comparison, Mr. Leader only had three broken ribs and a cracked breast bone. Thinking about it made my hand hurt.

I ordered coffee, tea and eggs from room service, then woke Sheila. To my surprise, she ate with appetite. At 9:30 AM Roscoe the driver called up. We loaded our luggage into his SUV. Helping out was the JAG, who had the unlikely name of Mikal Tigranovich Petrosian. On the way to the police station he explained that he was not the son of a world chess champion. Several of his uncles and cousins were named Tigran. When the Grandmaster became famous, the name became a family favorite. I may have made too much of it, but I needed some comic relief.

The police station was exactly what I expected in daylight. Several cops tried to glare and intimidate. One elderly desk Sergeant named Wilson and a female Detective named Rowland found it amusing. I sat, cross armed, and let Captain Petrosian and Danny Ngo do their jobs. Sheila was doing a good imitation of CC. It finally came to a head when a Detective Tanaka said, "If they didn't do anything wrong, why all the legal muscle?" Cpt. Petrosian grinned. Danny Ngo looked disgusted.

Detective Rowland was the one who answered. "Because, Detective, some police officers assume that the Constitution does not apply in Hawaii. They assume the only reason to be careful is to hide guilt. Mr. Richards runs a multi-billion dollar company. Mrs. Richards damn near killed someone in self defense. I think they have reason to be careful. 

"Look at her. Do you think someone that looks like that can work at a gym, in New Jersey, and not learn some self defense? From the way she moves, she could probably teach classes. She says she did two moves—one throw and one kick. SWAT backs her up on that. So, yeh, someone almost died. He was threatening her with a knife and his partner stabbed him. Why the hell isn't she out enjoying her honeymoon?"

From behind us, another voice said, "That's a good question. We have video from the head shop that backs up the whole story, including the timeline. She took down two bigger guys, with knives, in under two seconds. There are no foreign prints on either of the blades. She told the truth, just like you asked, but you didn't believe her. Tanaka, you're off the case. Sorry Sunny, that means you get the paperwork. Wrap it up and get 'em out of here." The speaker was a Captain named Soto. 

It wasn't that simple. "Sunny" turned out to be Detective First Class Rowland. She turned us over to Sgt. Wilson. Twenty minutes later we promised to check in before returning to New Jersey. Sheila promised wedding pictures for Sgt. Wilson's wife and Det. Rowland. This quickly expanded to include Danny Ngo's wife and Cpt. Petrosian's girlfriend. For someone remarkably shy, Sheila made friends easily. Danny said good bye. Cpt. Petrosian rode with us to the Navy's small craft pier.




Postcards Ch. 04



This time we were riding a boat with a crew. It was commanded by an Ensign Sanchez, who turned out to be SN Sanchez' uncle. Small world. Two crewmen passed our bags on board. There was also a large box, which was likely from the General. Cpt. Petrosian told me it was a pleasure to meet us and his report would be favorable. I had to tip my hat to Gen. Buehrle. Using JAG to cover a security check was smooth.

That left me with a wife to consider. Sheila took some heavy hits. 

Sheila: 

When I woke, Sean was gone. From there, things kept getting worse. Sean had ordered breakfast, which I did not want. I forced myself to eat, because there was no guarantee of lunch. There was a car, driven by the soldier from the airport. He kept his distance, but brought a lawyer. Captain Petrosian was there to check me out, while giving assistance with the police. The help I could use. The inspection I could do without. To give him due credit, he was good at his job.

I was not so lucky with the police. I had made a statement the night before. Daniel Ngo had gone through it carefully. Everything was factual and much of it could be verified. Several of the police refused to believe it. Stupid had a stab wound in the gut and nearly died. Even though his blood was on Big's knife, Detective Tanaka seemed to think I put it there. When that was disproved, he switched to a fictional sixth person. Supposedly, this person stabbed Stupid, broke Big's leg and disappeared. I sat quietly and let the lawyers do my talking.

Help arrived in the form of another detective. Det. Rowland piled contempt on Det. Tanaka's speculations. Before they came to blows, the Captain intervened and threw Det. Tanaka off the case. I promised pictures of our wedding to several people and we were allowed to leave. By that point, I did not know what I wanted, but curling up in a ball and crying for hours seemed a good place to start.

Thank G_d for my Teddybear. Never was my nickname more appropriate. Sean was a walking, talking comfort toy and guard dog. Our driver delivered us to a pier. The vessel—Sean warned me not to call it a boat—was commanded by a familiar face. Sure enough, the boat driver at Kwajalein was his nephew. Ens. Sanchez' face lit up when I made the connection. My day was not a total loss.

The ride out to our time share was long. Sean kept passing me bottles of water. That was the most interesting thing that happened. One piece of ocean looks very much like the next one. From time to time a ship or an island would come into sight, but always far away. My ennui had passed enough to allow serious boredom before our island was sighted. Ens. Sanchez had two crewmen loaded our bags into a power boat, which we rode to a dock. The crewmen took the bags up to our cabin, then left. At that point I had to look at Sean.

It was not that I had been ignoring him. I could sense his presence and feel his actions. They were comforting—I leaned on that—but I could not force myself to look at his face. Good heavens, I had almost killed a man. I felt freakish enough without seeing it reflected in his eyes. By their natures, such evasions only work in a crowd. 

To lengthen my isolation, I focused on the island. Calling it an island was a bit much. It was more a large rock sticking out of the ocean. From where I stood, there was a high point to the left, and a sand covered tongue to the right. That was our beach, such as it was. While there was soil and sand, grass and trees, much of the island was exposed rock. 

I could see three buildings and the roof of a fourth. All were built back in the folds of the big rock to the left. That made sense. It put them well above sea level and used the mass of the island to break storm winds. The cabins were not large. They seemed part of the rock, with gently sloping metal roofs and lots of glass. Toward the ocean, there were large patios, partly sheltered under the roof. Everything looked both rustic and expensive.

Sean said his piece to the Ens. Sanchez, then turned to me. It was just a glance, directing me toward cabin #4. The Navy crew had stacked our luggage on the porch. Sean pulled a note off the door, then waved me inside. I grabbed two of my bags and entered. Inside it was much cooler. The stone motif continued inside, softened by rugs and wall hangings. The living room was dark, but beyond was a small kitchen, which was brighter. To the right of the door was a closet, then a bathroom. The closed door had to be the bedroom. I stacked my bags by that door and claimed the toilet.

I had to go, but it also gave me a couple of minutes alone. This was clearly a guest bath, because there was no tub or shower. That said, it was not small. There was a nice pedestal sink and a large, well lit mirror. It would have been the perfect place to repair makeup. I was wearing only a little eye liner, but it motivated me to check the cabinet. Inside were the basics—comb, brushes, eye liner, mascara, clear lip gloss, moisturizer and aloe vera. The last two were in large bottles. I used several pumps of the moisturizer. 

When I came out, Sean was not in sight, but the bedroom door was open. I went to the kitchen and looked around. At the back was a broom closet/pantry. It was well stocked for an emergency—bottled water, bins of beans, rice, sugar and flour, canned meat and vegetables, dried soups and seasonings. There was a broom and dust pan, bucket and mop, bottles of bleach and disinfectant cleaners. On the top shelf were flashlights, batteries, a charger, portable radio, a large water filter and a couple of bottle size, canteens and instruction books. In case of a hurricane, we would be set for at least a week.

Back in the kitchen, there were two small refrigerators, a freezer and an ice maker. One fridge contained basic mainland breakfast items, condiments in squeeze bottles and a covered bowl of cut melons. Taped to the melons was a note. The other refrigerator was empty, probably intended for beer and soda. The freezer contained only a bottle of vodka and some pizza rolls. Out in the living room was a table, with a huge basket of fruit. At least we would not starve. Next to the fruit was the box I had seen on the boat. 

Sean chose that moment to return from the master suite. He picked up the box, opened it and set it on the counter. Inside was lunch and a rolled parcel. Sean handed me the Italian rolls and cold cuts, then unrolled the parcel. It contained a folding branch saw, a multi-tool and three skeins of parachute cord—red, white and blue. I did not know what to expect, but that was not it. It was like receiving gift wrapped copy paper. 

Sean had given me responsibility for lunch. We had bread, cheese and cold cuts, fresh fruit and filtered water. That would work. I debated soup, since there was a microwave, but decided to keep it simple. One of the refrigerators contained a variety of sauces, spreads and dressings, some already open. Since these were vinegar based, like pickles, yellow mustard and Italian salad dressing, I could deal with open. Mayo was in individual serving packets, which made me laugh.

I split two rolls, piled them with cheese, deli meat and a sliced avocado. I would have liked onion and tomato, but no joy. The bowl of cut fruit had a note. "Barb" left it for us. I added some papaya, bananas and white pineapple. For dressing I used honey and fresh squeezed lemon juice. It was not Club Med, but it would do. I cut the sandwich and slid it onto a plate, wishing for chips. Potato chips are the downfall of many diets and they were one of my weaknesses. The irony was almost enough to make me smile—almost.

Sean did not give me time to appreciate my humor, He grabbed his sandwich and handed me the note from the door. We were invited to visit cabin #6. There were six cabins on the island, so that would be the last one to the right. The note was signed Don and Barb. That would be Barb from the fruit basket. I could handle her, them, whatever. If Sean noticed my turmoil, he gave no sign.

Instead he ate his sandwich, drank his water, snarfed the fruit salad and generally behaved like a guy in an emotional situation. There are worse things. There have been worse lunches. After he finished, he reminded me of the tropical sun and headed for the master suite. The guest bathroom held no sunblock, so I followed Sean into the bedroom. I was immediately reminded I had married a CEO. Sean said nothing, because his message was in plain sight.

On the bed was my swimsuit, shorts, one of Sean's shirts and sandals. Next to that was a similar outfit, male version—swimshorts, polo shirt, sandals. Next to that was the flogger. My stars. 

Sean: 

I love competent subordinates, but occasionally it can be a pain. They ask questions I don't want to answer. Sheila was the same, only more so. Her questions were subtle, often non-verbal. Sheila was non-verballing all over my day, not that it was a good one to start with. Once we cast off from Hawaii, I could spend some time reading my message queue. I was hard to concentrate while Sheila was having trouble coping with almost killing Bozo #2. The police had given me his name, but I persisted in thinking of him as a clown.

I would bet a tall stack of money that Sheila did not know his name. I would bet the company that she could chart his movements to centimeters. If there was a more spatially aware person than Sheila, I have never heard of, much less met, him or her. Sheila had used a simple throw. I could see it replaying behind her eyes. To answer this, I had the Army's eternal wisdom—when in doubt, put 'em to work. 

The obvious thing was lunch, so I passed Sheila the food from Gen. Buehrle. I asked for food and he sent lunch. It was something to remember. My other request was handled better. The saw was perfect for branches or bamboo. I asked for a knife and he sent a high end multi-tool. The lashing was 550 cord, in flag colors. Possibilities abounded. I decided to give the cord to Sheila and scrounge something else. Before I could think further, Sheila was laying out lunch.

It was good. The sandwiches cried for tomato, but there was none available. The fruit salad needed only poppy seeds and a carved watermelon to be served on a cruise ship. Very nice. Almost as welcome were the tall tumblers of ice and water. Lord I was parched. Sheila drank her water, but picked at her half sandwich and small plate of fruit. If she was going to have a baby, that would not do.

To find a topic for discussion, I handed her the note from the front door. It was a simple invitation to visit cabin #6, signed Barb and Don. Sheila handed back a note from the kitchen, signed Barb. Thus agreed, I set to clearing the table, while Sheila covered or wrapped the uneaten food. She was done before I found the trash. Rinsing the dishes, I left them in the sink.

Cabin #6 was the one closest to the ocean on one side. That put it on the other side of the spit that served as a beach. Even from a distance, I could tell that #6 was more "lived in" than our cabin. Don and Barb met us at the front porch. 

Danté and Barbara Micelli were the property managers. Their territory included three other islands. Don suggested deep water fishing in the first two minutes. Barb rolled her eyes. At a guess, Don loved his boat and loved to play captain. I begged off, pleading seasickness. This brought a more sympathetic look from Barb. Kitten did not miss the by play. She and Barb went to talk girl talk, while Don talked fishing at me.

Of all that he said, the thing that sounded most fun was shore casting. He told me to meet him at five AM, while watching closely for my reaction. I called him a damned DI and we were good. Drill Instructors are universally hated, except in hindsight. I said enough to establish my ability to do unpleasant things for fishing, which is all that matters to a fisherman.

After that, Don brought me up to speed on our cabin. The island had no fresh water. A supply was delivered twice a week, plus there were rainwater cisterns. The upshot was that Sheila and I could not use our bath room shower for the rest of the day and very little in the morning. However, there was a rainwater shower on one wall of the house. 

Don turned surprisingly shy when he spoke of it. When I inquired he showed me the solar heater he had built for his own cabin. It was the sort of thing I might have built for science fair—blackened PVC pipe zig-zagging across a black painted board. It didn't look like much, but the water was too hot to take straight. Afternoon sun in the tropics is brutal. This was the best use I had yet seen for it.

This led to Don showing me other ways he had improved on the original design. For example, each cabin had a built in outdoor kitchen, with gas grill, gas burners and a small under-counter refrigerator. Done added a washtub and charcoal grill/smoker. There was an ice maker inside the cabin, so the washtub would double as a beer cooler. One of the nearby islands produced chunk charcoal. Don could order and have it delivered. For the moment, he gave me a bucketful and a couple of steaks. 

Grocery deliveries were done by a store on the nearest large island. Most of his residents took a helicopter to that island and boated over. We were his first delivery via US Navy. He did not ask for the story, which made me think it had value. This did not apply to the steaks. A previous occupant had left them behind. Don was willing to use perishable food, but frozen and canned he recycled through the various cabins. I asked if he had any rope to recycle.

That led to another conversation. This part of the Pacific was relatively calm, but storms happen. He grilled me on how much I knew of the emergency supplies and procedures. I was glad I had skimmed the manual he left in the bedroom. It put me ahead of most of the previous residents. Don filled me in on details I had missed, such as the canned goods in the pantry and the generator on the patio. Full alternate power was designed in, but the fuel had to be maintained and the generator started manually.

Don was very dismissive of most of the cabin residents. They would be unprepared in a real emergency. He and Barb were nursemaids to 15 timeshare cabins. I was only mildly surprised to learn that Barb was a licensed midwife and that her services had been required, twice. Don did not comment on Sheila and I, which led me to believe the jury was still out. You have to know military speak to understand the level of the compliment.

Sheila: 

Sean showed me the flogger, but did nothing about it. Typical. I have used the technique many times. With Sean, showing the possibilities was as natural as breathing. People think of him as blunt, but he assumes everyone wants to know what is going on, even if it is unpleasant. All I could infer was that the time was not right.

We went to see Don and Barb. They lived in the second cabin from us, on the other side of the little beach. Like much of the island, their lot was rocky and bare. However, there was a string of raised garden plots and a coconut palm. The tree may have been natural, but the beds were carefully tended. For some reason, the plots made me think of Christine. Gardening was an area she would excel. 

Barbara did not give me time to look around. She exclaimed at my skin tone and dragged me into the house. Once inside her attitude changed. Her questions were sharp and came quickly to a point. Sean is several years older and very pushy. Barbara wanted to know if I wanted to be alone with him. 

It was sweet. I told her about Sean taking me to the concert, about how he almost carried me to bed more than once, how he gave me the shirt off his back. That stopped her. Like many people, Barbara could see Sean's forceful side. I talked bout his protective urges. That led me to our time with the police, then to the attempted mugging. For some reason my description made her eyes go wide. Before I could ask, she smothered me with a hug. We had a good cry, my first in years. 

After we dried our eyes, Barbara was all business. She was Mama hen. I was one of her chicks and Mama wanted to know everything. As quickly as I could manage, I told her of our meeting, working together, the wedding and the round-about trip to this island. I mentioned working as a fitness trainer, to which she nodded. I told her Sean was from old money, she nodded again. When I said that Sean said I would be famous, she looked surprised. I did not get surprised until I told her it was already happening. I had her google the wedding.

Her reaction was unusual. She asked why I had a child as my Maid of Honor. In retrospect, I am surprised no one else had asked. Perhaps they assumed it was a family thing. While I tried to grapple with some way to explain my relationship with Christine, Barbara waved it off. It would wait til we had more time to talk. She assumed Sean and Don would be doing something together in the morning. The two of us would get together for tea. She winked at me while she led me to her bathroom.

In one of her cabinets, she had every female product a drug store would sell, plus a few they cannot or will not stock. I quickly waved off all the contraceptives, which caused Barbara to stop and look at me closely. She asked, "Are you trying?" I looked her straight in the eye and nodded. "Are you...?" I bit my lip, which I never do. Barbara hugged me again, "Good Lord child, don't you know how to take things slow?" I had to laugh.

Once she had established that we had only been trying for a few days, Barbara went into lecture mode. It made me think of Francine and Siobhan. My face must have shown something, because I had to explain what, and who, I was thinking about. Her curiosity satisfied, she went back into her prenatal lecture. It was no surprise when Sean told me she was a midwife. Barbara never mentioned it herself.

Eventually the subject turned to sex. I started blushing almost immediately. Barbara only grinned and kept talking. After a couple of minutes, she asked me a simple anatomy question. When I answered that, more technical questions followed. Barbara's grin disappeared, replaced by a frown. I tried to pass it off as fitness related, but it was no sale. Finally she asked me how I could be so clinical about men's genitalia and not my own. Once again, Barbara waved a deep question aside.

Instead, she asked if I liked to be tied up. I nodded. Barbara nodded as if this made perfect sense. She went through a list of the lighter side of role playing. I did not have to nod. My face color was answering. Then I discovered something. While the embarrassment was arousing, Barbara's amusement was the opposite. I was no one's toy, not even Sean's. Barbara noticed the change. For once, she did not guess the reason. Instead, she asked if I had ever tried the other side. I let her see Cynthia. Oops.

Barbara turned pale under her deep tan. Before she could turn and run, I caught her hands. She jerked a couple of times, then stood still, eyes downcast. How had I missed it? In my best calming voice I told her to breathe, relax, there was nothing wrong. When I told her to look at me, her eyes came slowly up. One tsk had her looking straight at me and trembling. In a way, I did not blame her.

Subs are an odd group. They are very defensive and suspicious of outsiders, with valid reason. It is still possible to lose your children by being outed. My practice was possibly unique, because I made video of everything. It started with the judge. For a long time, he was my only client and he wanted video. New clients came as referrals, so they knew how I did things. There is an old saying, if you cannot get rid of it, it's a feature. My service featured video, later adding stills for framing. 

I had seen Barbara's look many times before. Her next action would tell a great deal, so I waited. In a D/s relationship, it is always about trust. Our first session, I trusted Sean far beyond good sense. Christine trusted me with her life. Barbara needed to decide if she could trust me. After a few panted breaths, she came around. We fell into each others arms. It turned humorous when she slapped her forehead and said, "No wonder you know so much about cocks and balls. Professional interest." I had to agree.




Postcards Ch. 04



We checked our faces, then went outside. Sean had a bucket of charcoal, a package wrapped in white paper and a skein of rope. I felt my nostrils flare. The parachute cord was much too thin for restraints. Brown sisal rope is as close to traditional as anything gets. Suddenly my swimsuit felt damp.

Sean: 

I would never know what Sheila and Barbara talked about, but both were notably subdued when they returned. For Sheila, that was good. The memory of last night was no longer in her eyes. Sheila was like that. If she focused on herself, she could be moody. If someone else needed her, her personal issues moved aside. Clearly Sheila and Barb had shared something that mattered to both of them.

We returned to our cabin. Just as Don had warned, we had no shower water available. I went outside. On the wall opposite the entrance, a rainwater shower was built in. It was a nice design. The privacy screen looked like part of the fence. Inside the screen was a bench, with hooks and shelves for clothing. Added to the original design was a solar heater, like the one at Dona and Barb's. 

We went inside and fired up our computers. The island had a satellite link, with wireless hubs at each cabin. Don gave me the codes while we were talking. For the next couple of hours, we caught up on the week back home. About five o'clock I went out to check on the grill. As promised, there was a built in gas grill, with side burners. There was also a hand welded wood/charcoal grill, with side firebox. In a cabinet was a range of grill tools and a charcoal chimney. Bobby Flay would feel right at home.

I went to our kitchen and unwrapped the meat. There were two nice ribeye steaks. On the door of the pantry was a hanging spice rack with everything I needed. I also found a note from Barb, directing me to a bag containing a small onion, two potatoes and some fresh garlic. Add the lunch leftovers and we had a cook out. It took some time to get the charcoal going, so I poked around some more.

Our little island really was little. You could walk across in a couple of minutes. Six cabins was all that could be crammed onto it. That said, there was a corner with palm trees and undergrowth, just no bamboo. I went back to Don and Barb's place. Don told me that he could take me somewhere in the morning. When I returned to our cabin. Sheila was on the porch, making a bracelet from the three skeins of 550 cord.

Dinner went well, except that Sheila barely touched her steak. In the times we had been out, she always ordered chicken or fish. Since she was from Jewish stock, I could understand not eating pork, but beef has always been kosher, so it made no sense. I finally broke down and asked. Sheila did not care for the taste and texture of beef. 

Duly noted, I checked the freezer portion of the refrigerator. Sure enough, there were fish steaks. I still had hot coals, so I wiped one with olive oil and tossed it on the fire. Sheila watched me closely, trying very hard not to smile. I could not tell if it was out of fondness or tolerance of my pretensions. In any event, my attempted gallantry was not a disaster. The fish stuck to the grill, but I was able to get most of it off and it was properly cooked. Sheila dutifully ate the entire piece. 

We were starting to clean up when a boat pulled up to the pier. About a dozen people got off, four of them hauling a huge fish. My guess was a yellow fin tuna, but I truly did not know. Don and Barb came down to meet them, so Sheila and I drifted over as well. My assumption that these were the occupants of the other cabins proved well founded. In short order we were introduces to the Swards, the Millers and the Lees. 

Barb had a camera out, shooting pictures of the fishermen and their catch. The fish went back on the boat, probably bound for a restaurant somewhere. Don quietly collected a battered styrofoam cooler and some white paper packages. He saw me watching and winked. I would bet money that the cooler contained bait shrimp and the packages were fish steaks from a previous catch. I mentally tipped my hat to his skill.

The leader of the crowd was Jan Sward, from cabin #2. He boasted of the catch and asked me if Sheila and I wanted to join their trip in the morning. I pleaded jet lag. He then invited me to his Luau Saturday night. I pleaded Sheila's Jewish aversion to pork. Stumped for a moment, he offered to contest single malt Scotches. I told him I preferred Irish. 

When he finally gave me up as hopeless, I noticed Sheila laughing. I scowled at her for a moment, then had to agree. He was like trust fund kids at Brown, comparing BMWs. I wondered how he would have reacted Jo, the old version, or vice versa. I would pay money to watch. What a dweeb.

More to the point, I noticed that Barb was hanging close to Sheila. I knew that posture. CC had it. Even Jason did it a little. I may be slow, but draw me a map and I can get there. Don had offered to take me fishing. I guess I was going.

Sheila: 

We did not get to explore the recreational uses of rope. As soon as we returned to our cabin, Sean went off to check something. He returned to tell me there was no water for the shower, but there was a rainwater shower against the back wall. Good to know. He also had access codes for the house network. 

It was enlightening to realize how much I missed my clients bickering. I sorted out a couple of issues, while deferring others to Sharon or Siobhan. I copied Richard on everything, but he was not ready to make the decisions yet. In a related issue, I noted that he and Maria were pursuing a relationship. Maria's staunch Catholic mother was not going to be an easy sell. Richard understood I would not let him evade her.

Siobhan sent a short note about meeting with the Fitzpatrick brothers and Michael Weston. The Fitzpatricks were looking into putting power and climate control in the old house. The electric and data conduits would be easy. Frank said he could have a bid by the time we returned. Heat and cooling was more difficult. Michael Weston suggested a ductless system common in Europe. I told Siobhan that they could start applying for the necessary permits. More details could wait.

Christine sent me another take on the meeting. The Fitzpatricks were trying to freeze out Michael Weston. That made sense. Michael was a specialist, focusing on a high end niche. The Fitzpatricks had a larger operation and wider experience. I told Christine that Michael could do her room and the nursery, while the rest of the project would go to bid. That would let both of them do what they did best. I made a mental note to watch how Michael interacted with Christine.

Francine was on the west coast again. I told her to contact Aaron Aldermann about a possible project, then gave Aaron a heads up that she might call. Neither message said that I thought I had an answer. If they could not follow the bread crumbs, they would starve. 

For some reason, the message reminded me of Big and Dumb, our hapless muggers. Part of me thought their reward fitting. Given that one nearly died and the other was facing attempted murder charges, that was harsh. Sobeit. 

I tend to think of Cynthia as a role, but there is more to her than that. She was part of me. It was the part that could use the lash without flinching, turn a cold face to howls of pain, or stare down legions of reporters. Cynthia had no sympathy for our muggers. They had threatened Sean and my baby. Fuck 'em. She was a cold bitch and she liked it that way.

Yet, Christine was drawn to Cynthia like a moth to a light. Today, the longing in Barbara's face had almost undone me. I would be going to her and giving her the release she craved. I knew as surely as I knew the coming of dawn that Sean would make it possible. It was one reason I loved him. Another was that he would give me the same release. Even if he was a bondage neophyte, Sean's attempts had a certain charm. I looked at him, to see him looking out the window. A boat was docking. 

We went outside to see about the fuss. Occupants of three of the other cabins were returning. They had a very large fish. Barbara shot pictures. The fish went back on the boat which quickly cast off. I guessed some seafood restaurant would have fresh caught fish on the menu. I also thought the crew had seen enough of their client for one day. In their stead, the client was trying to impress Sean. Good luck with that.

In my school years, I found wealthy girls almost unbearable. At the studio, I could dance circles around them, which made it easier to ignore their condescension. Having met Sean and Siobhan, I learned to recognize it as a sign of weakness. The man's name was Jan Sward. It could have been Moses and it would have had no impact on Sean. I repressed a grin, because Barbara was still taking pictures. 

I went over to her. Without a word, she extracted the SD card and handed it to me. As she did, she whispered, "Look under the drawer of the nightstand." Knowing what I did, that meant sex toys. Goody. I told her to expect a call if Don and Sean ever went off together. Barbara blushed to her bikini top. Sean and I went back to our cabin. As we went, I realized I felt much better.

I considered being secretive, but it was just habit. Instead, I went straight to the bedroom and pulled out the drawer. On the bottom was a key labeled "Linen". I went to the bathroom. One of the drawers was locked—"Picnic Supplies". I giggled. Sean was following, a look of understanding dawned as I put key to lock. Inside the drawer was a drop cloth, a blanket, flatware and sundries, and a box of condoms. Under that was a false bottom. Suddenly I was very wet.

The contents were very basic—three sizes of dildo, a blindfold, a gag, some short sections of rope. It was rather tame at first glance. Then you added the roll of suede pieces and noticed that one of the dildos was intended for anal use. Going back the picnic supplies, there were several sizes of clips, some rubber bands, a box of fishing weights, even a pet collar and chain. Sean took it all in, then nodded toward the bedroom. 

Negotiation is almost a scene by itself. This would not be a fumbled, soapy-washcloth-gag sort of scene. Except for a lash, which we already had, everything was laid out for some serious action. The question, as always, was the limits. Not surprisingly, Sean had several of those. He would not mark my legs, since I needed to be able to wear a swimsuit in public. I needed to be able to move without stiffness. He wanted to do it outdoors, but not want the neighbors to hear. He wanted me to hold my orgasm til he ordered release. I made no objection to any of it.

Sean went down to talk to Don, while I made preparations. Night was coming soon, so there would be darkness for cover. I went out to scout his location, the outdoor shower. It was in a fenced enclosure. One thing Sean had not mentioned was a chin-up bar. It would be perfect for overhead restraints, since everything was braced for stress. I tied a looped rope to each side, so they could not slide together. Halfway down and at the base I threaded more loops, in case lower anchor points were desired. Looking closely, I could see signs of similar ties in the past.

Going back in the house, I stripped down to my one piece swimsuit. Since Sean was taking a while, I looked up macrame with paracord. It was not the most practical thing to do, but the symbolism was perfect. The directions were for a bracelet, but an anklet seemed a better choice. If it shrank, it could still be used on the wrist.

Sean: 

We had been coming to this for days, but the time was getting short. After talking to Barbara, Sheila went straight to a cache of toys, artfully covered with picnic supplies. Even the cache looked tame until Sheila started pulling pieces together. Clips have a lot of normal uses. When piled with gags and weights, they take on a different aura. The thing that would have slipped past me was the roll of soft leather. It took a moment before I remembered the possibility of rope burns. 

Once the tools were laid out, I sat Sheila down to talk about what I was willing to do. She acted as if this was the most normal thing imaginable. On reflection, perhaps it was. She agreed to all my conditions, blushing several times and nodding more than once. I felt like I had passed mid-term exam. We would still be doing a practice run. I needed one and it would warm Sheila up. I didn't tell her about that part. I told her that I was going to see Don, so she could set everything up.

This was not purely an evasion. I did want to finalize our jaunt in the morning. My real reason was to see Barbara. That proved easy, since they were on their patio with a fire in the pit. It was deja vu all over again. When I was a teen and Jo was a child, we perfected a method of having a conversation in front of adults. I thanked Don for offering to get some bamboo poles. I would be coming along and fishing. That much was just confirmation of an earlier conversation.

I asked about a good place for a picnic, mentioning that Sheila and I would not want to be disturbed. Don understood me on the superficial level. He said there was a sandy islet that would suit. It had some beautiful beach, but there was no place to put a cabin. He mentioned that the heavy vegetation would provide some shelter for Sheila's sensitive—skin. He even winked. 

Barbara took in the extra messages—Sheila had found her cache, was planning on using it, and wanted Barbara to know. Once Don was done with his wink, I turned to Barbara. Her look was full of apprehension. I thanked her for pointing out the picnic supplies, that it was what prompted this excursion. Sheila would be by in the morning, while Don and I were out, to pick up a couple of things. Barbara's face was a study in contrasting emotions. I told her that Sheila wanted some pictures of the two of them. Shock! 

Don was oblivious. 

When I returned to the cabin, my first stop was the outdoor shower. Sheila had created a set of tie points, using a chin-up bar I had overlooked. That was good thinking. Everything would be well anchored. I found her at the table, playing with the 500 cord. The laptop showed directions for a cobra weave bracelet, but what Sheila was making was too long for that. An anklet, probably intended for Barbara. 

This was an area I had some experience. An Army buddy of mine used to sell bracelets made with a button from an Iraqi uniform. In the early 1990s and mid 2000s, such buttons were easy to find. Not so much any more. 550 cord was available from the Army, plus you could buy it at the PX. Tying knots was one way to kill time off duty or in flight. By the time I married Sheila, you could buy 550 cord in hundreds of colors

I noticed Sheila was using all three of our colors, where normally you can only do two. That meant she had fused two lines at their ends. Up the middle were four strands of navy blue cord. The cobra knots were in red and white. The effect was red and white stripes with a blue background. Very nice. Sheila looked up and smiled. I complimented her work and suggested she shrink it before use. She went through all the issues in a couple of seconds. Thorough. There was a reason I loved this woman. I told her she should design one for CC, which earned me a rare flash of surprise. 

Then, it was showtime. I ordered Sheila to the bedroom. There was a moment of confusion, but no hesitation. I told her to get naked and spread out on the bed. While she did that, I retrieved the flogger from my briefcase. Sheila had already wound her wrists and ankles with leather. I left that in place. I intended her to hook the mattress with her toes and grasp the corner posts. This was an impossible stretch. Instead I had her grab the headboard, then hauled back on her ankles. When the headboard protested, she was taut enough.

With corporeal punishment, the recipient often has to call the count. In this case, I had Sheila criticize my technique. I was careful not to strike anywhere her skin would not be covered by the one piece swimsuit. That restricted me quite a bit, though I was purposely using minimal strokes. The impact on both Sheila's skin and her speech was marked. I learned that the flogger was designed to redden skin quickly and that talking, during a flogging, is difficult.

I could not use the flogger long. Even with light strokes, Sheila's back was soon quite red. Laying it aside, I picked up a brush from the vanity. Here, I was on firmer ground. Mother used a hairbrush extensively in my childhood. I brought Sheila's ass to the same color as her back, taking care to get inside the crease as much as possible. Once that was complete, I told Sheila to get up, put on a robe and collect the picnic supplies. Then I had an inspiration. 

Leaning close, I said, "Think of those two muggers you sent to the hospital. They deserved it, but they left behind guilt. It's like acid. It drips down and burns. Right now it is dripping onto your sex. You can feel the burning. That's alright. Let it drip. Once we have all your guilt in your pussy, I intend to pull it all out. In fact, I may have to turn you over to slow things down."

Like all things, Sheila took this calmly. I knew I was on track, because the scent of her arousal filled the room. My prick certainly noticed. That would be the first thing on the agenda. Taking the flogger, I followed Sheila outside. We walked around to the shower area in back. With the door still open, I had Sheila suck my erection.

Sheila was inexperienced in fellatio, but she read up on the theory. It took only a minute to bring me spurting. I did not instruct her to swallow every drop, but she did. When I was clean, she started settling back on her heels. No time for that. I told her to remove her robe and do a handstand under the chin-up bar. For me this would be a trial. For Sheila, trivial. Her back was to me, so I told her to turn around. Sheila, on her hands, turned 180°. I hoped she did upper body training, because her arms would be getting a workout. 

Given the leather guards around her ankles, part of my job was simple. That did not make it easy. I wrapped her ankles three times with doubled sisal rope, then tied a double strand to her rings. I took up as much weight as I could manage, then repeated on the left side. Before I finished, Sheila's arms were trembling from the strain. When I had her release her weight, the ropes stretched about three inches, but Sheila was hanging well clear of the floor. In comparison, tying her hands was a piece of cake. Long before I was done, we were both panting.

I sat on the dressing bench, to catch my breath, and looked at my inverted wife. I thought her tits were incredible in their normal posture. I had no idea what reverse gravity could do. The pink underside was begging for my attention. Break time was over. Getting to my feet I went to the goodie bag and extracted the gag and blindfold. I gave Sheila a chance to refuse, but she declined. Showtime. 

Placing a gag and blind on an upside down woman is non-trivial. Both are designed for hair hanging the other direction. I managed. In one of Sheila's hands I placed a passion fruit. I was worried that she would be unable to snap her fingers. The fruit she could simply drop. Grabbing one of her breasts, I pinched a section, then clipped it with one of the large clips from the picnic supplies. The other side received the same treatment. I pinched closer to the aureola, then added smaller clips to each side. Similar clips went on the outer lips of the pussy. To these I hung weights.

Sheila was trying very hard to be still. I told her to focus on the burning near her clit. That was her anger and guilt, concentrating for disposal. I told her it would take a few minutes. I brushed her clit with a fingernail to reenforce the point. In the mean time I was going to punish her naughty breasts. 




Postcards Ch. 04



These were the breasts that had caused Sheila so much trouble. She hated them. I started by repeatedly flicking them with a finger nail, telling Sheila how they looked so pink and new. They were pink. I doubt this part of er ever saw light. Soon they began to turn red. I took some hand sanitizer and spread it over the blush, giving a moment for the alcohol to cool the skin. Only then did I use the flogger. 

Sheila had given me a quick course in the proper use of a flogger. I knew that allowing all the strands to fall together is "thuddy". With a wrist motion I could spread the strands, producing a burning effect. This was the usual method, since the triangle cut leather was intended to mark flesh. For a more stinging effect, a snap of the wrist is used. All of these methods were demonstrated in the bedroom, on Sheila's prone back. The new situation, with Sheila's breasts below knee level, was not covered in our tutorial.

I let the weighted handle provide all the speed. Just before it reached bottom, I jerked my hand against the motion, causing the ends of the strands to snap, barely touching flesh. It was not a full blow, or even half of one, but the flick of the tips on near virgin skin brought a reaction. Tiny red marks were everywhere on the pink undersides of Sheila's breasts.

With a bit of practice, I was able to gauge the fall. There was a red area if they fell together. Producing a spread of individual marks was not easy, but practice makes perfect. The trick was to use the wrist to spread the blow, the pull back to restrict contact to the tips. As Sheila said, the triangle strands marked the skin vividly. I covered the whole area under the breasts carefully, before giving one extra flip to the crotch.

Sheila had long since given up trying to be silent. Only the gag restrained her cries. Even compared to that, when I flipped the end tips of the flogger at Sheila's sex, her reaction was pronounced. However, I did not think she had yet cum. This was as I instructed, but it was time to purge some demons.

I started talking about the night of the muggers. I described them in detail. I talked about the leader and how he commanded my attention with his firearm. I talked of my worries, concerning Sheila and our unborn children. I spoke of my relief when I had an opportunity to take the the leader out. In hindsight, it was a very therapeutic night for me. 

During this lecture, I dangled the flogger, letting it brush Sheila's beasts and midriff. While I did this, I drew my secret weapon—three inches of sisal rope, half flared to make a brush. While my left hand was dangling the flogger across Sheila's belly and breasts, my right hand started teasing Sheila's labia with my stiff sisal brush.

Another legacy of Army life is an understanding of natural bristle fibers. Under certain circumstances, refusal to bathe is criminal. It seems obvious, until you consider dessert missions lasting a month and a half. Some soldiers develop a comfort level with the funk and refuse to change. The traditional penalty is scrubbing with floor brushes. I never witnessed one, but stories get around. I investigated. My little brush was makeup sized and stiff as a 90 day sentence.

It did not take long before the flogger was forgotten, so I dropped it. That gave me an extra hand to spread Sheila folds, not that the clamps were not already keeping it well opened. I brushed Sheila's oyster as if I was dusting a computer, trying to cover every nook and corner. Sheila writhed at the attention. I gave it a rest and picked up the flogger.

This was, I told Sheila, the moment of truth. All her hatred of her body had been pulled to her breasts. Could she feel the burn, I asked, giving them a couple of small flicks. That was minor, I said, compared to the weight of anger and guilt toward the muggers and the police. That emotion had been dripping acid into her most tender parts, I said as I brushed her glowing red cunt. It was an important place, I said, since she would soon need it to deliver a baby. 

I dropped the little brush. In its place I dragged the ends of the flogger. I removed the clips, allowing Sheila to adjust to the returning blood flow. Everything was coming to a head and I wanted her to know it. I told Sheila that releasing her anger would hurt. Loss of the guilt would burn. Part of her would be severed, never to return, but there would also be joy in the release. I asked her if she wanted release at that cost. 

I waited for an answer. On this, I could only ask, not tell. When I had confirmation, my hand lashed out.

Sheila: 

It would be dangerous to judge Sean from his failed attempt at Kwajalein. He was out of his depth, fumbling for anchor points. At the cabin, he had focus and defined responses to target. Give Sean a map, then get out of his way. Not only is he strong as his namesake, he is also tricky as hell when it suits him. I never noticed him taking three inches of inner thread from a coil of paracord, nor three inches from a coil of sisal rope. Such amounts were not important to most people. Sean is not most people.

He did a very good job with the warm up. If you want to experience conflicting emotions, try giving pointers to someone using a flogger on your back. Since Sean wanted me able to wear a one piece swimsuit, he used a hairbrush to warm up my ass. I was in not position to complain, but his technique would get passing grades in any venue. 

Outside was a slightly different picture. I always have my clients handle their restraints. Sean had me assist in tying me up, or upside down. There was a reason I owned an inverter. It is much simpler to tie them in standing, then flip them over. Doing a five minute handstand was very close to my limits. Having Sean tie off my hands was a relief. For comic value, he struggled with the gag and the blindfold. 

It was enough for my professional self to wax derisive, til Sean put a largish ball in one of my hands. That was my safety ball. Dropping it would be asking out of the scene. It was large and heavy enough to require attention. It came to me how helpless and exposed I was. All my preparations, all the foreplay in the bedroom came crashing back. I was suspended naked, gagged, blindfolded, upside down and I had helped every step of the way.

My helplessness was accented by my knowledge that Sean held a very heavy flogger. However, he did not choose to use it yet. Instead he kneaded my tits and put two inch clamps on them. This was the size used to hold table clothes on a picnic table. That was not enough. He pinched my aureolas and used potato chip clips on the smaller section. At least there was nothing smaller for the nipples. As it was, gravity was pulling my breasts into unfamiliar shapes.

Sean moved on. He pulled at my cunt's outer lips, using more small clamps on each side. That was bad enough, but he hung weights on both sides, with every sign of leaving them there long term. It was becoming a very difficult to stay still and be quiet, though I doubted it mattered. Sean was not doing a behavior modification. He had something more essential in mind.

That said, Sean started by testing his control of the flogger. I had given him some instruction, but the position was ideal and my concentration less then perfect. In any event, it had been a short primer. Sean would need to adapt to less perfect conditions. He did. His first attempt bathed my left breast in fire. I could not hold silence, but this was not a time for counting demerits. 

Intellectually, I could tell exactly what he was doing. He was using a wrist twist, coupled with a snapping motion. It caused a spread of the strands, but allowed only the tips to make contact. It would work as warm up for a more normal whipping. Since he was attacking some of the most tender skin on my body, it was like sheets of fire. I almost did not notice he was also working my ribs and belly. The torture of my tits was all consuming—until he hit my sex.

Sean knew I had issues with my oversized tits. He was punishing them for me. There was a symmetry there. In other circumstances, I would have admired it. Here it was foreplay for the main event. Sean's flip of the flogger against my pussy brought that whole part of my anatomy back into focus. 

Long before, Sean had used clipped weights on my outer lips. The tug was never gone, but now it was center stage. I could feel the ends of the flogger against my torso, but it was unimportant. My labia was getting my full attention.

At first I could not figure out what Sean was doing. He had never stopped, but the lull allowed me to pay attention. He was talking about anger and guilt, about the muggers and the police. This was, he said, an acid dripping into my cunt. My cunt burned in sympathy. It would pool, Sean said, so it could all be purged at once. He stood so close I could feel his body heat through his clothes. 

He was not wrong about the burn. Sean poked and prodded the outer portion of my sex in great detail. Everywhere he touched, fire followed. It was like being painted with flaming napalm, though there was clearly nothing chemical applied. When he mentioned my baby—low blow Sean—I was reminded of my priorities. Sean wanted to know if he could burn off the acid. My head was in a strange place, because I eagerly agreed. Sean used the flogger again and I passed out.

When I returned to consciousness, I was lying on the seat of the shower area. Sean had removed the restraints, including the gag and blind. He was rubbing lotion onto my poor breasts. It was the first time I could remember feeling sympathetic for them. From the condition of my privates, he had probably done them first. 

My heavens I hurt, not just my tits and cunt, but my legs and head. Hanging from your heels also costs. I was in bad shape, but there was a languor that defied belief. It had to come from a massive endorphin release. I remembered nothing, but it must have been an orgasm for the record books. I could hardly wait to tell Christine. She would be so jealous. 

Sean pulled me to my feet, then pushed me under the shower. He was still fully dressed, but he washed my hair, then put a robe around me and guided me inside. I was out almost before I hit the pillow. What is it about Sean that helps me sleep?



Postcards Ch. 05



Author's note: Sean and Sheila finally made it to their island paradise. No one told them to expect perfection, so they were not disappointed. Chicken salad, at $1000 a day, is only part of it.

Chapter 5 

0400 Rise and dress
0430 Microwave oatmeal, no egg.
0455 Kiss sleeping wife
0500 Meet Don at boat dock
0500-0930 Fish while Don makes morning rounds
0930-1000 Discipline wife

Sean: 

Sheila claims I help her sleep. Something must, because she was out all night. I was not so lucky. I had accepted an offer to go fishing with Don, while he did his morning duties. Dramamine did not help keep me awake. Fortunately, Don traveled with Navy grade coffee. He and Francine would get along.

For a guy with a vintage yacht in his boathouse, I know squat about boats. All I could say about Don's cruiser is that I expected a bigger boat. Rather than a cabin, he had a wide canvas awning. On the tail were a couple of fishing chairs, but we never used them. I helped him stow several five gallon buckets of ice in a hold. On top of the first two buckets, Don threw a couple of large butcherpaper wrapped packages, which we buried in more ice. 

After we had pulled away from the dock a few hundred yards, Don cast out two lines and put the poles in holders. These were, he said, for dinner. He was trolling for snapper, mahi and sea bass. He handed me a rod, sporting a shiny artificial lure, and showed me how to cast and "play the spinner" for mackerel. Before I settled into place, Don opened the throttle. The boat was not big, but there was a lot of power in the guts. 

Sunrise found me reeling in the line. We had been going for a while, though I could not say how long. As always in the tropics, the sun came up quickly. I stashed the rod in the holder, then went in search of my cap and sunglasses. Don told me not to bother, since we were almost to landfall. I brought in all the lines while he jockeyed us into another little island. This one was smaller. It had only three cabins and, obviously, no on-site manager. 

After a few minutes, in which I learned that my standard docking tie was deficient on several points, Don grabbed a tote and a backpack and headed up to the cabins. He suggested that I wait under the canopy. I knew my New Jersey tan was not up to Hawaiian standards, but this was the first open confirmation. I broke out the zinc oxide and slathered it all over.

Don was gone about twenty minutes. None of these timeshare cabins were currently in use. He was touching up on details noted during a previous stop. That intrigued me. As we set up for our next run, Don told me that two of his islands were generally occupied only during peak periods, such as last weekend. This trio was in mothballs for most of the summer, as were four more we would see later. 

For the next run, Don did not bother to put his drag lines out. Using this as a cue, I did not bother with the rod with the spinner lure. Sure enough, after ten minutes, we pulled up near a sandy bar in the middle of the ocean. It was small, but looked like Gilligan's island without the lagoon. I helped Don lower an outboard boat. 

It was educational. Don collected three coconuts, some wild mango, two or three fruit I could not name and large amounts of bamboo. Some of the canes were as big as my arm. As we cut the bamboo canes, he thanked me for bringing an extra saw, though mostly he used a geared branch lopper. I picked a few canes for Sheila, then helped him with his project. Since I was both guest and part owner, that was a message. Family helps with the chores. 

Wrapping all the bamboo in bungee cords took a while. Part way through, Don told me to get out of the sun. Not trusting tree shade, I sat near a tall rock and dangled my feet in the surf. It wasn't long before we towed the bundle out to the boat. Don lifted it with the fish hoist and secured it on the port side. It was ugly, but he did not seem to care. Halfway to the next stop, there was a hit on one of Don's rods.

He had me take the wheel while he dealt with the fish. I steered for several minutes while he pulled in the fish, stunned it, removed the hook, threw it in the cold hold and ran the line out again. I had a surge of pleasure when he said nothing on retaking the helm. Lack of comment means a job done up to standard. From that point on, I spent a lot of time keeping our heading, while Don pulled in his drag lines.

The next stop was much like the first one. This islet had only two cabins, neither occupied. Don did spot checks. Our next run was long and would be to the "grocery store." Even from a distance I could tell this island was much larger and populated. 

Don again killed the motors well offshore and pulled in his lines. There were at least ten fish, from a foot long to an ugly, blunt faced four footer. Don asked if I wanted any mahi-mahi. He waved me over to the reeled lines. There was nothing but missing bait. As I finished reeling in the third rod, a boat pulled along side. An old man jumped aboard with practiced ease. It didn't take long to figure out that he was a fish buyer.

Like the cabins, Don had jury rigged his cold hold. He had a diesel motor running a refrigeration unit, but it was small for the task. He jump started it with a hundred pounds of ice. That was what we had done first thing. When he opened the hold, I was shocked at the number of fish we had caught during our transits. Four young men came aboard and loaded fish into large ice chests and took them to the other boat.

When they were done, all that was left was the four foot Mahi, the two butcher wrapped packages and a couple of long, skinny fish with a lot of teeth. The trading was being done in English, but I had trouble following the accent. When the old man spit over the side, I knew they were finished. Don did not look pleased. No shit. I could have seen that coming.

Sheila: 

Sean was up early. He tries to be quiet, but it goes against his nature. I waited in bed while he washed and dressed. He kissed me before leaving, which was nice. I had mixed emotions about pretending sleep, but not enough to spoil his fishing trip.

Once he was gone, I rolled out of bed and assessed the damage from the night before. G_d my head hurt. I had never been hung over, but this felt like the descriptions. I wondered if a shot of vodka would help. Note to Dominatrix: limit time in inverted position. Extended time, coupled with massive orgasms, leads to complications. 

Since we had some iced vodka, I tried a shot for medicinal purposes. To prepare my stomach, I ate some stale bread, but the shot still burned like fire. I followed it with a full liter of water, then went outside to work up a sweat. As usual lately, I slept in one of Sean's cotton T-shirts. For reasons that remain unclear, I put on nothing else. Even though it was still dark, I had a rush of excitement when I opened the front door. It did more for my headache than the vodka.

It was just a few minutes predawn. Usually, this is the coldest part of the day. The outside temperature was at least as warm as the afternoon of my wedding, and sticky. It made for a good workout. My muscles were tight and lacked tone, but some serious stretching reminded them who was boss. I did my no weights routine until the the sun lit the porch under me. That made it time for a shower.

Turning back to the house, I decided to check an under-bench cabinet near the door. I noticed it when we first arrived, but other things were pressing at the time. Given the bench and the placement, it could be shoe storage. So it proved. As in other things, Barbara provided essentials.

I took a pair of basic beach sandals and went around the house. Near the outside shower was another cabinet, with soap, shampoo, towels and scrubbies. Everything was set, but I wanted a dip first. I would not get many chances. The rocks at the shore made me glad for the togs. I decided to keep them on as I waded out. I thought of Christine, who would have worn only the togs. Getting Sean's shirt soaked was as close to naked as I would be getting.

The water was a surprise. I knew it was supposed to be blood warm, but the reality was more than expectations. I waded out to waist deep, then lowered until my chin was wet by surges. I could get used to this. The sun was another matter. Sunrise and sunset is very quick near the equator. It was almost above the ocean when I went back to the shower.

This water was a shock. Sean mentioned a water heater, but it must not have been working. He also said 'solar', so it may have been the time. Still, cold water in Hawaii is is only cool. I reveled in the luxury of time. For the first time since my first date with Sean, I felt no urgency. It was nice. 

I rinsed Sean's shirt and threw it over the chin up bar. He would like the irony. Instead I used my damp towel for cover. If anyone was watching, they probably caught a bit of cheek as I scurried around the house. Next up was Barbara. I sat at the vanity, brushing my hair, while I considered my plan. I would start with the corset and the beach bunny dress. Then...

My hair was fully dry and starting to crackle before I pulled out of the fugue. That was Herr Gruber's term. He would lecture me about using it, rather than submitting to it. The memory caused a small hiccup to my good mood. That was a conversation Christine and I would need to have. Christine could fugue, if that was the term, almost at will. She called it her quiet place. First, I needed to see Barbara.

Donning the corset was like meeting an old friend. I thought of Sean's hugs. I wished I could tie the laces before dressing, but it took some abdominal control just to hook the busks. If I really was pregnant, how soon would I feel it? More likely, I was out of training. Heaven knew my tits sagged without the bustier.

The rest of the outfit was simple. I pulled my hair over one shoulder, as a nod to Sean, and secured it with the brass clip. My skimpiest bra came with a thong. Over those went the beach bunny dress, finished with wedge sandals and the white bag. For make up, heavy eye liner, mascara and Cynthia's trademark lipstick. Nothing to it.

At the door, I stopped. After a moment, I returned to the bedroom. Sure enough, Barbara had provided sun hats. I chose one woven from natural fiber, with a flowery band. The match could be better, but it worked and Barbara had earned the nod. I wondered what else she would earn.

Barbara waited for me to knock. That was not incorrect, only cautious. The door swung open before I finished the motion and there was no hesitation when she invited me in. The hesitation came as the door closed. I smiled inwardly. The door was a line. Closing the door put the line firmly behind us. Barbara's hesitation unintentionally underscored her decision. I could see that she knew it.

To recover, she offered tea. We spent a convivial fifteen minutes sipping some island grown tea, but the unspoken question hung in the air. Finally, it dawned on Barbara that I would not initiate things. That was her first task. Negotiations are almost a scene to themselves. I gave her credit when she realized we had begun long before. Not everyone does.

Barbara's question was simple, "What should I call you?"

I said, "Ma'am or Mistress Cynthia, but you are overdressed for such things. Also, we will need a camera."

Sean: 

Many times I wondered how Sheila, Cynthia, felt with a new client. With Don, I thought I grasped a bit of it. He was very competent within his job duties, but felt out of his depth dealing with businessmen. His fishing between stops was a nice way of generating some extra income, but he was making a hash of it and he knew it. It had been years since I mentored anyone, but he was asking, so I did what little I could. It gave us something to do while we waited on our wives.

We started by going ashore and laying on groceries. It was, in mainland terms, a one stoplight town—without the stoplight. The old man managed a fish packing plant. He was paying schedule rates for all the small fish. For game fish, such as the mahi-mahi, he would pay a bit extra. The down side was that he wanted some grease. That was the packaged tuna steaks. Sushimi grade tuna can go past $50 a pound. The tuna may not have been that good, but it was still a big bribe. 

As I did my shopping, Don filled me in on some of the legal realities of commercial fishing. Complicated stuff. He was operating on the fringe, without a license. The sad thing was that he did not know what was necessary to get a license, or even what one would allow him to do. The Navy runs on regulations, but Hawaii's fish and wildlife statutes scared him. God knew how many he was violating already.

There was no cell reception, but I could make a call when I returned to our cabin. I would get him a pro bono interview with a lawyer, for the purposes of making a referral. With my name behind it, the attorney would be competent. It was a start. I also recommended involving his wife, Barbara. She would be the point of contact whenever he was on the water, so she needed to be fully up to speed. Unspoken was the suggestion that she might be better suited to dealing with briefcase types. Hell, I was a suit and that was my impression.

Ship owners, with papers, did not grow on vines. I suggested contacting the commercial fishing concerns. Someone would strike a deal. If nothing else, Don could find a market for his upscale catch or a dump for the trash fish. Either would have value. Once again, I came back to Barbara, who had nothing to do. She could serve as his communications office. Don smiled at that, because he knew how busy a com unit gets.

It gave him enough to think about. My only other suggestion was to employ Navy style order to his catch. If you don't know a market, you can never judge the price. You can't learn the market if you don't know what you have been selling. Put in those terms, Don brightened up. I suspected the fish buyer was going to be making a detailed proposal, rather than a batch offer, or getting nothing. It might work. 

At bottom, business reactions are the same as Navy reactions—human. Everyone he talked to would have duties, desires, authority and limits on same, chain of command, peer pressure and so on. Once he could see that the fish buyer as the counterpart to a supply officer, Don could see several places where his negotiations could be improved. Once he started thinking in terms of military structures, he also began to see himself in the order. He found it helpful to think of the Ship giving orders, which he carried out. Whatever works. 

The cruise back was more friendly. Don talked of the cabins and what he would have done differently. I asked if there were suitable empty sites. He asked why anyone would bother. It would be cheaper to buy an existing location and add on. During the off-season his occupancy ran below 40%. There were operations that did that during tourist season. If I wanted a place in Hawaii, it would have stirred my interest. Instead, I started thinking closer to home.

As luck would have it, my mostly forgotten fishing pole had a strike about then. As sport fish go, it was a minnow, but I had fun. 

Sheila: 

Like the night before, with Sean, the negotiation was one sided. I told Barbara what I was unwilling to do. As expected, anything I wanted was fine with her. The camera was an issue, but not a deal breaker. As with many of my clients, the more she fought the idea of being recorded, the more excited she became. I shot her as she stood and had her return the favor. 

To begin, we needed a place to work. Furniture was pushed into corners, clearing an area near the entrance. Barbara had an exercise mat, which we spread. The camera had a time lapse setting, so I set it for three shots a minute. Show time. 

I had Barbara strip naked. Once done, with clothes carefully folded, I had her help me out of my dress and tighten my corset. So attired, we did some stretching. The first half hour was designed to find how poor her condition was. She was a middle-aged homebody, with few hobbies. I was not expecting much, nor did I get it. 

After what should have been a light warm up, Barbara was sweating heavily. I had her take Christine's favorite posture—sitting on heals, knees spread, hands grasping elbows behind the back. I told her to sit still while I fetched water. It took less than two minutes, but she was already fidgeting. That would be my starting point. I kept her in posture while she drank a whole liter of water. To give her kidneys some time, I let her watch as I worked. After some initial tightness, pushing my body felt glorious.

I could have gone on for an hour. Even without weights, much can be done with a little room to move. Barbara was my timer. When it became obvious her bladder was causing distress, I stopped. When she went to the commode, I warned her to be thorough, because she would not get another chance soon. Barbara's face reddened when she realized I would watch her piss, but kept on. As she wiped herself, I was reminded of a night I could not do that much. It gave me a warm rush.

One thing was already an issue—Barbara wanted to ask questions. Several times I needed to cut her off with a sharp look. A gag was necessary, which meant we needed a non-verbal signal. Since she would not have free hands, that presented a problem. The ubiquitous bowl of fruit gave me an idea, but other issues came first. I started with restraints. Barbara could use posture improvement, so her first standing rule was to clasp her elbows whenever she was in client mode. It was amusing when she started to cross her arms in front of her breasts. She quickly corrected, pinking as she did. I let that slide, since I already intended a reminder. 

Barbara's toy chest was much larger than the guest house's, but also made from available materials. There was a large amount of rope, in several types and sizes. Her husband was a boat master. These could be his odds and ends. There were many brushes, from apply-makeup soft to clean-the-floor stiff. Clamps ranged from cheap wooden clothespins to wood gluing vises. There were hair brush paddles and paddle paddles. The major missing item was any obvious form of whip or lash. I selected a rubber gag, one long and two shorter lengths of three eighths inch braided rope, a makeup applicator and two potato chip bag clips. 

Back on the exercise mat, I had Barbara lie back, legs bent. Using the short ropes, I tied her ankles to her thighs. She had lain with her hands behind her back, which earned her a point, but meant she could not rise without assistance. I helped her into a the kneeling posture, praising her obedience. I would not be praising her silence, so I showed her the gag. Barbara's eyes went wide, but she nodded confirmation. Another point. I secured the gag, then went to the kitchen and returned with a small bowl and an orange. 

I said, "Sit up straight." She tried. "Good." I put the bowl, inverted, on Barbara's head. With a few corrections, I had the bottom level. In the base I placed the orange. I continued, "This is your panic signal. If the orange rolls off your head, I will stop and ask you if it was an accident. You will be free to use any signal you can contrive in an emergency, but this should be the simplest. Blink twice if you understand." She did. 

"Blink twice if you wish to continue. I will tell you now that you should not expect an orgasm today. This will be about self-discipline and frustration. You may think you are frustrated, but you will soon learn otherwise. Under those conditions, do you wish to continue?" A tear rolled from Barbara's eye, but she blinked twice. Sobeit. I took the long piece of rope and sat behind Barbara. Using her arms as the core line, I tied a cobra knot from one elbow to the other. 




Postcards Ch. 05



As I worked, I talked of husbands and what should be expected of them. I told her the joke about the student with the deficiency in mind reading. I spoke of Don and what I had seen of him. I spoke of Sean and what he had done for me. Somehow, I was talking of our mugging two days before. I talked of lawyers and police, of good cops and bad detectives. I talked about the thought of losing Sean to the big revolver in Boss' waistband. I talked about making a distraction and about Sean making the most of it. I talked...

It takes a moment to reorient yourself after a fugue. I had long since finished my rope work. Barbara's rear torso shot looked like a cover for Rope Bondage Illustrated. Shaking myself, I rose and picked up the camera. I took half a dozen shots, from different angles. When I walked in front of Barbara, her face pulled me up short. Tears had run down her face, her neck, along the collar bone and between her breasts. Lord YHWH, how much had she cried? 

Forgetting everything else I had planned, I took the orange and bowl from Barbara's head, then untied her legs. After I had her on her feet, she leaned in, with the clear intention of support. I could do that. I hugged her, stroked her hair and let her comfort me. 

Sean: 

Once I had started the ball rolling on Don's issues, my thoughts turned to Sheila. I wondered how much it would cost her to take on Barbara's issues. For that matter, would the distraction be what Sheila needed. Some people are like that. Judging from the way she built a business from a single client and an empty warehouse, Sheila might consider work therapeutic. 

I asked Don how he met Barbara. It was a typical Navy romance. She was a nurse at a VA hospital. He was a Petty Officer with a wounded Seaman. The Seaman recovered, but Don kept going by the hospital. Don laughed when he confessed Barbara had been the one to suggest a date. He was a shy boy.

Years passed. Two daughters were raised and married. They had families on the mainland. Don finished his service at Pearl Harbor. A buddy had enticed him with this job, which had worked out well for them. Housing was provided, which is a major expense in Hawaii. Between recycling various items left by clients and his fishing, their expenses were next to nothing. Why did there seem to be a fly in the soup?

Don freely admitted Barbara was the smarter of the two. I could relate. She was a college graduate, which was something Don never managed. He was building a picture of a man who worshiped his wife, while she wanted a more equal footing. The irony is that he ignored the skills she brought to the table. So, I told him about Sheila.

How do you describe the way "I Love it." transformed into "I love her."? I began with the way we met, in the diner, starting with her immaculate tailoring. Little things, like using linen—textured—with worsted wool—smooth. Her look was conservatively daring. I skipped the session, but mentioned a "provocative" picture she included with the disclosure forms.

As I detailed the steps I took to learn what I could, it sounded stalker-ish to my ears. I wanted to comfort and protect her, but some of the steps were a bit over the top in hindsight. Credit Sheila for not misreading the situation. God knows, she gave me enough chances to be protective. That thought brought me back to the mugging. I stopped for a moment. Don eyed me expectantly.

That made sense. He was a senior noncom and he was treating me like an officer thinking aloud. As a noncom myself, I understood the routine. I took him back to the night I proposed. Nothing went as planned, but everything worked. As a trainer, he understood the difficulty with a trainee ahead of the curve. He related how Barbara would order him around in any sort of medical situation. I could not have framed my question better if I tried all day.

I asked, "If you are willing to work for Barbara when there is blood around, why not at other times?" Don never answered. Instead he told me to haul in the drag lines, because home island was in sight. Damn, some of those predator fish are scary.

Sheila: 

I did not hear what set Barbara off, but her change in demeanor was as obvious as Francine arriving. She went wide-eyed and struggled with the gag for the first time. I said, "They are coming in, correct?"

Barbara nodded vigorously. I continued, "Sean is no problem. This is the sort of thing Christine would arrange intentionally. The question is, do you want Don to see you like this? Stop. I will removed the gag. Answer with care."

Nothing I had done had produced a strong reaction from Barbara, but I did not live there. Don not only lived there, he had a forceful side. Barbara did think it through. This was good, because she was making a big decision. Subs fear being outed. It is a normal and understandable reaction. However, she might never have a better chance. After thirty years of marriage, she knew her husband. It all churned in her face while I unfastened the gag. When she spoke, her question was simple. "How should we do this?" That's my girl.

Teddybear was on top of things, as usual. I heard him telling Don to slow down. There was a rap at the door. Sean called, "Are you decent?" Idiot. 

I called back, "Finish putting up the boat. Barbara has a surprise. Do not spoil it." That would buy us about ten minutes.

To Barbara, "The simplest thing would be to kneel out of sight of the windows. Have the toys in front of you. Do not speak. Let him find you and ask the questions. Do you want to set up here or on the bed?" My nose told me Barbara was about to fulfill a long time fantasy. 

I left her kneeling on the mat, with a love seat blocking the view from the door. For toys, there was only the rope, the gag and a hairbrush. Barbara confessed that none of the guests had left a lash or flogger. In a way, that explained the stealth nature of toys. The potato chip bag clips really were potato chip bag clips. I decided to send her a good quality flogger, with an instruction manual. Heaven knew I had enough to choose from.

I found Sean and Don down by the boat, tying things off. It was too good to pass up. I said, "Sean, did you tell Don about The Other Shoe?" I did not wait for a reply. "Sean's grandfather was a Naval officer in The War. Sean inherited a wooden lake yacht, which is currently being restored. The finish work is beautiful. At some point, he will need to learn how to sail it. Could you show him some sheets and bends?"

Sean was skewered like a butterfly in a pin. Don thought it the most natural request possible. He suggested we return eight o'clock for beer and stories. Sean was looking daggers at me, but he followed my lead. That was fine. I was a bad girl who deserved a spanking. If I could not sit, I could always kneel.

Sean: 

Sheila was up to something. I would not learn details til the flight back to JFK. Sheila sent pics to my phone—while we were waiting in line at security. At the time I read the tea leaves and warned Don about possible shoals. When she came to find me, I was considering how to explain how much I hate working in the dark. Sheila calmly told a boat captain that my rope skills were deficient. Don never noticed the dig. 

As we went back to the cabin, I could not help admiring the artistry of Sheila's trap. Don wanted to return a favor for a favor. Sheila's scheme fit his skill set perfectly. Nor could I object that she was wrong or out of place. I needed the instruction, but would have felt awkward asking. That said, I stopped at the outdoor kitchen for a silicon spatula. Sheila rarely makes a mistake once, so a second time was intentional. If she wanted a spanking, she would get a good one.

First up was the business of the day. I had a pair of canvas bags full of groceries. Sheila is a chicken eater and I wanted a break from fish, so I bought a whole bird to smoke. Our first sandwiches lacked something, so I bought onions and tomatoes, to go with the bread, cheese and cold cuts. In New Jersey, you could get three big tomatoes for what a pineapple cost. Here, the situation was reversed. I also bought eggs, which did not look like hen eggs, oatmeal, milk and coconut syrup. I would have added SPAM, but Don told me not to be ridiculous. There were 20 tins in the pantry. 

The next few minutes were very domestic. I had Sheila make a marinade, while I cut the back and keel bone out of the chicken. Rather than butterfly, I cut it into two halves. This made it easier to marinade. I went outside to clean the grill and start soaking the cedar plank. By the time I was finished, Sheila had lunch ready. Why didn't I buy potato chips? 

There was a tall counter with bar stools, though Sheila ate standing. She started on dishes while I went to light the charcoal. As I worked, Don came over with offerings from Barbara's garden—actual lettuce, a dozen tiny citrus that looked like a cross between a key lime and a kumquat, green beans, hot peppers and salad onions. There was also a bag of shredded carrots, flaked coconut and frozen orange juice. Don explained it was Barbara's favorite salad—carrots, coconut and dried fruit, dressed with OJ concentrate. Sheila was going to love it all. 

I told Don that Sheila would like to thank Barbara, if she wasn't tied up. Don did a double take, then a third. He left, giving me odd looks. It was just as well. That line was worthy of Sheila, but I had no follow up. His looks confirmed how things stood between Don and Barbara, not to mention between Cynthia and Barbara. No wonder Sheila was feeling frisky. 

I took the bag into the kitchen. Sheila was finishing the dishes. I told her that Barbara had sent presents. It was like watching five year old Jo on Christmas morning. She took one of the little citrus and sliced it paper thin. The chicken was marinating in a ziplock bag. She opened the bag and dropped in the slices, sealed and squeezed the bag until the pieces were well distributed. She bit off half of another fruit, skin and all, offering me the rest. It was bitter, sour and unexpectedly sweet. If that was not a comment on life, what was? 

I picked up the spatula and cocked an eye. Sheila lifted her dress, pushed down and stepped out of her thong, then grasped her ankles. Rather than begin the spanking, I went in search of the camera. By the time I found it, at least five minutes had passed. With most people that would be a small eternity, given the posture. Sheila was so limber, I doubt she was feeling it yet. So, I took a lot of pictures, with the dress down, then with the ass exposed. I think I mentioned that Sheila has a fantastic ass. I instructed her to remove the dress.

Most people would straighten to remove the dress. It would give me a reason to administer punishment. Sheila simple removed her hands from her ankles and pulled the dress over her head, which gave me a choice. I could have her fold it or do it myself. I decided I wanted to get this recorded. "You may." Sheila unbent, walked to the love seat, draped the dress carefully across the back, then returned to her position. I went to inspect her condition.

The night before I practiced the flogger on Sheila's back. Eighteen hours later, I could still see a few marks. It was a reminder to consider consequences. Sheila would do anything required. Keeping her fit to be seen in company was my responsibility. Rather than give her the spanking she asked for, I made her wait. 

Barbara provided masses of fresh fruit, some of which were small and round. I rinsed half a dozen in the sink. Lubricated with saliva, I pushed them into Sheila vagina, til no more would fit. Next, I pushed, pulled and squeezed the area around her clit, to warm everything up. 

By then, Sheila was starting to tremble. She had been holding her ankles for close to fifteen minutes, with one short pause. I would have said it was impossible. She was doing it in a corset. She's like that. My final piece was the Doritos clip Sheila was so fond of. I pinched as much of her labia I could between my fingers, then pushed on the clip. It barely opened far enough, so the tension was at maximum. I said, "Any time you feel the need." then started the spanking.

Sheila: 

I asked for a spanking, but Sean made me wait. It was one of my favorite techniques, which was less fun from the other side. Sean cut a chicken in half for the smoker, so I made a marinade, using honey, lemon juice, garlic and powdered ginger. I made a mental note to ask Barbara if she had ginger growing. There were gallon size freezer bags, so marinading was easy. 

Sean went to get the grill ready, so I made sandwiches. At least he bought onion and tomato. I splurged with a bit of mayo in the fancy mustard. Those done, I added fruit to the salad and poured water over ice. We ate standing at the high counter. 

After lunch, Sean started the fire while I did dishes. He returned with a bag from Barbara. It was a pity the lettuce had not arrived sooner. It would have gone well with the sandwiches. Sean liked the strange little citrus. I sliced one thin and added it to the marinade. More interesting was the orange and carrot salad recipe, with ingredients. I put those away for later, since I was itching to get busy. Silly me.

Busy is one thing Sean never did in the bedroom. Our sense of pace was different, but by then I should have known his dispositions. He was going to make me wait—a lot. He gestured for me to assume the position. I removed my panties, if the thong deserved that term, flipped the dress up in back and grasped my ankles. Sean set down his spatula and left the room. It was minutes later when he returned, carrying my camera. By then I was composing curses at Julian and his corsets.

I may be limber, but there are limits. When Sean returned with the camera, he told me to remove the dress. This was a subtle trap. On another day, I might have sprung it to see what he had in mind. Since I was beginning to regret provoking him, I removed the dress without rising. Sean allowed me to rise long enough to take care of the dress. I took what time I had, but did not push him on this point either. 

Once I was back in position, Sean came over and examined my skin. I knew from experience that there would still be marks. The cool touch of Sean's fingers only accented the burning in my legs and back. My corset constricted breathing was becoming labored. It could not go on much longer. That was when Sean started probing my intimate regions. He never touched my pussy or clit. Instead he pinched the folds over my clit and worked with the skin over the tailbone. Even once removed, my sex took notice. Sean left, again.

This time he came back with several small, round fruit, still wet from a rinse. I saw stars when he pushed the first one through my folds, but he may not have noticed. He kept feeding fruit in til I felt ready to burst. Then he pulled my outer lips closed and pinched them in place with the potato chip bag clip. Only then did he begin spanking. At least he gave me permission to cum.

The first swat landed flush on my left cheek. A small orgasm followed immediately. The second swat landed on the right cheek, but the spatula also caught the big clip. The sensation was remarkably like Sean pinning me to the wall with his prick. Sean noticed my reaction and stopped to play with the clip for a bit, then back to the swats.

I say swats, because it was clear Sean was pulling his strokes. Instead, he started alternating swats on the ass with strikes on the clip. Quickly, I was gasping for air and very glad I could breathe through my mouth. Had I been gagged, I would have dropped the ball. As it was, I endured with difficulty until Sean finished. Once he did, he removed the clip and slapped my pussy. I think I passed out, though only for a second. 

When I was able to think, Sean was helping me stand upright. He had me lean on the back of the loveseat, while he untied the corset. Under his breath he muttered something about "good" and "pictures." I could second that. For the moment, I had a figure, but that would change soon. Some record of my prior configuration would be welcome. 

Sean led me to the bedroom, had me remove the corset and bra, then lay face down on the bed. With some lightly scented oil he gave my back a good once over, spending extra time on my ass. After wiping me with a towel, he had me roll over. Before massaging the front, he inspected the area on the underside of my breasts. It was an area I could not see without a mirror and never wanted to. His light touch made me shiver, which provoked a chuckle. Oh shit. I hate feathers.

The moment did not last. Sean was all business when he rubbed oil into first the left teat, then the right. That was less exciting, but not less pleasurable. The area was still sore and the oil was very soothing. Once done, he coated my belly down to the panty line. There he stopped, hand on my sex. He said, "I know you would hate stretch marks. We'll need to moisturize you daily." I loved my Teddybear.

Sean rubbed oil onto my entire body. Given the sun, it was simple practicality. At one point, he noticed me looking at the bottle, which had no label. It was homemade coconut oil, from another island. The subtle scent was citrus blossom. I did not bother to ask the price, because in New Jersey I could not afford it, at least before I married Sean. Old habits are hard to break. In any event, I suspected Barbara could set me up.

When Sean washed his hands and went outside, I checked the clock. Barely half an hour had passed. I packed the corset, with the conviction that I would never wear it again. Somehow that seemed fitting. A major milestone in my life had passed, but I experienced it fully. For only the second time in my adult life, I put on a swimsuit. This time I noticed that it was custom made. Francine. You have to love her or strangle her.

Sean: 

Something was different. The session with Sheila had a sense of last fling and fond fare well. Given the amount of transition in her life, that could mean many things, but one jumped to the top of the list. At the wedding reception, someone asked if she was expecting. Sheila was wistful when she denied it. 

Our honeymoon had been lacking in marathon sex, but we completed the minimum necessary every day so far. Sheila could be pregnant and she was sufficiently in tune with her body to detect changes. That would put the baby due about the first of March. We could have a leap baby. That would be cool.

In recognition of the new status, I did not pursue things in the bedroom. The little food store had featured some island handcrafts. Among them was a spigoted glass container, containing a cloudy liquid, with several flowers either floating or resting on the bottom. The sign said:

Coconut Oil
External Use Only

I purchased a quarter liter. The clerk opened the spigot. There was a spurt, then the flow stopped. He pressed a button to the side, which caused the oil to flow freely. When the bottle was full, he released the button, closed the spigot, then gave the button two taps. I had to ask.

The clerk was the owner's son. One of the store's functions was to husk coconuts. Every child learned how to do it, but it was work. The store bought or traded for nuts in the husk and sold ones without. In the process, a number of reject nuts would accumulate. The owner's wife used them to make cooking oil. There was soon too much and another cottage industry was born.

The Health Department would not allow the woman to sell cooking oil, though she often gave it as a gift. The oil in the jar contained a commercial stabilizer. A light scent came from locally gathered flowers, which could be seen in the container. The clerk's contribution was the delivery system. He tapped a small amount of carbon dioxide from the soda machine to provide pressure in the sealed container. This also gave the container a non-oxidizing atmosphere, which reduced spoilage. I could see why Don fit in well there.




Postcards Ch. 05



To Sheila it was simply massage oil, though I could tell she liked the scent. That was the best recommendation I could imagine, so I decided to have Don buy a case of the stuff. It would make a nice thank you gift. It was excellent oil for this use and would probably be a good moisturizer for sun exposure. With that in mind, I wiped excess off Sheila's back and had her turn over. 

I love my wife's ass. She worked hard to keep it in prime condition and it showed. That said, her tits are one of the marvels of the world. Enhanced porn stars are sometimes not this big. They were very distracting, because I wanted to kneed and pinch them and suck on the nipples. If Sheila wanted to breast feed her baby, I would spot check the butterfat content. Somehow, I thought nursing would change Sheila's mind about her breasts, but that was for next year. I finished with her arms and legs, then went to start the chicken.

Our little tryst had taken too long. Half the charcoal had burned. It was a workable issue. I poured the coals into the firebox and and added several new chunks. The cedar plank was soaked, so I fetched the chicken and set everything in the smoker. Ten minutes later, the temperature was stabilizing, so I went back inside. Sheila was working on more macrame. She did know her knots. 

The next two hours were comfortable and pleasant. Sheila did interesting things with the 550 cord, while I caught up on business news and watched our dinner. On the way back in from checking the meat, I picked up the camera and shot two or three pictures before Sheila noticed. The next one was perfect. It caught Sheila glancing at me through the corner of her eye, with just a hint of a smile. You can see it behind my desk at the international offices.

I told Sheila we had about fifteen minutes til the chicken was ready. Nodding, she set her handiwork aside and went to the kitchen. I made myself useful by setting the table. Sheila pulled out our ongoing fruit salad and Barbara's carrots. That was my cue to check the meat. By the electronic thermometer, it was cooked to 146°. That was too low, but I could finish in the microwave. It would do. I closed the vents and did some cleanup, then opened the top and slid the chicken onto a plate. The thermometer may have said undercooked, but my nose said dinnertime. 

When I returned to the kitchen, there was a row of five small fruit. Oh my God. Had Sheila carried them all afternoon? I continued to the microwave, pulled the beans and put in the chicken. I set the time to five minutes, started it, then picked up a fruit that looked like a plum. I bit into it. It was a plum. "Interesting flavor." Sheila pinked.

Dinner was quiet. I ate a drumstick and both thighs. Sheila ate the other drumstick and poked at her salads. Barbara's carrot salad was different, but went well with the smoked meat. The fruit salad was developing a reddish hue, but had excellent flavor. That was not the issue. 

I said, "So you're pregnant. We can get a tester in Honolulu, to be sure, but I'll take your word for it. Did you think we couldn't get the rooms remodeled before next winter?" Sheila threw her arms around me and started kissing, but I was having none of it. "It's after five. We can expose your virgin skin to a bit of sun. Maybe Barbara can show you how to surf." 

We soon learned that Don was a competition surfer in California, before he joined the Navy. He took Sheila out for some beginner's lessons. He came back twenty minutes later, shaking his head. Sheila followed four waves later. I'm no expert, but staying upright has to count for something. I caught her eye as she carried in the board. She shrugged.

Sheila: 

For almost a month, my life had been one of constant change. Sometimes that is good. I hoped a baby would be a good change, but that was up to Sean. Naturally, he gave no indication of my inner turmoil. For once I wished I knew mind reading. That was a symmetry. Sean complains that I read him too well.

The afternoon developed slowly. Sean spent the time catching up on his week away. Normally, I would have jumped on the computer, but I needed something physical. I pulled out the paracord and started some freehand work. I would tie four or five knots, then pull them out and tie some more. My mind was elsewhere. Eventually, Sean told me that dinner would be ready soon. 

Dinner was chicken, canned beans and two salads. One time, after checking the meat, Sean picked up my camera and took a few shots. I glanced over to let him know I was aware. Sean caught an image of the glance, which cropped down well. My sideways look came across as sly and knowing. The shot also caught my hands working the cords. Sean titled it "Knots" and has it behind his fancy, impress-the-trade-dignitary desk. He says it captures my essence. Sean loves irony.

The chicken was good, but I had little appetite. I made the coconut-carrot salad. It was one to remember—colorful, tart, unusual, low fat. Sean once said he disliked cold bean salad, but one would have been the perfect fourth corner. It did not matter, since I picked at what I had. I thought it just as well. We could have chicken salad for our last lunch, which struck me as funny. We were paying well over a thousand a day, to eat chicken salad. 

That was the point where Sean told me to snap out of my funk. He was right, as usual, and he said it just so. Every time I wonder about Sean's support, he finds a way to remind me. He suggested I learn to surf. I always wondered what the fuss was about, since surfing looked very simple. So it proved. Don was from the West coast, not Hawaii, but they surf in California. He was able to show me the basics. I still wonder about the fuss.

Even though it was evening, I did not want to overstay my time in the sun. Don and I stayed out about half an hour, then came in to keep me from burning. The timing proved fortunate, since the fishing charter called just as we returned to shore. Don did a quick splash in the shower, before heading to the dock. Barbara told me to take my time, since we had rain earlier. I missed that. Barbara laughed and told me I must have blinked. 

Unlike the day before, the solar heater delivered warm water. I washed my hair and made sure the suit was well rinsed before returning. Barbara covered my shoulders with aloe vera gel, which was divinely cool. She recommended more coconut oil before bed, winking as she said it. Thinking of rubbing it into Sean's cock made me flush. Barbara giggled like a young girl. 

Evidently, her time with Don had gone well. With that in mind, I almost pulled out my small gift. As handcraft goes, a macrame anklet is not much. Still, it had turned out well. The red and white over blue was attractive and it used the same knot pattern I had used on her arms. Barbara had seen pictures of that work, so it was her turn to flush. That would work best with Don present.

Once again we were afflicted with the self important Scandinavian: Jan Sward. He was bragging to Sean when he caught sight of me. His jaw went slack in mid-sentence. Sean skewered him with a "better luck next time", which garnered snickers from a couple of the other guests. Sean claims I have special skill in this area, but he short changes his own talent. One would expect no less of Siobhan's brother. All I did was smile and cover it too late, which brought more laughs. Jan and his trophy wife would leave in the morning, which was not soon enough.

The rest of the visit was nice. Barbara confessed a secret weakness for popcorn. One of the corners of her garden was given over to her new crop. Don popped a batch of the last crop over the fire pit, before adding more wood. It was the first time I had seen red popcorn. The kernels were tiny, but the popped corn looked full sized. Barbara tossed it with a spicy oil and suppressed a grin as she passed the bowl around. My stars it was hot. Normally, I do not touch beer, but I made an exception. 

Don and Sean spent quite a bit of time going over nautical ropework. Everyone knows that sailors have their own language, but few realize it applies to tying things. "Knots" do not tie things. For that there are "hitches", while "splices" and "bends" tie "lines". Knots put a thick place in a line, usually so it will not go through a hole or eye. It was not so different for me.

I remembered learning the basic wraps and cinches. I was still a teenager, tying a man old enough to be my grandfather. The Judge liked to bring pictures of Japanese rope bondage. We would spend the evening figuring how to tie him up, then how to improve the method. This could be for the sub's values of "improve", but more often for mine. Speed mattered. It was good to be able to truss someone quickly. It was vital to be able to release them. I learned a great deal about blood flow, how to gauge degrees of restriction and avoid full interruption. 

"What'cha thinking about?"

Barbara's question startled me. That had not happened in a while. I jerked and flushed red. Barbara, who had no intent to spook me, jumped back and lost her balance. I grabbed her hand, but she pulled me over. Don and Sean stopped what they were doing to see what the fuss was about. I was mortified, but Barbara giggled. A heartbeat later we were both helpless with laughter. Don shook his head and went back to his ropework.

I told Barbara, "I was thinking about how a girl like me wound up in a business like this." Barbara nodded, like it was the most natural thing possible.

She said, "I've been dying to do your hair. You can tell me while I work."

Sean: 

I was irritated when Sheila told Don I needed help with my knots. Don soon dissuaded my ire. Compared to him, I knew nothing. We started with three knots the Army teaches. Don showed me how to tie each with only one free end, then with one hand. It was loops, bends, hitches and such—not a "knot" in the bunch. I like to think I have dextrous fingers, but they were soon as tangled as my line. I was saved when Barbara and Sheila fell in a giggling little girl pile. If geese are a gaggle, are girls a giggle?

Don switched his tactics. He shifted over to lashing technique. This I could use. After a few minutes I asked him to help tie Sheila's stretching bar. Don glanced over, to see Barbara was brushing Sheila's hair, then shrugged. A minute later we set off to find a suitable place for the pole I cut. Sheila saw us go. I am less certain of Barbara.

As we checked places and trees, I commented on the lack of long sandy beaches. Don laughed. According to him, a large chunk had fallen off one of the big islands. Recently, one of the universities did sonar maps of the ocean floor. A number of the oceanographers stayed on the less used time shares. The short version was that our rock was a rock, though a very large one, sitting on the bottom. Geologically speaking, it was brand new. Not far away were some pieces of the old shore line, such as the islet we gathered the bamboo. 

Don paused. "You want to have sex on the beach." It wasn't a question. He continued, "We can make that happen. It's probably just as well. We should have some weather tomorrow. Your wife's picnic will probably be in the greatroom. You noticed the fireplace I hope." He grin turned pure NCO evil. "Those assholes in one and three will have a rough time catching their flight. I gave them fair warning, but his lordship won't listen."

Still chuckling, Don went back to business. He found two trees with roughly level ground between. To one end he did a square lashing and a diagonal lashing at the other. There was a lecture on why each was appropriate to the chosen tree, but my mind was elsewhere. I let him finish while I fetched the women. It was my first chance to see Sheila with a French braid. I gave her a wolf whistle. This was one area in which Sheila and I are in agreement. She has wonderful hair.

Sheila's reaction to the bar was everything I could have hoped. Without comment, she raised her foot to the bar and stretched out into First Position. Don stared open mouthed, while Barbara gasped and covered her mouth. We watched spellbound as Sheila slowly worked through two full evolutions of her extended version. Only when she completed the second did she throw her arms around my neck and thank me properly. I returned the kiss, telling her to save the rest. She also kissed Don, which froze him stiff. I slapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.

The trip to the beach island was short, but Don was too professional to make it fast. He set us ashore with a basic emergency kit, radio, GPS preset to our rock, signaling flares and a 5 gallon jerrycan of rainwater for washing. Barbara made us a snack, picnic jug of tea and provided a ground cover and blanket. It was almost sundown before they set us ashore. Sheila shocked me by peeling off her swimsuit while Don could still see. Then she pulled down my trunks and took my cock in her mouth while Barbara watched. When they were out of sight, she pulled out the two red scarves.

It was a fun couple of hours.

Sheila: 

I always heard of shipboard romances. They made sense. You can lower inhibitions when you will never see someone again. I hit it off with Glenda Harlan. The Harlans had an invitation to visit, so we might see them again, but that was all there was. I was beginning to wonder if Don and Barbara were something more. Don seemed to get Sean like few people I had seen. Barbara was no Christine, but there was something similar under the skin. Both of them were very comfortable to be around. My biggest fear is that they would get uncomfortable with us. Sometimes I was uncomfortable with me.

Don went to his supply shed and pulled out some old rope. The two of them selected a length of bamboo as thick as my wrist and went off toward the trees. Since there was only one place on the island with trees, it was not hard to follow what they were doing. Sean was having Don build a stretching bar. It spoiled the surprise, but it saved me from embarrassing myself by crying. As it was, Barbara asked me if I was OK. 

Barbara had a gift with hair. She confessed she worked as a stylist through nursing school. Five years of anything will leave a mark. She cut her children's hair until they could pay for their own. One of her pleasures was when they asked for a trim during a visit. Those were few and far between. Don's insistence on a military cut was no help. Sean would understand completely. He never told me why he learned massage so well, but the need for tactile activity was common to both. 

Before long I had a modified French braid, with a tail hanging over one shoulder. Barbara took my picture, then I insisted on one with both of us. Don and Sean were busy, so I took Barbara to our cabin and gave her the anklet. It shrank substantially as it dried, but remained just big enough. There was a momentary flash of giving one to Christine and having it shrink too much. I shuddered. We were not going there. Preshrinking the cord might be helpful.

While we were there, I collected the silk scarves. It was a better than even chance Sean would arrange some alone time, so I needed to be prepared. Barbara expressed interest, so I tried them on her. In retrospect, Sean deserved some slack, since the scarves were next to impossible to get tight. On Barbara, the system Sean employed would have been quite secure. Good to know. As restraints go, they were not uncomfortable. 

When we went back outside, Barbara was carrying the scarves as a discipline lesson. I knew how easily they could fall from a hand. When the time came, I could stuff them in the swimsuit. Finally, I had a good use for my breasts. Hopefully, in nine months there would be another. The thought made me shiver. Perhaps without meaning to, Barbara purred in sympathy. 

I checked Barbara's watch. The men had been gone about twenty minutes. It was time to be suitably impressed. They had gone to a small clump of trees near the rocky hilltop. As we approached, I recognized Don droning in instruction mode. Though this was a good thing, I cringed. Sean did need a lot of work on his rope skills and Don was ideal for the task, but tedious. Sean would learn some things. Don would gain valuable confidence. I hoped to meet with Don and Barbara in other settings, because his confidence was important.

I also cringed because of the implied criticism of Sean. I fully expected and invited Sean's reaction. A little punishment would spice up my day. The more creative the punishment, the better. My fear was that Sean might take the criticism to heart, which could be difficult. I was so caught up in possible consequences that I missed what Sean had done—made me a stretching bar. 

My reaction was telling. Before I could think of anything to say, before I could offer a hug, my foot was over the bar and my hands reached for it. I paused in that position, First Position, for several seconds. I had to assess the tension in my legs and back. I needed to control my breathing. Above all, I needed to center my focus on the task at hand. Only when I felt firm control did I allow the position to evolve. In slow counted breaths, I worked through two full evolutions. When I dismounted, I did one more focused breath, then threw my arms around Sean. My stars he gives good hugs. 

When we returned to Earth, Don and Barbara were staring. "Ohhh Kaaaaay", Don drew the letters out, "I guess that will work for you. The ground's uneven, but this is the closest to level I could find." I kissed him on the cheek, which shocked Sean more than Barbara. Don did his best imitation of a statue, so I punched him in the arm and did not pull it. That brought a snicker from Sean and Barbara. Soon we were all laughing. 

That was when Sean dropped his second bomb. We were going for a starlight picnic—without the picnic. This was a bit of a production, since Don was not going to be party to anything sloppy or poorly supported. It gave me time to retrieve and conceal the silk scarves. Barbara gave me a vial of lubricant. She told me the recipe was ideal for sex, but still tasted good. As far as I could tell, she had never used a drop, at least from that bottle. I instructed her to create a situation where it would be suitable, then do without, but with pictures. Barbara went wide eyed, but I could smell the rush of arousal.

The trip to the sandy island was short. Don explained that it was too small and much too exposed for a cabin, but it made a nice beach for surfing, sunbathing and other things. I leaned close and whispered that Barbara wanted to do other things, with a camera. Don's attitude was just short of abrupt when he set us ashore. The scarves were out before he disappeared into the dusk. The suit took a moment longer.

Sean deserves a great deal of credit for his ability to spot talent. Less respected is his ability to find resources. Not only was he landed without rope, there was also no flogger. What he did have was a folding shovel. It may be an outdated method, but the Army still teaches proper use of an entrenching tool. Sean placed a couple of flatish rocks on dry sand, then started burying them. Before long the sand was wet, but the pile kept growing. 

When it had reached waist high, Sean gave me a crossed wrist gesture. I gave him the scarves and presented my wrists. Once again, Sean tied them using the second scarf to take up slack in the first. He was getting better. Sean had me step through my arms, so the bound wrists were behind me, then step down into the wet hole. With a little adjustment, I could stand level. Sean refilled the hole, around my legs, with wet sand. 

That was when his placement of the stones made sense. The larger stone was directly in front of me. Sean scraped a flat place for me to bend over. He scraped a lower place, over the second stone, that was well positioned to accommodate my breasts. Then he placed a bundle on my back. It was heavy and forced my elbows apart. I might have been able to stand upright against the weight, but Sean soon added more wet sand. It was oddly comfortable. The sand supported everything. Sean stood back, breathing a bit heavily. I took that as a signal to test the bonds. Except for my head, I was completely immobile. 




Postcards Ch. 05



If there is one thing in life that is certain, heaven has a sense of humor. I was the Mistress of Pace and I was forced to wait while Sean built a sand castle on my back. Along the way, he uncovered my ass and dusted everything with a whisk broom. He spread and ran water over my crevices, but only to wash away the sand. Much too soon he was back to adding towers and carving crenelations. He was very good at it. You should see the pictures. There is a staircase next to my butt and a moat in front of my mouth. It was years before I could look at them and not shudder. 

After the pictures, Sean got serious. I think our time was getting short. He gave my ass a good pinking, then started teasing my pussy with the whisk broom. Lost for the moment was his thumb on my anus. Just as his thumb pushed through, he swatted my pussy with a light stick. I came buckets. By the time I recovered, Sean had loosened and lubricated my glory hole.

Anal sex is not my favorite thing. Even when I was eight months pregnant, I preferred face to face or cowgirl. Still, you remember your first experience. Sean managed to surprise me when he sank his shaft in a single stroke. He would alternate a couple of strokes with a swat with the whisk. I was holding back my orgasm long before he reached his. There is something so satisfying with simultaneous climax. For once I did not need to worry about falling over.

All good things end. Soon it was time to return. Sean unearthed me, so I was able to look around. There were a number of grass flowers, out of my restricted sight, with many more pieces scattered nearby. Those were the whisk brooms I had felt. The flower shaft was the light stick. The bundle on my back was a third flat rock, wrapped in the ground cover. I stepped back through my wrists and held the bonds out to Sean. He laughed as he untied them, perhaps because of their condition. Even stained, I would always keep them. 

Once free, we went hand in hand into the surf. Sean made slow love to me, standing in the warm water. We were still in the process when a spotlight played over the beach. The surprise was enough to bring Sean to climax and I soon followed. The light came to rest on the remains of the bondage sand castle. Sean let out a piercing whistle to give our position away. All that remained was a naked walk to our suits and heading home. While Don drove the boat, we tested the lubricant oil. I was able to give Sean a third orgasm by sucking the head while stroking the balls and anus. Barbara was right; the taste was not bad. 

Given all that had happened, I was shocked to note that it was only half past ten. The living room had a large flatscreen TV and all the channels. We tried the skin flicks, but they were laughable. Instead, we ended with Barbara Stanwyck and Jimmy Stewart in The Lady Eve. If ever there was a girl that would enjoy a paddling, that was one. 

I fell asleep with my head on Sean's chest.

Sean: 

Friday was our last full day on the island. As promised, I was up and out at 0500. Dan met me at the locker near the pier. I could see the water was much more choppy then the previous evening. According to Don, an unnamed low pressure system was causing rough weather to the east. The main center would pass well north of us, but the rollers were up and it would be a good day to cast for game fish. 

Despite the predawn hour and overcast condition, it was not fully dark. We could see enough to place our feet and for me to find the fishing line. For the next half hour, that is what we did. At several places, I would bait a hook with a chunk of half frozen fish, then Don would throw it out over the waves. It was a jolt when Don said, "That's all of them. Now we start checking."

This was not a sport. The way Don did it. there was a lot of work. On the third pole, there was a strike. Instead of the bait, there was a baby shark. Don pulled the hook—using a steel mesh glove—then threw the three foot shark back into the water. The next strike was a trash fish. I winced as Don set the hook deeper and cast the entire fish. The third strike was better. Don knew what he was doing, because this fish was on the trash fish pole. 

We have all seen pictures of anglers with a pole bent double. We didn't try that. Don judged the size of the fish to be "decent", which meant direct measures. He walked away from the water, then reeled line in as he returned. Before long, I could see the fish splashing in shallow water. Don let it splash. After a while, he picked up a long pole with a wight at one end and a hook at the other. He waded out, hit the fish with the weighted end, stuck the hook in its mouth and pulled it to shore. 

It was ugly, with a lot of teeth. Don laughed at my expression, then weighed the fish with a hand scale. It was about eighteen pounds. Don shrugged and threw it in the cold bin. That was the excitement until just before the end. We had landed several fish, including a couple of sea bass, but nothing more than ten pounds. Don showed me how to use the smaller fish as bait. I had a hit on one of those casts.

Don rushed over when the line began to run. He showed me how to brace against the run and use the drag. I did nothing else for a while. Don's initial concern—that we had hooked a big tuna, which would break the gear—was soon replaced by excitement. He told me I had a wahoo, which was the island name for a fast predator fish. It would be excellent eating, if I could land it. I held on and tried to look competent. Don went around collecting the rest of the gear. 

Without me noticing, it was full daylight. Don headed off to his day job, while I played with the fish. First to come down was Jan Sward. He asked what I had hooked. When I told him a wahoo, he nodded and wished me luck. That was as close to civil as he seemed able. Taking a look at the white capped water and gray sky, he shook his head and went back to his group. My guess was that he knew storm sign when he saw it. It was a pity. My last contact with the guy was the first I could respect.

Sheila and Barbara came next. Barbara was excited. I now understood its value as a sports fish, but it was also prized by chefs. Fresh and properly iced, the flesh could bring twenty dollars a pound and the fish was often over fifty pounds. In short, I had some real money on Don's line. Sheila gave me a hug, then towed Barbara away. 

The traditional problem with speed is lack of endurance. So it proved with my fish. Long before Don was loaded to carry the clients to a bigger island, I started reeling in the line—lots of it. Barbara did the final stun, so I could pick it up. The fish was longer than I was tall and shaped like a crossbow bolt. According to the scale it was just over sixty pounds. Barbara took a dozen pictures as I staggered to the cold bin. I had to bend it double to get it in.

After that, Barbara put us to work. As with CC, Sheila seemed to be partly psychic. Given what Sheila said or did, I could usually unravel the indications Barbara was giving, but only if I paid close attention. It struck me that Sheila went through life paying close attention to everything. Contradictory as that seems, it described how she could do what she did. No wonder I loved her. 

As an executive, nothing annoys more than problems resulting from inattention. I reached over and squeezed Sheila's shoulder. She sort of sighed and leaned into my hand. I told her it looked like a rainy day coming. She said nothing, but her reply was on the wind. I told her that building sand castles agreed with her. She replied with a throaty chuckle that made my cock twitch, then hesitated for a moment. 

It was my turn to chuckle. "You can let Barbara watch."

Sheila: 

I woke with a start—Sean was not there. How quickly we adjust to new situations. Sleeping with Sean was one of my favorite things, though building sand castles had to rank high on the list. 

From a technical difficulty standpoint, his conception was only fair. For originality and execution, top grades. The wet sand filled tightly around my legs. Sean did the wrist binding well, then added the stone on my back, to force my elbows apart and put tension on the binding. The weight of the sand prevented any other movement. I tested it all and found I had no chance of escape. It mattered that Sean took the time and effort to completely immobilize me. 

In the morning light, I looked at the poor scarves. Sand and salt water had ruined them for their intended use, though the pattern of the staining might be interesting. It struck me as a metaphor for how I felt. I was sand burned in several places and my ass still felt the invasion. Otherwise I felt relaxed to the point of limp. Five seconds of movement corrected that notion.

I took the scarves to the bathroom sink and rinsed them in cool water, which turned pink. As expected, there were now streaks and spots in the color. Fortunately, there were no holes. Silk is tough. I laid them on a towel to dry, then went outside to wash myself. As I passed in front of the cabin, I could hear Sean and Don talking about fishing, which changed my mind about the shower. Instead, I visited my stretching bar. It was like coming home.

Some aching time later, the sky began to lighten. I finished my stretch and went back to the shower. The cool water felt wonderful. Returning to the cabin, I found Barbara waiting. She kept glancing at the sky, which confirmed my thoughts about the weather. A storm was coming. Barbara gave our cabin a quick check, returning with a portable radio tuned to weather. The news was bad and good. It was a big storm, but the worst of it would pass between us and the Big Island. 

I followed Barbara outside. She unlocked a door and started doing things to the generator inside. After a few seconds an engine started. Barbara threw a switch and told me we were on independent power for the day. After that, she started collecting the cushions from the outdoor chairs. The chairs themselves were tied with cable. She then showed me the switch for the powered shutters and the crank for the manual backup. It was all very routine, until I saw the idiot and his crowd.

Jan Sward was not acting like an idiot, which gave me pause. His posture lacked the aggressive, almost combative edge it held the previous two days. Instead, he looked at sky and water with resolution. He was Scandinavian, so storms would be an old enemy. I thought better of him as he herded his crew onto Dan's boat. They set off, leaving only myself, Barbara, Sean and the fish.

Sean always had mixed feelings concerning the fish. Well over five feet long and weighing sixty pounds, it was beautiful in its predatory way. The fish would have made a fine trophy, but Sean gave no resistance to Barbara's desire to cut it up. Even that waited, since Barbara needed to lock down the island. Sean simply forced the fish into the cold box and helped Barbara with her chores. In the years since, Sean is more likely to mention the dinner of grilled filets than catching the fish. Yet, he always keeps an image near his desk. If someone asks, he will show the image and tell the story.

Preparing the cabin for a storm was not difficult. The house was designed with rough weather in mind. Lightweight items were collected and stored. Larger items were chained to an anchor. Barbara had already done most of ours. Sean went with her to lock down the other cabins. I stayed to fix breakfast—and other things. Sean had promised me a thorough lashing, with Barbara watching. I raided the picnic drawer, then searched for other possibilities.

Now that I knew to look, Barbara's hand could be seen everywhere. The ceiling had exposed wood beams. Several hooks were set into them, some having hanging baskets. The highest point had a pulley attached, with a scented candle hanging. It was trivial to remover the candle and use the cord to pull through a much heavier woven rope. The hardware was stout enough to support two people. The rope could support half a dozen. 

Other things included a curtain rod with ringlike finials. It was a ready to use spreader bar. The curtain rings were pinch type, which were perfectly sized for nipple and labia weights. The tiebacks were three feet of inch thick scarlet twist rope. One of the blind controls was made of Lexan and would be a perfect caning rod. The kitchen had a paddle shaped cutting board. Sean had already found the silicon spatulas. There was no whipping horse, but the bar stools had a pair of metal footrest rings, one just below knee height and the other three inches off the floor. 

Next, I prepared a waiting place. A folded tablecloth covered the rug. On it I placed the flogger, then arranged restraints and implements to either side. Behind these I put bottles of lubricants, lotions, Sean's massage oil, aloe and first aid astringent. The tableau finished, I set the available imaging devices around the room. One still camera was set to shoot every fifteen seconds. The other sent video direct to the laptop. My old laptop would use its integral camera to gather a different angle and my smartphone would cover the tablecloth. Once I had disrobed, emptied and cleaned myself, I assumed Second Position and waited. 

Christine loves Second Position. It fully exposes her, which feeds her exhibitionist streak, yet it is suitable for long term use. She can stay in it longer than most people can sit in a chair. I expected Sean at any moment, but I might wait a hour or more. Using Christine as my guide, I searched for a quiet place in my mind. I found something.

Barbara was the first through the door. Whatever she had been saying died. Sean nudged her out of the doorway, then continued into the room, his eyes intent on me. A thrill went through me. His gaze left me to inspect my work. My breath stopped, not to begin until his tiny nod conveyed approval. Sean looked at the preparations around the room, then turned to Barbara.

"You have been busy. How much does Don know?"

Barbara preferred silence, but Sean's will is a thing of iron. "Some", she admitted, "but not much. Madame tied me up for him yesterday. Cobra weave with monkey paws in the loose ends. Danté was impressed." 

Sean nodded. "You may stay, but understand that this session is being recorded. Do you consent? Speak aloud for the record."

Barbara hesitated at the formalities, then said, "I do." When she realized her phrasing, she blushed deeply.

Sean ignored the obvious wordplay. "Sheila, prepare her." 

Barbara started disrobing before I could rise to my feet. There were many possibilities, but I elected only a gag and wrists tied behind her. Once she was settled on her heels I squared her shoulders and pulled her head up, saying "Taller." That done, I presented myself to Sean—eyes down, heels together, wrists together in front. It was a bit pushy, but Sean seemed to be in a permissive mood. Naturally, Sean went a different path.

The curtain rod was a ready made spreader bar, but there were no cuffs. Sean had me stand on one foot while he wrapped leather around my ankle, then tied it in place with all three colors of paracord. Once both ankles were cover and tied to the rod, Sean told me to grasp the bar. His warm up swats started firmly and quickly went to stinging. After about a dozen on each side, he switched to the cutting board paddle. It was only the warmup, but neither Christine or Mario would consider it trivial.

The flogging flowed smoothly from the warmup. Sean used the heavy curtain tie to bind my wrists together, then to the pulley rope. With little apparent effort, he hoisted me off the floor, then stuck cushions under my feet, to prevent twisting. Nice touch. He began with light, thuddy strikes on the small of my back. After half a dozen as foreplay, he started spreading the strands and snapping his wrist. Ten stinging blows covered my back, then four more on my ass. Finally he set the flogger aside and picked up the Lexan rod. 

Caning is not something I do lightly. Usually, it must be on Friday, so the client has the weekend to recover. I already anticipated trouble sitting on the plane. If Sean used the rod, it would be a difficult flight. Recalling the time Christine declined the heavy lash, I looked at the rod and nodded. Fire exploded low on my ass, followed by a slapping sound. Another blow, followed by another slap. 

For a heartbeat it made no sense. Then I burst into tears and shook my head. Though I could not see it, I know the sound of cane on flesh. If it was not my flesh it had to be Sean's, most likely his palm. I could not let him bruise himself for me. The problem was that I started crying and could not stop. 

Sean let me down, released my arms and legs, still I cried. He released Barbara, then pushed us together. Still I cried, but Barbara cried with me. Sean guided the two of us out the front door and around the house. Shower water put an end to the tears, but not to Sean's purpose. He pulled us, dripping wet, to the ocean. I had never been skinny dipping and that was not how I envisioned my first time, but I made no protest.

When the water was armpit deep, Sean ducked me and held me under for about twenty seconds. I could hear Barbara objecting. When he let me up, Sean said, "I'll go get towels. Explain to Barbara what is going on. Next time I hope I don't need to be so literal." I love that Sean is pushy, but sometimes it can be a major pain.

Still, orders are orders. I stood in the storm tossed ocean and explained to Barbara, again, why I had guilt to purge. I started with the poster at the hotel and went through the muggings and the police. It was not all the same. For some reason, the hardest part was to admit that I did not know the name of the man I almost killed. Barbara never said a word, but her eyes grew very wide. By the time I finished, Sean was standing on the shore with towels and togs. I also love that he is practical.

When we reached shore, Sean handed us each towels. The togs were sitting, ready, just above the wave line. He said, "Barbara, I hope you don't take this wrong, but it's time for you to go. I want to take my wife inside, tie her to the bed and fuck her senseless." That's my Teddybear.



Postcards Ch. 06



Author's note: You may want to check back up to the previous chapter. Sean has been up a while when this chapter begins.

Chapter 6

Sheila:

I woke with a start—Sean was not there. How quickly we adjust to new situations. Sleeping with Sean was one of my favorite things, though building sand castles had to rank high on the list.

From a technical difficulty standpoint, his work the previous night was only fair. For originality and execution, top grades. The wet sand bound my legs tightly. Sean did the wrist binding well, then used the stone on my back to force my elbows apart and put tension on the binding. The weight of the sand prevented any other movement. I tested it all and found I had no chance of escape. It mattered to me that Sean took the time and effort to completely immobilize me.

In the morning light, I looked at the poor scarves. Sand and salt water had ruined them for their intended use, though the pattern of the staining might be interesting. It struck me as a metaphor for how I felt. I was sand burned in several places and my ass still felt the invasion. Otherwise I felt relaxed to the point of limp. Five seconds of movement corrected that notion.

I took the scarves to the bathroom sink and rinsed them in cool water, which turned pink. As expected, there were now streaks and spots in the color. Fortunately, there were no holes. Silk is tough. I laid them on a towel to dry, then went outside to wash myself. As I passed in front of the cabin, I could hear Sean and Don talking about fishing, which changed my mind about the shower. Instead, I visited my stretching bar. It was like coming home.

Some aching time later, the sky began to lighten. I finished my stretch and went back to the shower. The cool water felt wonderful. Returning to the cabin, I found Barbara waiting. She kept glancing at the sky, which confirmed my thoughts about the weather. A storm was coming. Barbara gave our cabin a quick check, returning with a portable radio tuned to weather. The news was bad and good. It was a big storm, but the worst of it would pass between us and the Big Island.

I followed Barbara outside. She unlocked a door and started doing things to the generator inside. After a few seconds an engine started. Barbara threw a switch and told me we were on independent power for the day. After that, she started collecting the cushions from the outdoor chairs. The chairs themselves were tied with cable. She then showed me the switch for the powered shutters and the crank for the manual backup. It was all very routine, until I saw the idiot and his crowd.

Jan Sward was not acting like an idiot, which gave me pause. His posture lacked the aggressive, almost combative edge it held the previous two days. Instead, he looked at sky and water with resolution. He was Scandinavian, so storms would be an old enemy. I thought better of him as he herded his crew onto Don's boat. They set off, leaving only myself, Barbara, Sean and the fish.

Sean always had mixed feelings concerning the fish. Well over five feet long and weighing sixty pounds, it was beautiful in its predatory way. The fish would have made a fine trophy, but Sean gave no resistance to Barbara's desire to cut it up. Even that waited, since Barbara needed to lock down the island. Sean simply forced the fish into the cold box and helped Barbara with her chores. In the years since, Sean is more likely to mention the dinner of grilled filets than catching the fish. Yet, he always keeps an image near his desk. If someone asks, he will show the image and tell the story.

Preparing the cabin for a storm was not difficult. The house was designed with rough weather in mind. Lightweight items were collected and stored. Larger items were chained to an anchor. Barbara had already done most of ours. Sean went with her to lock down the other cabins. I stayed to fix breakfast—and other things. Sean had promised me a thorough lashing, with Barbara watching. I raided the picnic drawer, then searched for other possibilities.

Now that I knew to look, Barbara's hand could be seen everywhere. The ceiling had exposed wood beams. Several hooks were set into them, some having hanging baskets. The highest point had a pulley attached, with a scented candle hanging. It was trivial to remover the candle and use the cord to pull through a much heavier woven rope. The hardware was stout enough to support two people. The rope could support half a dozen.

Other things included a curtain rod with ringlike finials. It was a ready to use spreader bar. The curtain rings were pinch type, which were perfectly sized for nipple and labia weights. The tiebacks were three feet of inch thick scarlet twist rope. One of the blind controls was made of Lexan and would be a perfect caning rod. The kitchen had a paddle shaped cutting board. Sean had already found the silicon spatulas. There was no whipping horse, but the bar stools had a pair of metal footrest rings, one just below knee height and the other three inches off the floor.

Next, I prepared a waiting place. A folded tablecloth covered the rug. On it I placed the flogger, then arranged restraints and implements to either side. Behind these I put bottles of lubricants, lotions, Sean's massage oil, aloe and first aid astringent. The tableau finished, I set the available imaging devices around the room. One still camera was set to shoot every fifteen seconds. The other sent video direct to the laptop. My old laptop would use its integral camera to gather a different angle and my smartphone would cover the tablecloth. Once I had disrobed, emptied and cleaned myself, I assumed Second Position and waited.

Christine loves Second Position. It fully exposes her, which feeds her exhibitionist streak, yet it is suitable for long term use. She can stay in it longer than most people can sit in a chair. I expected Sean at any moment, but I might wait a hour or more. Using Christine as my guide, I searched for a quiet place in my mind. I found something.

Barbara was the first through the door. Whatever she had been saying died. Sean nudged her out of the doorway, then continued into the room, his eyes intent on me. A thrill went through me. His gaze left me to inspect my work. My breath stopped, not to begin until his tiny nod conveyed approval. Sean looked at the preparations around the room, then turned to Barbara.

gYou have been busy. How much does Don know?"

Barbara preferred silence, but Sean's will is a thing of iron. "Some", she admitted, "but not much. Madame tied me up for him yesterday. Cobra weave with monkey paws in the loose ends. Danté was impressed."

Sean nodded. "You may stay, but understand that this session is being recorded. Do you consent? Speak aloud for the record."

Barbara hesitated at the formalities, then said, "I do." When she realized her phrasing, she blushed deeply.

Sean ignored the obvious wordplay. "Sheila, prepare her."

Barbara started disrobing before I could rise to my feet. There were many possibilities, but I elected only a gag and wrists tied behind her. Once she was settled on her heels I squared her shoulders and pulled her head up, saying "Taller." That done, I presented myself to Sean—eyes down, heels together, wrists together in front. It was a bit pushy, but Sean seemed to be in a permissive mood. Naturally, Sean went a different path.

The curtain rod was a ready made spreader bar, but there were no cuffs. Sean had me stand on one foot while he wrapped leather around my ankle, then tied it in place with all three colors of paracord. Once both ankles were cover and tied to the rod, Sean told me to grasp the bar. His warm up swats started firmly and quickly went to stinging. After about a dozen on each side, he switched to the cutting board paddle. It was only the warmup, but neither Christine or Mario would consider it trivial.

The flogging flowed smoothly from the warmup. Sean used the heavy curtain tie to bind my wrists together, then to the pulley rope. With little apparent effort, he hoisted me off the floor, then stuck cushions under my feet, to prevent twisting. Nice touch. He began with light, thuddy strikes on the small of my back. After half a dozen as foreplay, he started spreading the strands and snapping his wrist. Ten stinging blows covered my back, then four more on my ass. Finally he set the flogger aside and picked up the Lexan rod.

Caning is not something I do lightly. Usually, it must be on Friday, so the client has the weekend to recover. I already anticipated trouble sitting on the plane. If Sean used the rod, it would be a difficult flight. Recalling the time Christine declined the heavy lash, I looked at the rod and nodded. Fire exploded low on my ass, followed by a slapping sound. Another blow, followed by another slap.

For a heartbeat it made no sense. Then I burst into tears and shook my head. Though I could not see it, I know the sound of cane on flesh. If it was not my flesh it had to be Sean's, most likely his palm. I could not let him bruise himself for me. The problem was that I started crying and could not stop.

Sean let me down, released my arms and legs, still I cried. He released Barbara, then pushed us together. Still I cried, but Barbara cried with me. Sean guided the two of us out the front door and around the house. Shower water put an end to the tears, but not to Sean's purpose. He pulled us, dripping wet, to the ocean. I had never been skinny dipping and that was not how I envisioned my first time, but I made no protest.

When the water was armpit deep, Sean ducked me and held me under for about twenty seconds. I could hear Barbara objecting. When he let me up, Sean said, "I'll go get towels. Explain to Barbara what is going on. Next time I hope I don't need to be so literal." I love that Sean is pushy, but sometimes it can be a major pain.

Confession is supposed to be good for the soul. I was not Catholic, but I knew that much. Sean seemed to believe it. He ordered me to tell all to Barbara. Even though she had heard most of it before, it helped. The second time through was easier, but I was unprepared when Barbara jerked in shock. After a moment I realized I said that one of the muggers almost died. Barbara did not know that detail. Funny. I did not go ten minutes without thinking about it.

I began to tell her the details, but Sean returned with towels and footwear. He asked Barbara to leave, saying he wanted to fuck me senseless. That was ironic, because I was feeling very stupid. Barbara pinked at Sean's language, hugged me close, whispered thanks for her anklet, then fled. In other times, watching a middle aged woman running naked on a beach would have been funny. That day I had awareness only for Sean. As he led me to the house, I realized I was wrong. Last night, for two hours, while Sean built the sand castle, I never once thought of Ugly and Stupid.

Sean:

The big fish was a bit of a rush. I never pretend to be an outdoorsman, partly because there are so many of the real thing around. Still, the stories had always been interesting and now I had one of my own. It put me in a good mood. Barbara promptly put it in perspective by mentioning the storm.

For half an hour we went around tying up and locking down. Sheila went back to the cabin to get things ready. I did my best not to think about what was coming, because I did not expect to enjoy it. Sometimes I hate being right.

Sheila did her usual thorough job of laying things out. It wasn't her studio in New Jersey, but it came surprisingly close. There was even a hoist. While I took everything in, Sheila did a quick job of gagging and tying Barbara. Good. An audience is necessary for a public whipping.

The whipping itself was a workout. I started with my hand, switched to a cheeseboard, the flogger finally a clear plastic rod. Every step was to warm Sheila up for the next one. The problem was that the rod was as far as I was willing to go, but Sheila had no such limit. In desperation, I used the rod on my own palm. Holy shit.

Sheila reacted exactly as expected. Her desire for punishment did not extend to me. She also started crying. With that crack in her resolve, I changed the nature of the scene. As quickly as I could manage, I unbound both the women, then marched them naked out of the cabin. Sheila was still in tears when I turned on the shower. That stopped the crying.

Next came the ocean. The plastic rod left a red stripe, which had to burn in the salt water. I left them there while I went to get togs and towels. It gave me a chance to think about who I could get for guilt counseling. With any luck, my sharp lesson would have effect, but there was no chance things were fully settled. I knew too many military men with the same problem. At least Bozo hadn't died.

All that was beside the point. The time was right to push some issues. Handing Barbara her towel, I said, "Please don't take this wrong, but it's time for you to leave. I want to take my wife inside, tie her to the bed and fuck her senseless."

Sometimes the truth can work magic. Barbara disappeared.

Sheila:

There are times I wonder what goes on in Christine's head. Sometimes, I think I have a small clue. As Sean led me into the house, I knew there was nothing I would deny him. He could call me names or use me as a toilet. I would do it willingly. All I wanted was to bask in the glow of his fire.

Sean and Siobhan have a strange inferiority complex. They think of themselves as slow and plodding. To compensate, they are systematic and very thorough. If you saw The Accidental Tourist, Sean is a bit like Macon Leary. Part of it comes from Sean's inarticulate nature. He speaks well from a script, but not out of hand. His thoughts run ahead of his mouth, resulting in a tangled, confusing mess.

Another part is the older brother, George. He is enough smarter than Sean and Siobhan that no one argues the point. George was described to me as an absent minded professor crossed with Taz, the cartoon Tasmanian devil. He graduated Berkeley because the department thought things like missed final exams were less important than being able to claim him as an alumnus. It was not completely improper. His instructors tracked him down and gave oral exams—for advanced quantum mechanics and high energy physics. George did the math in his head. He also showed up three days late for his brother's wedding.

Sean is a complex package of contradictions. The one that mattered most to me was the pushy, self-confident business tycoon vs. the devoted family man. Sean's usual style is blast-through-the-obstacles. His nickname is the Bear, which fit, but not. Bears are loners. Sean used a team approach for his mayhem. He would point out an obstacle and we would all take it down. My role on his team was as the cutting edge. It is not a nice place, but it both important and respected.

Being part of his team had perks, but the big one was Sean himself. There were many things I would have been hard pressed to explain, but Sean never needed an explanation. His support was unwavering and his timing sublime. The protective side is easier to understand. It is natural for leaders to defend their subordinates. Sean goes the next step and cares for us more than we care for ourselves. When it was necessary, he carried me home. It is a big reason why I love him.

Another is because he understands me. Take the flogging. I would not have connected my mood to the mugging. Sean had, and so it proved. His way of telling me that I was wallowing in self pity was pointed, typically so. What I would have seen in one of my clients, I did not see it about myself. It was insight I not only prized, but needed. The thing that made it work was that Sean needed my insight nearly as much. At that moment, Sean wanted to live out his fantasies. I was going to help him.

It would not be an easy service. Like many—most—men, Sean fantasized about my tits. Sean understood why I hated my forward development, so he had been restrained in his urges. That day it would change. His message would not have been more clear if he had text it to my phone. Oddly, I found myself anticipating his attentions. Perhaps I had been too hasty. If nothing else, my baby would be able to nurse.

My nipples were hard as erasers and ached terribly. Naturally, Sean made me wait.

Sean:

After I ran Barbara off, I had Sheila lie down on the floor. I smoothed coconut oil over her back, butt and thigh, tweaking things as I went. I took particular interest in the anus, since the area was a little swollen, as expected. Swollen means sensitive, so Sheila reacted to the slightest touch. That was good. If she were in sub-mode, she would suppress her reactions. I made a decision.

gI am going to tie you to the corners of the bed. Then I will do as I wish. Since this is for my pleasure, you may cum at any time. I will blindfold you. No gag, but no talking. Clear?" The Army has what is called "command voice". I learned it as an NCO and use it often in a business context. Sheila accepted with a nod.

Everyone has fantasies. Sheila evoked a few of mine. Call them what you wish—boobs, tits, knockers, melons, jugs, hooters, headlights, puppies, peaches, pears or sugarplums—most men have an appreciation of female breasts. I was no exception and Sheila's breasts were premium. From the time we met, I wanted to worship her breasts. It might be taking advantage of Sheila's weakness, but I was going to indulge.

Breast tissue is unique in the body. It sits on top of the chest muscles, but has no muscles internally. There are many fat cells, and their size increases as the body deposits fat, but size only partly depends on fat content. Sheila was a fitness fanatic. Her muscle/fat ratio would be the envy of many star athletes, but she also had truly massive mounds.

Sheila hated that mass, so she hid them in a corset-like undergarment. As a side benefit, she found the tight fit comforting. I think it was a metaphor for control. The bustier also supported the full weight of the tits, so that gravity had never gotten a grip. The results were two of the firmest breasts I had ever seen, regardless of size, and the smoothest, whitest, tenderest skin possible. For the next several hours they were all mine.

Barbara had given Sheila some lubricant, which was supposed to be safe and not unpleasant tasting. That would be good. In my younger days, several of my lovers had used perfume in their cleavage. Perfume is nasty on the tongue. I tasted a bit of the lotion—not good, but not bad. I could cope. I spread some on my hands, preparing to attack Sheila's bassooms, but I stopped.

How do you describe perfectly shaped tits? Lying on her back, with gravity pressing her breasts down, Sheila still projected further than many women in full sag. What was the line from Wilde? Something about breasts falling like hanged men. Sheila was pregnant. In mere weeks she would put on weight, including her milk cans. That would be something to document. After putting an oily sheen on her skin, I went in search of the camera. Sheila loved images. She could provide a few.

As I considered the scene, many potential angles suggested themselves. Rather than try to choose, I shot them all—straight overhead, bed level profile, worm's eye view, bird's eye view, everything in between. The one between the legs was nice, but I thought the vulva was distracting. It did give occasion to note that Sheila was showing clear signs of arousal. Her lips were parted and the tip of the clit was visible in the hood.

I stopped for a moment to lick her toes, so I could stare a bit longer at her sex. That brought a reaction. I am no foot fetishist, but I know one. It would be something to consider when she was gravid. CC jumped to mind. I chuckled as I pictured Sheila, very close to term. I suckled her breasts while CC suckled her toes. She was in my office, in my leather President and CEO office chair, with her legs over the armrests. Sheila's dress covered her privates, but the door was open and Helen was taking pictures.




Postcards Ch. 06



There was no point in keeping this to myself. I took a position where I could stroke Sheila's thighs and laid the scene out in exacting detail. I described the quality of the sunlight and the position of papers on my desk. I heard choking noises and realized Sheila was laughing. "You may speak."

Sheila flushed. "Halfway through, my water breaks and ruins your fancy chair."

I snorted. "Helen gets pictures of that, too." Sheila really flushed. I grinned.

gThe picture catches a piece of this lily-white skin here." I ran the back of a fingernail along the underside of one breast. Sheila twitched.

gYou never let anyone see that, but the baby will. The baby will love your breasts." I fondled the teat with just my fingertips.

gOf course, the baby wants milk." I applied just the wet inside of my lips, but all the suction I could manage.

We went on like that for a while. Sheila didn't cum til the baby started teething, but when she did it was loud.

Sheila:

Of all the times I have been restrained, that was among the hardest. Sean wanted to tease and he had all afternoon to do it. I must have come a dozen times before he decided it was time for coitus. That said, the first time was, by far, the most memorable. After making baby noises and tickling for about half an hour, Sean started suckling. That was bad enough, but he started to simulate a teething baby. He pinched my nipple between his molars and rubbed his tongue rubbing back and forth across the tip. I orgasmed screaming his name.

The rest of the time was rather like the list Jason used on Christine. Some of it was very revealing. Foot fetish might be one of my things. Wrist and palm, much more so. I already knew that my nape was sensitive, but so are my jaw and ear lobes. Sean promised to take me dancing and make me cum on the dance floor. No surprise there. He had done it before.

The most annoying discovery was that my breasts are just as sensitive as I suspected, though only in certain places. I really did fear what a suckling baby would do to me. It was another Christine-like thing. I dreaded it in lingering detail.

If the first orgasm was the most memorable, the last was the most satisfying. Sean never asked for oral or anal, though he did use me for a tit fuck. With my hands tied to the bedposts, my options were very limited. Sean lubed my cleavage with coconut oil and squeezed. Two strokes was all he needed. Perhaps he wanted to make the coitus last. In passing I received my first facial.

When it came to intercourse, I offered to split the bamboo. That worked well, but the Viennese Oyster proved the key. Sean seemed surprised that I can cross my ankles behind my head without using my hands. It was not that difficult. I came the first time he bumped his prick against my cervix, but the big one was when he pumped his seed into me. I ached all afternoon for that warm rush.

Afterward, Sean left me restrained. He retrieved the pillows and bed cover so that we could cuddle in comfort, but did not release me til we both had a nap. After a trip to the commode, I sucked him off in the shower. For some reason, I had a controlling need to submit and serve. Sean indulged me, though I could tell the role playing was getting old for him. Another thing I love about Teddybear is his patience.

After the shower, Sean did not bother with real restraints. He tied my wrists with a long piece of string. I had to take care not to break the strand. Using the rest of the string as a leash, he walked me naked through the cabin and out the front door. We stood together on the patio, being pounded by the storm. It was the first time on the trip that I was cold. As with the caning earlier, Sean chose to share my discomfort, though he could have easily watched and stayed mostly dry.

Thereafter, Sean had me kneel in front of the fireplace, while he built a nice blaze. Once he had it burning, he worked on his laptop while I sought my quiet place. It must have worked, because the next thing I noticed was that the wind had stopped. Sean, now dressed, was in the door, looking at the storm damage. When he came back, he cut the string with scissors and helped me stand. My legs had gone to sleep. The final act of the afternoon's play was a friendly hand spanking, just enough to remind me of the beating that morning. When Sean sent me to dress, it was the first words either of had spoken since I screamed his name in climax.

Sean:

The first time I dragged Sheila up to her apartment, I thought that I liked being in charge, but some sex would have helped my mood. That afternoon Kitten was as docile as her nickname. I stroked her and she purred. CC could have been the one tied to the bed. It would have been almost the same.

This is not to say Sheila was unresponsive. Far from it. I brought her to screaming orgasm once with breast worship and a little nibbling, but she had several more before I got my own jollies. Tit fucking Sheila was literally too easy. There was no difficulty wrapping them all the way around and I was on a hair trigger. Two pumps and I was done. It was just as well, since I last much longer on the make-a-baby sex.

We started in a missionary, then shifted to several variations. Sheila put her ankle on my shoulder, like several other times. That was nice, but nothing new. Sheila thought so too, because she pulled her leg off my shoulder and stuck it behind her head. That was impressive with her hands tied. Next, she swung her other leg up and crossed the first one. I must have stared, because Sheila gave me a little smile.

With a challenge like that, I slammed the first one in hard. Damn Skippy. It was all I could do to keep from shooting my wad right then. Sheila had no such problem. Her climax was fun to watch and it gave me time to recover a bit. This is not to say I lasted much longer. I did about twenty slow strokes before I hammered two hard ones and shot off. Sheila held her own climax to match mine, which was sweet.

After the sex, I left Sheila tied, but pulled the covers over both of us. I don't know if she slept, but I was out for half an hour. When I woke, my bladder needed attention, so Sheila probably did too. I allowed her first access. That serviced, we took a quick shower. I missed the big shower at home, but Sheila soothed me with a blow job. Her technique was improving.

The rest of the afternoon was domestic. Sheila was still in submissive mode, but I was tired of games. I tied a pretend leash and had her kneel in front of the fireplace. I built a fire and spent at least an hour catching up with business. Sheila knelt where I put her. She had told me stories of CC going somewhere in her mind, but this was the first time I had seen it.

Work is my form of meditation, so time passed quickly. The end of the storm came as a surprise. The sounds of wind and rain faded to background, til they ended. That was noticeable. I went to see how things were outside. When I returned, so had Sheila. I removed the string restraints to tell her playtime was over.

That was it. I had wanted alone time with my wife since before the Ball. Now that I had it, it seemed like I had done nothing with it. It was starting to bother me when Sheila came back into the room. One look at her and I had no regrets, not for that day, not for the whole trip. Instead, I had a new saying for my desk, "Never be so wrapped up in what you are doing that you forget what you have done."

For the first time in days, Sheila was smiling.

Sheila:

Of all the people I knew well, the most religious was Christine. We discussed it one day. She told me that submission and obedience were the core of Christianity. One word search of the Bible showed me she had a point. Jews have the same thing, "[Y]ou are to love A___ your God with all your heart, all your being and all your resources.

That afternoon I understood, a little, what she meant. In giving my body and will to Sean, I had also given him my guilt. It felt like a hand was no longer squeezing my heart. I realized this as I dressed, so I hurried to share it with Sean. I could see from the doorway that the afternoon had not been as liberating for Sean. When he saw me, his expression cleared like the clouds outside. The next thing I knew we slammed together with bruising force. I think I must have teleported. Sean says the same.

Some time later, we finished kissing and hugging. Sean put on a shirt and we went to see Don and Barbara. They were out picking up debris. Don waved, but Barbara's mouth fell open. I pulled her aside and Sean went to talk to Don. It was time to get some things straight.

Of course we started with the sex. Rather, we started with the tease and went on to the sex. Barbara was wistful as I described Sean lavishing devotion on my breasts. She was avid as I described putting my ankle on Sean's shoulder, then behind my head. She gushed as I described my series of orgasms. She sighed when I told her how Sean pulled up the bedspread to cover us both.

That was when I discovered that I could not describe the most significant part of the afternoon. For a submissive, hours of teasing, culminating in semen capture, was heavenly. To me, the quiet time after was more important. Barbara just did not "get" it. Christine would and Sean did, which was more than enough for me. Still, it raised a point.

Barbara and Don were sturdy middle class. That was not a bad thing, but their mind set came with certain Assumptions. One of the Assumptions was that people in gated mansions were above their station. I had known Sean three weeks―Siobhan less―but I was already familiar with the cadence of their no-one-tells-me-anything complaint. People like Don and Barbara would be intimidated by the Residence, and all that went with it. We needed to do something, soon, or lose them.

I caught Sean's eye. One of the things I love about Teddybear is his willingness to let me run with an idea. He acquiesced by returning his attention to Don. I turned back to Barbara and started with the obvious, "We have to leave tomorrow."

Barbara sighed, "I know. It's been so good having you here. Most of the clients treat us like doormats. Even if you didn't understand my needs, you would be special." Compliments rarely come larger.

I said, "We feel the same. I have seen only a little of Sean's world, but there are few people that can open him up like Don has. My big advantage is that I can follow his thinking before he tries to say anything. Usually the words add little. Don seems to understand Sean's 'Why's' like I understand the 'What's' and 'How's'. Believe me when I tell you that you are important to us."

I had seen Barbara's expression only once before. It was when I asked Jason to introduce Christine to vanilla sex. Barbara had serious reservations, but would not refuse me. It was a start. This would be one of the times I really needed Sean to back my play. The certainty that I had it was as comforting as cuddling after sex.

I said, "Before we leave, I am going to give you a lot of contact information. Ignore most of it. Helen, Christine and Gerald are the centers of information flow. Helen is Sean's personal assistant. You and she will get on fine. Tell her what you want and expect her reply in writing. There is a story there, for another time. For anything personal to me, contact Christine, same rules as Helen. Gerald is in charge of the Residence. He is retired military, so have Don contact him."

"Here is the plan. Contact whomever you need to contact. Get approval to go to the mainland for a week at least. Tell them you have free airfare, which will be true. If you wish, you can tell them that you have a source for good theater tickets in New York. That is also true. I can even promise Francine Martel's autograph. Will any of that be a problem?" Barbara looked as stunned as Sean's predator fish, after she used the hammer. That was OK. I was used to that expression.

With his usual sense of timing, Sean wrapped his conversation with Don exactly then. His gesture was not as broad as Spock's raised eyebrow, but that should give you the idea.

I said, "Don, I was just telling Barbara to get a week or two free. Sean has tons of frequent flier miles to burn. We would like you to visit us in New Jersey. You can see the boat. I can take Barbara shopping. Sean used to date Francine Martel, so we have an inside source for theater tickets. If you put your minds to it, you might even come up with a tax deductible reason for flying out. Sean, stop laughing."

Sean controlled himself―eventually―and said, "Gerald is my head guard dog. He claims Sheila can give a thirty minute briefing in fifteen seconds. That was an example. Even if I didn't have about ten million miles available, I would get you tickets. Helen can give you several legitimate business reasons for the trip. You might even make some commission money. What Sheila didn't tell you is that she is a legend in the New York ballet and theater scene and that Francine was one of her bride's maids. She can arrange backstage passes and autographed programs.

"Do come. We'll make it worth your while." Sean was no slouch at closing a deal. Objections were coming, but I could see the basic agreement already. Don equivocated for a while, but it was a done deal. When Sean says, "Let me handle the business details." people believe him. Barbara's question was more to the point. She asked, "When?"

I looked at Sean. He shrugged. I said, "Thanksgiving." That settled that.

Sean:

I love to watch Sheila work. She makes the impossible seem practical and the difficult seem routine. Don and I synched like few others through the years. I wanted to introduce him to Jo and George, show him The Other Shoe and stay up late shooting pool and drinking single malt. Sheila felt the same way about Barbara. The problem was that Don considered me above his pay grade, for good reason. By myself, there was no way I could have gotten them to commit to a visit. Sheila never tried to work on Don. She let Barbara do it.

The stormy afternoon had been curiously satisfying. There was nothing I could point to, except Sheila's languor, but I felt refreshed. We worked our way to Don and Barbara's cabin, clearing storm debris as we went. I should say that I cleared the path. Sheila glided along in the otherworldly way she has. It was as if she saw clearly a world that was slightly out of focus for everyone else. It would be scary if she did not see me in the same focus.

When we reached the Micelli's, such metaphysics were swept aside. Don was glad to see me, but Barbara was avid for Sheila. They went to talk while Don briefed me on the weather. As expected, we were hit worse than the main islands, but the advisories were still out. Tomorrow would be calmer, though the waves would be great for surfing. He asked if Sheila would be trying her chances off Waikiki. I laughed. In Don's mind, those that could, did. He had a hard time accepting that Sheila might go the rest of her life without stepping on a surfboard.

Sheila and Barbara ended the moment. I had already given Sheila the go ahead, so it was time to close the deal. Sure enough, Sheila started by telling Don we would fly them to New Jersey, them mentioned the yacht, theater tickets and tax deductions. I had a moment of deja vu, which made me laugh. True to form, Sheila tagged me into the ring.

I explained my moment of deja vu to Don. He understood about thirty minute briefings. Once he had a moment to think, he understood that most of what Sheila said needed unpacking. QED. NCOs appreciate an officer that does not belabor the obvious. I told them that Sheila was being modest, then went for the close.

Sales is about information and emotion. People buy on emotion. The information is what cements the sale after the emotion fades. Don would agree because Barbara wanted it. He would stay committed because we had cleared his excuses. Even so, he hesitated. Barbara made the decision by asking when. Sheila said Thanksgiving to settle the matter. There would be many details to unwind, but I foresaw another feast in the new dining room.

Once new business was finished, dinner was next. Don had retrieved the wahoo from the cold box, gutted it and was about to cut filets when we came up. I asked him to walk Sheila through the process. As with anything else involving motion, Sheila was a natural. Two cuts and all the meat for half the fish lay on the table. Flip. Two more cuts and the deed was done. Barbara took possession of the skin, bones and head, promising chowder for the trip back to the Big Island. Don stared at the pair of filets, over four feet each. Sheila complimented him on the knife's edge.

Shaking his head, Don cut the filets into steaks. The two thinnest, near the tail, he dropped into waiting bowl. The bowl had course chopped herbs and a greenish liquid. I was betting ceviche. He wrapped most of the rest in butcher paper, saving two thick pieces. The wrapped steaks went into a freezer. The others he slit horizontally, stuffed with herbs and citrus slices, then wrapped with banana leaf. The whole package went into a waiting smoker. After adjusting the airflow, he pulled out two cold beers and popped the tops.

We had an enjoyable chat, while Don prepped the veggies and pineapple. The sun finally peeked out, low in the sky, when he started throwing everything on the fire. Ten minutes later we sat to a meal of ceviche and baked fish, grilled garden vegetables, assorted fresh fruit, corn on the cob and iced tea. For dessert, Don grilled pineapple, which he served with a hard caramel sauce and island grown coffee. I ate til I was ready to explode. Even Sheila ate a full meal.

Sheila:

Once I had a firm commitment for a visit, I relaxed. Bad move. Don proved a capable chef on a grill. There was no bustier to remind me of my limits. I ate entirely too much. Lord YWHW knows it was good. I could eat the pickled fish appetizer every day. The baked fish main course was to die for. Corn on the cob was the perfect side. I was full to bursting when Don threw pineapple spears on the fire. Drizzled in rum caramel sauce, they ought to be illegal.

After dinner, Barbara did the dishes while Don cleaned the outdoor kitchen. I carried plates, but nothing else. As she washed dishes, Barbara told me that Don would cook like this every day if he could. She thanked us for giving Don a chance to show off. The irony was epic. Excepting the night of the chef duel, it was the best meal I had eaten in a decade or more.

Eventually, things returned to mortal levels. The four of us sat around a fire pit, telling stories. Sean used the opportunity to explore my past. No one ever said he was stupid. I talked more about my mother and father than I had in years. Dad died just before my high school graduation. I missed the prom, because he would have been my date. Mom missed my graduation because her latest lover wanted her to entertain his friends. My clearest memory of either concerned the costume for The Nutcracker. Dad said I looked like a princess. Mom said I needed to grow tits.

Martha says we talk least about what we think of most. That night I could talk about anything. Sean talked of living in George's shadow and of protecting Siobhan, til she asked him not to. Barbara talked about being a Navy wife. She worked on an apartment for three months, only to leave all her decor for the next wife. Don had to find a petty officer who was willing to take the apartment as modified, or they would have lost their deposit. Don talked of looking the other way while a senior petty officer used Navy small boats to smuggle rhino horn and walrus testicle for Japanese tourists.

Through it all, Don and Sean drank a line of long neck beers. Barbara had a couple, but understood why I declined. Some time after midnight, she looked at our fearless husbands and smiled indulgently. Sean and Don were snoozing loudly. She nodded me into their cabin. We said good bye, Mistress to sub. It was nothing elaborate, nipple clamps and a hairbrush spanking, but Barbara orgasmed half a dozen times.




Postcards Ch. 06



For my part, she ate me efficiently to one climax, then another using tongue and a hand carved stone dildo. She tried to give me the dildo, but I begged off. I jokingly made reference to kegel beads. Barbara lit like a Christmas tree. She presented me with three stone balls, naturally polished just short of smooth, one gray, one pinkish and one volcanic black. I guessed that Barbara collected them from their tiny beach, or one of the nearby islands.

I kissed her soundly, then told her to lubricate me and feed them in. It made for an interesting farewell ceremony. Rather than let my flesh touch cold stone, Barbara washed all three, then put them in her mouth. Using nothing but her tongue and lips, she maneuvered the stones into my vagina. When she finished, I hugged her, told her she was a good girl and promised not to remove them til we arrived at the airport. Silly me.

Sean was not really drunk, though the distinction might be moot. He was a zombie as I stood him up and walked him back to bed. Once he was under the covers, I could play with him all I wanted. Sean only came close to waking once. When I decided to join him, I tossed the T-shirt and slept naked, head on his chest. When people want a mental image of our honeymoon, that is the one I give them.

Sean:

One of the things I did not miss about the military was the drinking culture. Don and I killed a six pack each. I think the big meal is all that saved me from a nasty hangover, though the one I had was bad enough. Fortunately I had a faithful wife to care for me. I woke in my bed, with Sheila naked on top of me. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for me is some time.

Sheila roused when I did, so I explored her breasts, looking for milk for milk. Sheila purred like the kitten she is. After we showered—both of us missed our shower back home—Sheila went to fix breakfast, while I packed and toted. Don was already at his boat when I arrived with the first two bags. He was taking us to a larger island, where an Army helicopter would transport us to Schofield Barracks.

Sheila's breakfast was practical—Spam and egg sandwiches, with juice and fruit salad in disposable cups. We were underway before the sun cleared the horizon. An hour later Don handed me two packages of wahoo steaks and said goodbye. Sheila did not let him go that easily. She threatened bodily harm if he did not bring Barbara to Thanksgiving and again to see the baby. This was in Cynthia voice, which shocked the hell out of Don. His hand twitched toward a salute.

Another hour had us in Schofield Barracks. As expected, we were ushered into General Buehrle's office. We were joined by our JAG officer, Mikal Petrosian, and a REMF I disliked on sight. His name was Lt. Col. William O. Williamson. He was fourth generation Army, from Virginia. Wow. I immediately decided to let Sheila do the talking. My mouth would get both of us in trouble.

Sheila started things off by addressing the lowest ranking officer first. She thanked Cpt. Petrosian for his work and gave him one package of wahoo steaks. She turned to General Buehrle and asked if he had anything more before we left for the airport. He was too good a politician to laugh at the way she snubbed the Pentagon's messenger, but there was a definite twinkle when he reintroduced Colonel Williamson.

Not deigning to glance at Col. Wow, Sheila told the General to have his clerk contact Roxanna DeWinter for an appointment. The General nodded. An aide was escorting us out of the office before Col. Wow realized that we were leaving. He was starting to sputter when General Buehrle said, "Bill, you have what you came for. Don't push your luck."

We stepped into the front room. Sheila quietly said, "Tea."

From behind us, "...be glad they didn't test the old adage about Pentagon Colonels fetching coffee." The aide almost choked.

I said, "Lieutenant..."

He said, "Yes sir. Pleasure Sir. I know just the place, Sir."

Sheila murmured, "Club sandwich."

I snorted. "Lieutenant, I work for a living. My former rank was Sergeant First Class. You don't 'Sir' me. Just for the record, it works best if the 'Sir' sandwich does not become a 'Sir' club sandwich. Clear?"

His uniform said "Jacobs". Lieutenant Jacobs said, "Clear S... Mr. Richards. It isn't easy. Sir."

We all laughed at that. I glanced at Sheila. She nodded. I said, "Just so you know, it is fine to address my wife as 'Ma'am'. My head of security does. He was a light Colonel in Criminal Investigations, not to be confused with Colonel Wow. I suggest you contact Gerald at first convenience. For the moment, you are confirmed as our liaison officer."

Lieutenant Jacobs smiled, then blanched as my content soaked through. The next ten seconds would tell a great deal. He chose to come to attention and salute Sheila. "Understood Ma'am." You do not become a General's Aide by being stupid. He broke the salute, offered me his hand, and said, "That was fun." I could work with him.

Getting to the airport was easy. Lieutenant Jacobs had a car waiting, presumably for the General. Two calls and a squad of privates moved everything to a black SUV. A Specialist was waiting to take us to the airport. Instead, we went to the same resale shop we had visited four days earlier. Two hours later, we moved on to the Airport Hilton, where we met George Kada.

This was one call I had been glad to make. George made arrangements for a short term room. Sheila and I showered and changed for the flight. It was nice to have unmetered hot water. Sheila napped on the couch while I stuck my nose back into the rat race I call my In box. That killed six hours.

A 1900 (7:00 PM) a van drove us to the airport, where we found Danny Ngo waiting at the check in. Sheila had me put him through the paces. He presented ID, as if it were an every day occurrence. I never knew who was watching, but they were assured that Danny Ngo was Daniel Ngo, attorney at law.

We moved to the waiting area. Getting to the airport was easy. Danny Ngo was still there on the other side, indicating a ticket somewhere. He told us that the Honolulu PD would send us Christmas cards, but little else. The DA considered it self defense, so anything else was a window dressing. That did not account for him being inside airport security. Sheila gave him the evil eye. Danny admitted to using the occasion to see a girl on Niihau. She was a geologist/vulcanologist who was studying the volcano.

Sheila wished him luck. Having recent experience with volcanoes erupting, I echoed her.

Chapter 5: Arriving Home

Depart: 9:45 p.m. Sat., Nov. 22, 2014

Honolulu, HI (HNL)

Arrive: 4:57 a.m. +1 Day Sun., Nov. 23, 2014

Los Angeles, CA (LAX)

Flight Time: 5 hr 12 mn

Distance: 2,556 miles

Flight: UA7534

Aircraft: Boeing 777-200

Fare Class: United First (C)

Meal: Snack

Change Planes. Connect time in Los Angeles, CA (LAX) is 5 hours 29 minutes.

Depart: 10:26 a.m. Sun., Nov. 23, 2014

Los Angeles, CA (LAX)

Arrive: 6:51 p.m. Sun., Nov. 23, 2014

New York, NY (JFK)

Flight Time: 5 hr 25 mn

Distance: 2,475 miles

Flight: UA7779

Aircraft: Boeing 757-200

Fare Class: United Business First (J)

Meal: Lunch

Total Travel Time: 16 hr 6 mn

Total Distance: 5,031 miles

Sheila:

Departure day was strange. Our tickets were on the red eye, but we left the island right after a quick breakfast. I hugged Barbara and told her not to miss the holiday we had scheduled. She gave me an early pregnancy diet. It looked like I would gain weight.

One boat ride and an helicopter later, we were back on US Army turf. I have to admire the way Sean disposed of the issues. We went straight to Gen. Buehrle's office. There was an offensive lackey waiting. Sean guided me past him and chose a suitable young officer to be a liaison, though the Army might argue with my idea of suitable. He turned white when Sean outlined his new responsibilities. Since he would displace the offensive lackey, I was not about to let him refuse.

After that, a car took us to the resale shop. I spent some time chatting with Ioki and buying Hawaiian beach wear for Christine. She asked me if the dress had been lucky. I bit my lip and blushed, then looked down. Ioki's eyes went wide and she gave me a hug. I promised to send her pictures when the baby was born.

From there we went to the Airport Hilton, where we met George Kada. He gave us a room key, saying it was only good til 5:00 PM. I did not want to know the details. Sean and I had a shower with unlimited hot water. That was reason enough. I had a nap, then we went to dinner at the hotel restaurant. Sean had them cook our frozen fish. It was not as good as Don's grillwork, but you cannot have everything.

Going through the airport without Kiku felt odd. She left word at the desk that she was in Japan. We received word of a different sort from Francine. She told me that Aaron Aldermann wanted to meet, face to face. Columbia pictures would pay for all the necessary changes. I text her the flight schedule. Five and a half hours would be enough. They could buy us breakfast.

It was a shock to be through security and into the waiting area. It was like passing through the looking glass. Sean stopped at a kiosk and bought us fruit drinks. I found an outlet and opened my fancy laptop. There were so many things I had let slide during my week away.

Siobhan sent details of the clean up. Francine had stayed on the dance floor til after midnight. Even then, she didn't quit, the band was tired. I hoped Dr. Foxworth's heart was strong enough for sex. There was much talk when they left together. That had to be Francine's choice, because there was plenty of room at the Residence.

Sunday morning the Amish had services in the Ballroom. That afternoon there was a big feast, to which the grounds staff and other workers were invited. Siobhan negotiated four Amish girls to act as cooks and cleaning crew. She said the Farmer's Market would be getting a shock before long. The Mothers had visited the Market on Saturday, before the wedding. They were not impressed.

When one of the boys found an horse drawn plow in storage, the elders decreed that a garden be plowed. They did it Monday, before going to the train depot. The rest of the men spent the morning moving a large wood burning stove to a wagon. Siobhan donated it to their church. There were many teary eyes at the depot. In a related note, the Elders Nuefeld were looking at farm properties on the market. The Amish see the collapse of the family farm as a business opportunity.

Siobhan's grad students lasted a bit longer. Conrad and Kerin disappeared into one of the attics for two days. They emerged with a basket of old letters and other papers which they wanted to take back to Hannover. Siobhan insisted on an itemized list and photocopies of every page. Even then, some of them never returned. Various departments/museums at Dartmouth would keep them. Sean never told me his family was important during the Revolutionary War. Siobhan earned a name as a shrewd negotiator of favors.

Among the students, there was a pair of marriage proposals—one hetero, one same sex—plus a third involving one of Sean's security staff. In that case it was more of a formal proposal of courting. Still, Siobhan felt it would bear fruit. Harshini's family sent her to school expecting her to meet men. A British officer, raised in India, on a solid career track, would be an easy sell. I told Siobhan to get started on citizenship for both of them.

Christine's messages had a completely different emphasis. She told me that Jason would father Francine's first baby, but only because Dr. Foxworth was married. She expected him to slip up at some point. Francine, Dr. Foxworth and the band were already booked at two high profile weddings in Manhattan. Francine would be donating her five figure fee toward new band uniforms.

Jason was the Beaue of the Ball. His picture, with Francine on his arm, ran in People, US, Teen Beat and several celebrity sites. I had given him Matthew Arnold's name, because he needed an agent. Matthew was a Cynthia client, so I thought he would be a good fit. As with some of Sean's instant hires, it proved inspired. Not only did they hit it off, Matthew understood Jason. He deflected all the photographic inquiries in favor of art modeling. Jason had already done sittings for two paintings and had a sculpture scheduled.

On a more personal level, Christine detailed two sessions Siobhan conducted. In both cases Christine was the centerpiece and both were well attended. What caught my attention was that all attendees were restrained and several were gagged. Though both sessions were recorded, Christine only sent pictures. It was enough. Siobhan wore heels, her corset, black panties and matching bra, fishnet stockings supported by a belt and a harlequin mask. In four inch heels, Siobhan towered over everyone. Add the ramrod straight posture and she cut an imposing figure. Good for her.

That part of the mail pile was fun. I had a Richards Enterprises pile that dwarfed my personal stack. Fortunately, Roxanna was flagging things by priority. I checked with Sean. He told me to commend her initiative and have her contact Helen. She and Sean had a similar system. We needed to get them synchronized. I sent that note and also briefed Roxanna on my expected breakfast meeting. That would be her speed.

The military, not so much. I told Roxanna to expect contacts from various governmental entities. Since we did not have security in place, everything was to be referred to Gerald, with copies to Sean and me. Gerald would be in touch. Naturally, I copied Sean and Gerald, but my guess was that Gerald beat me to the punch.

For the next several minutes, I waded through a number of things I wanted to kill. It was OK if I touched them that long, but it made me want to wash my hands. Distasteful as it was, I realized my mood had improved. Some reflection pointed out that I was working again. After a decade of sixty to eighty hour weeks, the last month had been a nice break. Breaks are temporary. It was good to be back to business.

This brought something else to mind. I would never be going back to my studio. Somehow, that was no longer a big issue. My clients had been through this before. We would adjust. The key was to keep looking forward.

With that in mind, I replied to a note from Richard. On Wednesday, he sent me an update on my clients' progress. While it covered most of the important subjects, the format was scattered and the issues were not prioritized. I suggested he spend time with Siobhan, working on organization. I never mentioned Siobhan's girl Friday. He would have to connect some dots if he was going to keep his job. I concealed copied this to Siobhan. She would love that.

Long before I finished, Sean prodded me. Our plane was boarding. Where had two hours gone? Reluctantly, I closed the PC and moved to the queue. On board the plane, the flight attendants wanted to fuss over us. Apparently we were still celebrities. I made it worse by waving off the champagne. This brought pointed looks, which Sean encouraged. My meal plate was at least double the size of Sean's.

Over the ocean, Sean rolled over and went to sleep. It was hard to hold it against him, since the reverse had been true more than once. Instead, I pulled out the design suite and began working on Siobhan's bedroom. It was difficult working from memory, but that made it a challenge. Before we touched down at LAX, I could recognize the room from my sketch. One last twist was to leave one window open, where Siobhan had dangled Francine over the boxwood bushes.

As we taxied to the gate, I checked for messages from Francine. There were at least twenty. I picked the last one and told her to make sure the kettle was boiling. She replied, "Coffee it is.:)." You have to love her or strangle her. I replied that I wanted to be careful of what I drank. She sent back, "Damn it. I wanted to go first. Break a placenta." I told her not to feel bad. If she really wanted a semen sample, she should ask Dr. Foxworth's wife. She took time answering, possibly to swear creatively. The reply was short, "That might work." Life was good.

Airports are a pain. LAX is no exception, though they were used to handling dignitaries. I found it surreal to be in that category. Lackeys met us at the ramp, asked for our baggage claims. There was an awkward moment when I told them the luggage was through to JFK, but these were professional ass kissers. We were quickly moving, with security in front and behind. It proved insufficient.

Our convoy drew stares. Clearly everyone wanted to know who I was. I would have included Sean, but all eyes were on me. I was embarrassed enough to get really irritated. The blowup happened at the limo stand. Our ride was third in line. While we waited, several cameras flashed. While the security types were keeping autograph seekers at bay, a thirty something sleaze peddler slipped in. He shoved a recorder in my face and asked if I was in town to shoot scenes with Richard Johnson.

Those were his last words, because I grabbed his hand and put the ball of my thumb on his third CMC joint. If he knew any self defense, he would have known this was not a disabling hold. It just hurts a lot. Sean saved me from overdoing things.

He said, "Son, you stuck your dick in the grinder. She will break things in your hand. She is very good at gauging tension and rupture points, but she has put people in the ER before, surgery even." Sean took a moment to crush the recorder with his heel. "Now, if you want my advice, ask for forgiveness and never, ever try that again. By the way, she works behind the camera. They call her in when a hundred million dollar picture is in the toilet. Trust me on this. She's that good with image processing."

We did not wait for the apology. Our limo pulled up and we climbed in. One of the security types shot several images of him kneeling on the concrete with his mouth open. I never learned his name, but he was evidently a big cheese in the tabloid world. The phone pic was on the cover of a gossip magazine before we made it out of JFK.

The irony of all this was the limo itself. It was Sean's Mercedes done large. There was a selection of alcohol, bottled water and juice. Next to that was a fruit basket, which paled compared to one of Barbara's. Then there was a stack of papers and magazines. In the pile was Sean's catalog. I wanted to die. Sean calmly picked it up. The cover starts, "Richard's Enterprises Presents..." Sean pointed at the "Richards", then to himself. Light dawned in a couple of faces. Then Sean flipped to the credits page and pointed to my name, then me. Heads nodded. Under the circumstances, it was as good as I was going to get.

The limo pulled into an all night restaurant called Johnny D's. I didn't even make it through the door before Francine yelled from her table, "Sean." Suddenly I was arm candy again. Introductions were made, not including me. I was loving it. At the table were Francine, Aaron Aldermann, a Sony executive named Morita Masaru. My radar pinged.

I looked at Sean. He stopped glad handing long enough to ask if I could make a call. Mr. Morita did not roll his eyes, quite. I called Kiku and hoped she was free. I must have been on caller ID, because she said my name before I spoke. That saved time. I gave my phone to the senior lackey. Soon, he was nodding and saying "Hai." He gave the phone to his boss, who looked annoyed.

After a quick "Hai." there was a long pause. Mr. Morita looked startled, then looked hard at me, then at Sean, then back to me. "Hai. Domo." He pulled his aide aside and spoke at length. The aide pulled out a smartphone and started looking for something. He soon presented the phone to Morita, who looked at it, then said into my phone, "Arigato, Kikusan." He handed my phone to his aide, along with instructions.




Postcards Ch. 06



The aide said, "Mr. Morita thanks you for your quick thinking. He did not understand that you were Mr. Richards wife. A breach of manners may have occurred. He was very taken with Miss Kiku. He says her Japanese is excellent. Do you know her family or place of birth?"

I nodded, "Toda Kiku was born in Honolulu." These answers were not expected. Into the phone, I said, "I'm going to get you for this." Kiku laughed. "I told him you were Toda clan. Now you have to take my offer, or he will be after you." Kiku laughed harder. "Laugh it up, Fuzzball."

I muted the call and asked the aide what Kiku had said about me. He smiled, "She asked if Mr. Richards was accompanied by a tall woman that could teach tea ceremony at Lotus House. This is high praise. Then she said that you are the principal. Is this true?" In response I pulled out a flash drive.

While they opened a tablet and loaded my image files, I returned to my call. Kiku said, "Sheila, you should know that is the grandson of one of the Sony founders. His aide is probably being groomed for Senior Management. Have fun, but be aware of the stakes. You were right, he hit on me. Toodles." Ending the call gave me a chance to check the table.

I have mentioned that a quiet Francine scares me. This was one such occasion. She sat back, sipped coffee and watched faces. Sean was studying a menu, even though he would not have noticed if it were upside down. The junior aide was a Hollywood guy, because he and Aaron Aldermann were talking shop. The senior aide was explaining things to Mr. Morita. I waited for the logjam to break.

The key was a waitress with tea. Oh joy. Trying to channel two experiences in Japanese restaurants and a preteen tea hostess, I offered to pour. Suddenly every eye at the table was on me. I tried to glean clues from the Japanese as I poured the first cup. Fortunately, junior aide was an easy read. I served Sean first, then Mr. Morita and Aaron Aldermann. This met with approval. Next came the aides, in seniority order, concluding with myself. Francine smirked behind her coffee mug. Everyone drank, then I took a sip.

I have no idea the correct form for that situation, but the tension abated significantly. It appeared that honoring the tea was sufficient. I was glad for the tea. Breakfast arrived, in the form of an egg white omelet, with pico de gallo and guacamole, oatmeal and fruit salad. Francine had ordered for us. I served most of the omelet to Francine and Sean, but tried a small portion. With the toppings, it wasn't bad.

As I ate the oatmeal, the waitress came back with one boiled egg on a stand and a butter knife. More eyes were on me as I removed the top, added pepper and scooped the contents. It was sort of creepy. If I could have strangled Francine, I would have. The worst was that she was only getting me back for the wedding. At least the egg was done correctly.

For the rest of the time, I could have stayed on the plane. Aaron Aldermann was arguing with the two aides. Mr. Morita was playing with his tablet. Francine was shamelessly hitting on Sean. As I asked for more tea, things came to a head. Aaron Aldermann took the lead.

He said, "This went better than I hoped. At most I thought you would have some fresh approaches." He gestured at Mr. Morita's tablet. "This is well beyond fresh. It may be revolutionary. Many details need to be handled, but this is enough to pitch for time, even some more funding. Will and Ben will thank you. In the mean time, consider your retainer earned. We will contact your legal department for contract details."

Senior aide said to Sean, "Mr. Morita thanks you for your time. Your wife is lovely. It is rare to find grace so far from Tokyo. He hopes that you will be able to visit when the plum trees blossom. Our business is satisfactorily concluded."

Sean replied with a Japanese phrase, which brought a bow. Then he said, "We are honored that Morita Masaru considers us worthy to visit his home. However, when the plums bloom, we hope to have a new child. That is the meaning of the single egg. We hope he understands." Francine glared at Sean for blowing her symbolism. Everyone else looked shocked.

Senior aide bowed to Sean. "If this is so, it is an auspicious beginning. Mr. Morita asks that you send a birth announcement. He would be pleased to host you at some future date. Perhaps at his northern home. The skiing is excellent and children love snow." There was no chance Mr. Morita said all that. Senior aide was either son or heir, possibly both. Sean caught it too.

He said, "I will understand if Morita Masaru wishes to see the Holy Mountain. That is fitting. Perhaps he could send a representative to the baby's christening, heaven permitting. Our humble house is barely 250 years old, but the gate is open to you." Senior aide translated to his father/boss. I added, "Hopefully Kikusan will also be present." He said nothing, but his ears pinked.

Half an hour later we were in the limo with Francine and junior aide. Francine said, "Damn it Sean, why did you ruin my egg? We both know Sheila has an egg and oatmeal every day. That should have slipped past you." Right. Good luck with that.

Junior aide asked, "Myself also. While it is clear in the context—open egg, open womb—I had not heard of such a ceremony. Is most interesting."

Sean smirked. He enjoyed this entirely too much. "That's because Francine invented it today. Eggs are symbolic of fertility. You will find many references. It was Francine that added the twist with the shell. The egg was soft cooked. It takes skill to take off the top and remove the liquid yolk, without breaking it. Sheila has excellent hands." I could forgive him for that.

Francine was about to bust a gasket, so I did a Spock. She said, "Why haven't you asked who the other aide was? I paid close attention. He was never introduced by name."

Sean and I spoke at once. I said, "Son, maybe nephew." Sean said, "Heir to the family holdings." Junior aide stared in disbelief. Francine stared a moment, then nodded.

She said, "Damn Skippy, I get it. It was so simple I overlooked it. You can talk to each other. Hell, half the time you don't need to talk. Damn if I can tell your cues, but neither of you misses a line." From Francine, that was the highest praise. She changed the subject, "What the hell was on that drive? Triple A's tongue was hanging out."

I spent the rest of the trip showing Francine how my idea worked. Junior aide was fascinated when I demonstrated how I broke down a frame. The platform requirements were simple, but there was a lot of detail work. Francine commented that the final scene would have a dozen still shots. I asked, "What do you want? Butch and Sundance on the cover of the Times?" Francine looked at the junior aide, then both pulled out phones. Oi vey.

Sean:

Being married is supposed to tie you down. That may be true of some people, but no one married to Sheila would be bored. The way she blasted through Schofield Barracks would have NCOs and junior officers talking for a month. One did not snub the Pentagon assholes, no matter how much they deserve it. Because she was not—ever—in the military, Sheila could get away with it.

All that paled beside La La Land. Franky Marcel arranged an ambush. Sheila dealt with it with her normal aplomb. The first gambit was for extending our layover. Sheila told them no chance, but they could use of our five hour slot.

Next, Francine chose a Hollywood restaurant, where movie icons were normal and Japanese were not. The management group felt out of place. Sheila ignored the restaurant and gave our introduction in Japanese, via her smartphone. The younger Sony exec noticed Kiku more than Sheila. That was fine. Sheila told him that Kiku was both from good family and American by birth. That hit the Japanese contingent like a bucket of cold water.

Once introductions were made, Sheila gave up her rough sketches. From the reaction, the movie wonks thought they were more like the Mona Lisa. It quickly became apparent that a senior Sony executive was showing his replacement around. I would have cued Sheila to this detail, if she ever showed need of assistance. Silly me. Sheila wowed all of them, including Francine and Aaron Aldermann.

Not that it was enough. Francine had lain layers of traps. Most Sheila avoided, as if they were rocks on the sidewalk. The soft boiled egg was too much for anyone to ignore, so Sheila deftly grabbed the horns and slayed the beast. Eating the egg was almost overkill.

At that point Sheila faded back and let everyone talk. As her boss, I approved. Napoleon said, "Never interrupt your enemy while he is making a mistake." My version is, "Never interrupt a client that is making a decision." If they want information, they'll ask for it. Either way you get a firmer commitment.

Usually, it's a matter of waiting for a sign that the decision is made, then clearing your throat. My problem was Francine took the opportunity to make crude jokes. I didn't remember her being so dirty minded. While I was preoccupied, Sheila signaled the server for more tea. Smoothly done.

|Aaron Aldermann spoke for the group. They were very pleased. Magic words, like "consider the retainer earned" are infrequent at best. Hearing them a week into a six figure project doesn't ever happen. That meant it was time to play CEO.

Mr. Morita's aide/heir gave me an easy opening. He mentioned Toyko and plum blossoms. This was an indirect way to invite me to visit his corporate headquarters. Spring has a special place to traditional Japanese, so this was no token request. Since I intended to refuse, I intentionally misunderstood the honor that was offered.

I started with the last line of a famous haiku. It roughly translates, "So the journey begins." Then I declined the invitation, on the grounds that Sheila and I expected a child about then. Francine's egg worked perfectly with the situation, so I used it. She could glare, but walking on my lines was out of bounds. My polite refusal, for such a good reason, earned face with the Japanese.

This time their offer was unambiguously a visit to a residence, but not in Tokyo and not in spring. However, the offer extended to my whole family. They were serious about establishing ties. My counter was to invite the heir to visit my home, not just in the spring, but for the christening. Naturally, I had to mention my home was unworthy. That established symmetry, gift for gift.

Since the exchange completed our agreement, Sheila mentioned that she would invite Kiku. Her words were in English. Though the aide/heir did not translate, his boss didn't miss it. He and I exchanged a glance. We understood each other. The rest was details. It still took twenty minutes to say goodbye.

In the car, Francine's mouth started running. It was an informal after-action report. She was pissed that her traps did not net any game. She was particularly upset about the boiled egg, thinking it was subtle. Perhaps she was pissed that I had used her bait, without springing the snare. The junior aide was interested in details, so I made up a plausible fiction.

In retrospect, the story was too good, so it was much repeated. We would encounter references for years. Christine loved it and turned it into a ritual. She faithfully presented a single boiled egg to almost every expectant mother, even when it required a trip to Europe. The exception, two eggs, turned out to be twins. We never figured out how she knew.

Sheila topped even that. She made an off hand comment about the ending of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It was the sign Francine was looking for. She jumped in with both feet. The deal made her made a great deal of money and launched her second career as a movie producer. Sheila received recognition on another sort, in the form of a statuette she keeps in the Library. I was only mildly surprised when she would not collect it in person.

In case it was unclear, I often feel like the slow cousin at a party. Francine is smarter than I am and Sheila far above that high standard. Mostly, Sheila points, I growl and we get good results. Occasionally, I have been glad for an excuse to exit, such as our boarding time at LAX. For once something went as planned.

The plane to New York was not red carpet. Maybe they didn't get the memo. After the high stakes breakfast, it was nice to be just another couple returning from Hawaii. As the plane neared New York, Sheila showed me her CAD depiction of Jo's bedroom. It was unreal that she did it so quickly, with unfamiliar software. Then she started morphing Jo's room into a nursery. I thought I foresaw all this when I bought the software, but Sheila still blew my mind.

Have I mentioned that my wife is gifted?

Sheila:

Our final leg was comforting. Part of it was my project. I was doing drawings of the Residence. Part of it was the sight of familiar fashions and the sound of familiar accents. Even the flight attendants sounded of the City. Still, the fact that home lay at the end of the run was what really mattered. I was feeling quite happy.

Airports can kill the nicest buzz. We were on the ground for more than an hour before we were allowed to deplane. There was a nice reunion with Siobhan and Christine, followed by a mixup with our bags. Sean's suitcase either never made it on the plane or stayed on board for the return trip. At least our footlocker made it through. While Sean filled out forms, we girls spent several minutes going through the many things Sean and I had been given. One thing led to another and I opened my suitcase. Siobhan looked at my beach bunny dress in disbelief. Wait til she saw the pics.

The drive home was another new experience. Sean and Siobhan had a long talk. It was the first time I saw their sibling relationship in action. The other sibling, George would be at the residence. The last Siobhan had seen, he was shooting pool with one of the security techs, arguing how to increase the rate and bandwidth of the secure data line. That had direct relevance to my work, so I payed attention. It was not easy, because Christine was teasing me.

Much has been said of Siobhan's transformation. That evening I was struck by Christine's new confidence. The day I met her at the corporate offices, she seemed constantly braced for rejection. Within a day, she and I had developed a clear relationship. Almost at once, she became more relaxed and the process continued. Having her at my side felt as natural as showering with my husband.

I leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Kinbaku." Christine shivered and leaned closer. I had a new hobby. Siobhan noticed and nudged Sean. I looked at her and said, "What? I was just promising to tie her up." Sean, very theatrically, slapped his forehead. We all laughed.

It was good to be home.