Message-ID: <14803eli$9808281708@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: apuleius@poboxes.com (Apuleius of Madaura) Subject: RP: The Final Mission by Spook (MF cons) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: apuleius@poboxes.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <35e86440.2224482@news.labyrinth.net.au> Reposter's note: I am not the author of this story. - Apuleius ----------------------------------- The Final Mission By Spook Part 1 Alexi Garazimov looked at himself in the reflection of the dirty storefront window. Pouting he removed his hat and wiped the dull gold and spotted brim with his woolen sleeve. At 6' 2", he was a tall, handsome Russian. His dark brown eyes and nearly black hair belied his Tartar roots. In him, he remebered his father saying often, there was the blood of conquerors. Now, he was an officer in a once proud military of a once-upon-a-time world power; a Lt. Colonel in the armed forces of a shabby, empoverished and petty country; its currency worthless; the government overtly and clumsily ineffective and corrupt. Of course, the government was always corrupt; but, now the corruption was on the surface, like a stain that blemished the once polished image the Soviets presented to the world and to itself. Garazimov felt himself stained, too. 5 years ago, he lived very well-buying what he needed from the military post exchanges and hard currency stores, providing an almost luxurious life for himself and his wife and 2 children. A mistress on the side was satisfied by his lovemaking and the 2 cartons of Marlboro cigarettes per week and a supplement to her meat ration. Now, he could barely scrape enough together to pay for the on-base 2 room flat that satirized the idea of what was a home in post-Soviet Russia, potato soup 4 nights a week and the occasional drunken binge in the officer's club; even vodka cost money. So, he reasoned, if the system couldn't pay him what he deserved, he would do what he had to to get the hard currency he needed to survive. "Everyone else does it," he rationalized to himself. "So, why not me?" Garazimov heard the approaching car and smoothed out the wrinkles in his impressive uniform. The perfect place for a rendezvous, Factory City 452 had been abandoned soon after Yeltsin's 2nd term began and the economic situation worsened. Formerly one of many nameless towns across central Russia involved with the manufacture and storage of nuclear weapons, the residents moved away as soon as the government was unable to pay the workers and the military for their loyalty and patriotism. It was now a ghost town. Empty and far from any people, Garazimov found it appropriate that he should complete his business here. A late-model Mercedes pulled up near him and stopped. Garazimov watched as a tall, dark man with sunglasses stepped out from the back seat on one side; the man was Western, handsome, and obviously very rich. In the old days, Garazimov would have labelled him "decadent." As he considered the man, he noticed a 2nd occupant get out of the car from the other side. A dark, long-legged woman, she was stunning. "You have the item?" the rich man asked non-chalantly. "Did you bring the case," Garazimov answered. The rich man hefted a large briefcase; it was apparently heavy. "One million dollars." Garazimov felt his mouth go dry. He tried to swallow. He straightened himself out into near attention, turned and walked deliberately into the empty store. Momentarily, he emerged pushing a cart on which rested a dark olive drab crate, about the size of 2 coffins laid one on top of the other. He pushed it up towards the rich man and stopped. "It's yours, sir." Garazimov smiled nervously. The rich man undid the clasps on one side of the crate and lifted up the top. As he looked inside, he smiled. "The money is yours, my friend," the rich man handed the briefcase to the Russian. "Use the money in good health. And good luck." Garazimov stepped back and dropped to one knee. Opening the briefcase, he saw, neatly stacked and wrapped, the unique greenish gray print of the US dollar, 1 million dollars' worth. Garazimov was moved beyond words; so moved that he didn't notice as the long-legged companion of the rich man removed a small pistol from her handbag and pointed it at his head. Suddenly, a small lorry turned up the road and roared noisily towards them. This broke the Russian's attention long enough so that he looked right into the barrel of the pistol held by the beautiful, long-legged woman. "If you'll turn to your left now, please, lieutenant," the female petty officer asked. Her voice echoed slightly in the empty examination room. Lt. Tracy Parker turned nonchalantly to her left. These were her "graduation" photos after all, she thought. But, no graduation like she or anyone else ever had. All Special Operations Unit members were required to have these shots taken before missions. An additional way of identifying the bodies should the worst occur. Tracy left her mind wander as the flash-pop of another set of close-ups were taken of her head, each limb, torso, identifying marks -- now on her right side. She was thinking of Tom and graduation from the Academy 2 years ago, her application to the new Special Operations Unit, the "Sweet SOUs" because of the all-female composition of the units, the incredible physical and psychological training, and the satisfaction she felt about being 5th in a class of 32 women -- 32 women of an original 75 entrants. She and her 31 "sisters" survived basic training while witnessing the other 43 disappear one by one-some because they couldn't handle the stress and abuse, some because of fatal carelessness during basic. "Better now than in the field," she remembered their Marine DI growl after each accidental death. Those words had always left her with a chill. They echoed in her mind when tracers were crackling past her in her last mission, and now, they came back to her again. "Pretty cold," she whispered under her breath. She closed her eyes and sighed slightly. "S'cuse me lieutenant?" the photographer asked. "Oh, nothing!" Tracy quickly responded. She didn't realize she had spoken aloud. "I know, ma'am. Couple sets left, that's all." The petty officer was chirpy and that seemed to annoy her slightly. Tracy refused to suspect she was more nervous about the mission than she let herself feel. She was number 3. The first 2 SOUs didn't complete the mission and came back in bags. The photos were important in identifying the remains, she remembered being told. Of course the petty officer didn't know that. She just thought Tracy was cold in her SOU outfit. Actually, Tracy's outfit was a basic bikini-an old-fashioned bikini for the particular location where she was going. "Leave it to the DOD and the Navy to design a khaki string bikini," she thought sarcastically. Name over the left breast, "US Navy" over the right. On the bottoms, the same was repeated on either side of the pelvis with an id number underneath the name. The same id was on the left cup of the top under the name. Amazingly, the suit was a thin polyester-cotton blend with no padding and held together with Velcro strips. Supposedly, research indicated Velcro had the most endurance and survivability in water and land action; aided in removal during triage, as well. All Tracy knew was that anyone could see what they wanted to see when she wore this outfit. "If you'll undress now, please," the photographer quietly asked. Even though the photographer was female and a petty officer, it was obvious to Tracy that she wasn't 100% about this part. Front and back shots without clothes; same series: full length, head, limbs, torso, identifying marks. Tracy undid the Velcro fasteners and was quickly naked in the empty white room. She had her field knife sheathed and strapped tightly midway up her left thigh. The light-weight ammo belt and holster - basically a covered nylon cord with her .45 and holster, 2 ammo clips and a small utility pouch draped loosely over her right hip. Around her waist was an 1 inch wide mylar strip repeating "Navy" all the way around that drooped slightly below her small navel. Her tags were around her neck; a pair, the edges wrapped in black rubber, they lay very neatly between her breasts. Strapped around her left bicep was her 2nd, small utility pouch. In it were 2 "suicide" capsules-just in case. "Lt. Tracy Parker," the petty officer began. Tracy didn't realize the photographer was required to record a description as well. She was slightly surprised. The petty officer continued, "Female, brown hair, aged 25. Height: 5 feet, 8 inches, weight: 123 pounds." Tracy was a very tight 121 pounds, actually. Tanned because of her training routine, she didn't have any tan lines. "Practice" was with and without clothes-day or night, rain or shine, in the tropics and in the snow. A very nice long-legged 34-23-33 with graceful arms and long-fingered hands, her breasts were round, firm, and lifted , like small domes capped by perfect half inch, pinkish nipples surrounded by small pinkish areoles. (Her nipples were standing up because the room was chilly, and she was naked.) Although not overtly muscular (it didn't run in her family), her body was well-defined-the muscles easily distinguishable, ribs slightly visible as regular shadows on either side of her torso and flat, rippled abs. "Small mole above right nipple, light brown in color. 2 very small pink moles on left side of navel, 10 o'clock, and small dark mole above right side crotch 11 o'clock." Above her crotch was a soft, small triangular pillow of reddish brown pubic hairs. Tracy was a soft brunette with reddish highlights. Her hair was regulation cut, in her case a longish page boy, 2 inches below her ears with eyebrow level bangs, slightly parted in the middle. Her face was angular with a pointed nose with a straight bridge and perfect nostrils. She had middling lips: not thin, not full; but they were dark pink even without any make-up-and Tracy wasn't wearing make-up. When she smiled, a dimple appeared just to the right of her mouth. Her cheek bones were not too high or too obvious. Her chin was small but well-defined and square. Her dark green eyes were flecked with gold-large and almond shaped, set nicely, full with dark, long lashes. Her neck was long, but not Audrey Hepburn long; just long enough. Every midshipman for 4 years had tried to get her in bed. Only Tom had succeeded. Now, he was gone. "No abrasions or lacerations seen, no evidence of contusions. Please turn around, lieutenant." The camera continued its flash-pops and the photographer continued her photographic monologue. Each flash highlighted the small goose-bumps raised on Tracy's skin and the soft downy hairs on her arms and at the base of her neck. On Tracy's naked skin was further identification. In blue ink (not indelible, but long-lasting for the mission), on her right breast, above her right nipple was written in small, legible characters, her name, rank and serial number; on her left breast was "US Navy." High on her left and right buttocks, the same was written, very small and discrete, but legible. In addition, very close to her crotch, where the right leg met her pelvis, her id number was written in small but legible characters. Worst case scenario, again, she was told. Naked and facing the wall, she just blanked out her mind and let herself drift. This was going to be a dangerous and high probability mission. "If a person has it in their mind," her DI was fond of saying, "that they gunna die, they'll usually find a way of doing jus' that. So, you never goin' to die, right?" Tracy remembered the "sisters" yelling "No fuckin' way, Gunny!" at the top of there lungs and grinning at each other. 32 young women, and they were going to live forever. Only now, there were 30. "Turn around again, ma'am?" Tracy turned back for her final full length photo, sucked it up a bit, posed and smiled; "Just like Penthouse," she thought provocatively to herself-naked, beautiful, and confident. Part 2 Lt. Tracy Parker had just finished the photo session. She was in the adjoining room and had removed her SOU swimsuit. After glancing at her attractive nakedness in the full length mirror on the back of the door for a few minutes, she thought, "Not bad. Too bad I can't get copies for boyfriends." She looked at the pile of clothes on the chair and smiled to herself. Crisply, she slipped the cups of her bra over each breast and fastened the front closure with a quick twist. After some minor adjustment-a tuck on the left and a lift on the right-she slipped on her bikini bottom, sat down and pulled her panty hose over her legs; first her right leg-running her hands up from the feet to make sure the lines were all straight-then her left. Her long legs were shapely with thin ankles. Her feet were size 9 but thin and pointed-the 2nd toe slightly longer than the rest. Even with the training regime and periodic comprehensive re-examinations, she had managed to maintain an almost delicate femininity in her look and the soft, silky feel of her skin. In an instant, she had on her regulation khaki shirt with insignia, a couple of ribbons and the SOU badge; slipped on her slacks and cinched the belt. The gold bars of a lieutenant glinted in the fluorescent lights. Tracy was standing in front of the mirror in her stocking feet, making sure everything was ship-shape, when Capt. Susan Clement knocked on the door and poked her head around into the room. "You decent?" she asked. Most people would have been joking. But, for Capt. Clement, there was no such thing as a joke. She stepped into the room. "Looks are deceiving," thought Tracy as she gave the captain a quick once over. 35 years old, Naval Intelligence, some covert operations work, Capt. Clement was 5' 5", 115 lbs. max, with straight blond hair pulled back to a very Navy ponytail. She was thin, flat chested and very pretty-belying her Pennsylvania farm girl roots. And she had incredibly cold blue eyes. That, matched with her ability to deliver every line without an expression of emotion, plus the fact that she successfully fought the male military leadership to create the SOU, made her an intimidating CO. She was also a legend among the covert operations community having completed 11 successful solo missions over her 10 year career and was known for delivering maximum damage to her targets. "I know you're due at Andrews in 2 hours and you probably haven't slept since your arrival from Tampa. But, we need to go over a couple of changes to the routine," Capt. Clement delivered the lines like a laser printer: crisply and effortlessly. Tracy furrowed her brow. "Changes?" Tracy asked. "Yeah, something's turned up on the SD-5 we re-tasked yesterday. My office 5 minutes." And then Capt. Clement was gone from the room. No salutes; no time for an aye-aye, nothing. Short, sweet and to the point. As Tracy put on her shoes, she began to get an unsettled feeling. Change was a bad word this close to an SOU "jump"-launching of a mission. Despite careful planning, 2 were dead. She wasn't going to be number 3 in a rush. In Capt. Clement's office, Tracy was struck by the overt masculinity of the setting. Everything was regulation; battleship gray metal and green vinyl chairs, Korean War issue officer's desk, 2 bookcases filled with non-descript black binders labeled "SOU 0101," etc. On the wall were 3 large round plaques: the DOD, the Navy Department, and the SOU. SOU had a stylized Calypso similar to the Cousteau Society's; just more American and Deco looking. But, Cousteau's Calypso didn't kill for a living. Tracy let her eyes scan the room. Surprised, she suddenly noticed a small photo of a man, Navy captain, and a boy about 2 years old on the captain's desk in a definitely non-regulation Edwardian silver frame. "So, Suzy-Q has a kid," thought Tracy as she overtly glanced at the photo twice. All the "sisters" referred to Capt. Clement as "Suzy-Q because she wasn't anything like the song. "My Joshua," Capt. Clement broke the silence noticing Tracy's interest in the photo. "My husband Steven was SEAL team before we met 5 years ago. Got married 2 years ago and had Joshua right away." Tracy was slightly embarrassed at the personal content of the words she was hearing. "Thought we wouldn't or couldn't later with everything. But, Steve's with the CNO at the JCS now, and I'm strictly a desk jockey." As Capt. Clement laughed, for the first time as far as Tracy could remember, she placed her hands on the desk. Her left hand was badly scarred. Suddenly, Capt. Clement's face went cold. "Parker, let's hear it from the top, " she asked softly. So, Tracy went over the jump plan verbally with one of the only 3 people allowed to know the details of the mission. "0100 hours, I transfer from transport and swim 4 miles to designated start point. Allowing for heavy seas, I will be at start at 0215. Dive to coordinates Alpha Hotel 015 designated Entry Point Baker as scouted by Recon 2 and 3 by 1000 on night of jump. Without their O.K., the jump's cancelled. If it's a go, they can't assist and won't be available during the duration of mission. Entry at Point Baker is 33 feet below surface, a narrow cave running northeast approximately 1 mile underneath the island. At 0250, I surface in a cavern designated Jump 1, set-up and climb 20 feet to designated entrance to facility. Make my way to storage area and disable the bomb. Afterwards, I will disrupt operations in facility to greatest extent possible given time and resistance, make my way back to Jump 1, through to Point Baker and rendezvous with transport at 0415 hours. If Jump 1's not available, there's only one entrance to ground level and the pier. And I know, if I have to use it, I'm fucked," Tracy smiled slightly. Capt. Clement's face didn't even twitch. Tracy concentrated, "Evac at ground level will be made from the pier on the island's north side and a point 6 miles offshore. Transport will be there at 0500 and wait only 15 minutes." Tracy had computed the distances and times over and over. Plans detailed through the use of the SD-4 satellite indicated a medium sized underground complex of bunkers and storage used by the Shining Light terrorists. She knew every corridor and exit in the site. The SD-4 satellite had the ability to trace structures underground through ultra-sensitive ground penetrating radar and low level radiation scans. The terrorists thought that by burying their facility in the relatively hot ground of a volcanic island, they'd be safe from overhead detection. They were wrong. But, they had the Bomb. And she was the 3rd attempt at knocking it out without irradiating Micronesia. The Shining Light was a loosely Muslim extremist organization headed by a Jamal Aziz, aged 35 years, Lebanese Christian by birth. Now he was leading a jihad against the enemies of the Muslim world and, specifically, against Western capitalists. A real throw-back to more political Marxist terrorists of the 70's and 80's, Aziz was known as the Liberator of Souls-probably due to his work in Morocco and Algeria in the mid '90's killing priests and nuns and the massacre at the synagogue in Haifa when he and his terrorists executed 247 worshippers in 1996. He had followers in the Middle East, Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia, and among many powerful and rich Muslims. In return for their assistance, he was promising the usual rewards: control of oil reserves, Western submission, the return of Palestine. "Please don't take this lightly, Parker," Capt. Clement commented without emotion. "I've lost Monroe and McKeeson in the last 2 go arounds. I don't want to lose you. Uncle Sam has invested lots of taxpayer money to ensure your survivability in this type of action." Tracy knew the reasons for sending the SOU instead of Special Forces, Delta, SEALS or CIA. They were just better; better than the men in those units and better than any special unit in the world. They'd demonstrated their stuff in the Straits of Hormuz in late '95, again in Baghdad in early '96. And against the drug lords in China, Malaysia, Myanmar, and Latin America, SOU was the source of continuing nightmares and paranoia for the drug business beyond anything felt in the early 1990's. SOU actives worked alone for maximum mobility and were trained hard to be very lethal. "Parker, you did well on Rosario Island last year. The Navy Cross is clear indication of that. Our Mexican friends haven't even figured out it was us. But, Aziz's a loose cannon and unpredictable. According to forensics, his men use clad bullets. 12 rounds were found in Monroe and 8 rounds in McKeeson; there were 58 entry and exit wounds in what was left of her. Monroe had 49 of the same type of wounds in her torso and upper body. Strangely enough, their faces hardly had a scratch," the captain clinically noted from a file. "But, I thought only the Swiss military uses clad bullets, and they aren't available outside the country. More important, they don't stop as well. I don't get it," Tracy puzzled aloud. Clad bullets left clean entry and exit points, did minimal internal damage as opposed to the hollow, blunt, and filled heads in US ammo. If Patty and Trish were killed with this ammo, Aziz's men had to use more of it or be very accurate. According to the pathologist who examined their remains, both women took dozens of rounds and died only towards the end of their ordeals. Aziz's men, apparently, weren't that good shots. "Well, he might use the ammo out of some sort of prestige thing. You know: it's Swiss; he has it and nobody else does," Tracy volunteered, "In any case that increases my survivability, doesn't it?" "The point is," Capt. Clement calmly spoke, "that 2 didn't make it. They should've, and they didn't. We don't know what happened inside; their last moments; how far they got; what tripped them up. Furthermore, the pathologist who examined McKeeson thinks that the pattern of fire in what was left of her remains indicates that she was meant to suffer-entry and exit wounds indicated that they were meant to cause suffering but not immediate death. We all know he's a sadist. But, he's seems to be well-informed, too. He knew we were coming and when. For that reason, you, Kate and I are the only ones who know about the operational aspects of this jump. Not even the skipper of the sub knows what's up. Don't take this lightly." "He might be that good after all," was Tracy's only thought. And she felt a slight shiver run up her spine when she thought of Trish and Patty. "Now, about those changes," Clement went on emotionlessly. "First, the first 2 used Point Baker and Jump 1. I'm not confident about their viability anymore. So, I've redesignated jump to Point Delta. It's longer, narrower and deeper; approximately 47 feet below and 1.5 miles running dead North. Same type of cavern structure is indicated at the end. Only, it's smaller. Accordingly, I've bumped the jump to daylight 1200 the following day. Meteorology indicates a system moving in so the seas will be heavy, visibility bad, and after sundown, there'll be no moonlight. Accordingly," Clement started reading from her notes, "you'll jump at 1200, rendezvous will be at 0430 and secondary will be in place at 0515. That puts it half and hour before light. Again the seas will be heavy. But, I think you'll need the time. From Point Delta, you'll have to climb to the surface. Facility entry point will require you to go cross-country east for 2 miles to a hot spring at coordinates Hotel. You'll ingress the facility through a water discharge grate in their power room. It's tricky, I know. You'll have to dive to 42 feet just to access the discharge tube. It's appears to be only 4 feet wide, and I don't have an indication of barriers. But, I don't know where I lost the first 2. It might have been at Baker for all that I know. And I've got to assume he knows about it. Delta was unknown until we saw the photos from the retasked SD-5. It's a more sensitive satellite. So, there will be no Recon confirmation. This is critical. You're on your own. But, there's a plus. Langley thinks Aziz's in residence. SD-5 got photo confirmation that his aide, Justine Loudon is on the island. And as you know, where he goes, she goes. So, second," Clement took a breath. But, Tracy already knew what was next. An opportunity like this might not come up again for a long while. "So, why not take the opportunity," Tracy came to the obvious conclusion. "Second, attempt to take Aziz out. Do whatever is necessary. I know the reason we don't bomb the hell out of this little piece of crap island is political. But, he owns the government. Then, there is a high probability that the bomb is wired to go off in an attack. And that would make us look pretty lame. You might have to create some fireworks and not be as discrete as a usual SOU operation. But, we have to try." Capt. Clement stopped and rubbed her eyes for a moment. Tracy thought, "She's feeling the pressure; some nutcase has an atom bomb, willing to set it off anywhere. Besides, losing 2 SOUs to the same bastard hurt. And she wants the SOB." Suddenly, Tracy felt closer to her CO; Clement was no longer just her commanding officer, but a sister and someone who cared. "Finally, I just wanted to add something. I didn't say it to the other 2; I should've. And I know how dedicated td to it you are. I know you'll suck it up when it comes to it. But, this is not a suicide mission. If you feel even slightly compromised, I want you to abort and return to rendezvous. That's an order, is that clear?" Capt. Clement was standing now. Somehow, in giving that order, she had raised herself to well above her 5' 5" frame and seemed to stare down on Tracy from on high. Tracy stood up and saluted. "Aye-Aye, sir!" Tracy smiled, her dimple showing deeply. At attention, with her square shoulders, her chest out and rod straight, it was clear to see that the Lieutenant knew she was one of the best of the best; lovely and confident. "That'll be all," Capt. Clement responded, returning the salute. "And good luck." As Tracy turned and left, Capt. Clement watched the beautiful and graceful young woman-a killing machine she had just unloosed. Next stop a C-135 at Andrews to Honolulu, on-board the USS United States in the Pacific in 12 hours, and rendezvous with Wahoo. "She'll be in position in 36 hours, and she won't obey those final orders," Clement concluded, sat heavily back in her chair and stared at the photo on her desk. Part 3 Lt. Tracy Parker was the only passenger on board the special MAC flight from Andrews to Hickam. From there, after an hour's rest, she boarded an A-2 sent from the U.S.S. United States to pick her up. It was obvious she was an important passenger. The pilot, Lt. Bobby Gates from Kerrville, Texas, was a "nugget" or Navy aviator on his first tour aboard an aircraft carrier. So was his co-pilot and flight school partner, Shelly Schlumburger, a sarcastic brunette from Amsterdam Avenue in Brooklyn. Both knew better than to pry into the affairs of the young, attractive female officer. All they knew was that she rated a special pick-up and a tanker rendezvous en route; radio silence until 350 miles from the carrier, land in one piece, and Schlumburger and Gates knew they'd be finished with their job. They both decided it would be better if they didn't know hers. The fan-jets' loud whine in the cabin necessitated the use of intercoms and earphones. Conversation was all but impossible. So, with at least 8 hours of flying and 2 seemingly disinterested crew, Tracy decided to relax for a bit. As she balanced between sleep and drowsy awareness, her mind was on Tom. Tomaso Anthony de Guarda was a midshipman majoring in nuclear physics when they plowed into each other on the quad final Spring session. She had just finished her class in the Napoleonic Wars and was headed back to the dorm to change for a quick run. She must have been looking at the Chapel dome when someone yelled "Look out!." A heavy thud and 2 heads banging dully, and Tracy was flat on her back in the grass. Next to her was a tanned, dark and very good-looking midshipman with his face next to hers and his right hand on her left breast, butt in the air and legs splayed. There was numb, blank consciousness in his brown eyes, and she was too dazed to realize he had his hand resting flat on her breast. But, in the instant before her mind cleared and she understood what had happened, his red-faced grin was above her and helping her back to her feet. "I'm really sorry," he explained. "I was going back for the ball, and I didn't look behind to see you in time." He was sweaty with navy blue shorts, bare feet and cut-off T-shirt. Tracy noticed the bit of hair underneath his navel, above the elastic of his shorts and the size of the shape under the shorts as she stared at the ground in front of him. "I-I'm okay, really," Tracy stammered. She was still a little woozy from the crack on the head. She looked back up and saw that he wasn't really tall, about 5' 10". But, he was built like Van Damme; very angular with square head and broad square shoulders, a thin waist, lots of muscles, and thick weightlifter's legs. I'm Tom de Guarda," he introduced himself. He was thinking that he'd had his hand on the very nice breast of a very pretty midshipman. Tom knew like every other midshipman who Tracy Parker was. Daughter of Admiral Parker, Navy brat, she'd been in the top 5 of her class every year at the Academy. Her talents were in history and tactics (that was good for the War College), languages (for overseas postings), and she was athletically inclined: field hockey, basketball, track, swimming. Like Tom, every midshipman knew that in their junior year, while on the summer tour, she'd saved 3 crewmen's lives when the cutter she was assigned to overturned in Alaskan waters. She'd kept them on the overturned hull for 2 and a half hours until help arrived; this, while pbattling the effects of hypothermia and exposure herself. Most intriguing of all: no boyfriend. She didn't seem to be lesbian, Tom thought as he regarded the pretty package standing before him. Tracy turned around and bent over to pick up her things. Tom admired her outstanding butt. Tracy knew he was giving her a once over; and she didn't mind too much. "Just to let you see what the real thing is like," she thought to herself. Upright again, she turned to sarcastically thank him. But, he had gone back to his friends and the softball he was chasing. Tracy was slightly miffed. Not even a pass. Tom turned and shouted "See 'ya!" and went back to his game. "Yeah, like right," was all Tracy could think as she headed back to her room. By graduation, they were old lovers. A couple of weeks after their first encounter, they were dating; on the 3rd date there was heavy petting; on the 4th they made love. Tom remembered that water was pouring through a gutter outside their motel room; outside, it was stormy and dark. They'd been soaked through the skin when they checked in; a small place outside of Annapolis. In the dark and stuffy room, dripping wet and laughing, Tracy suddenly realized she was shivering. She was looking at Tom-his wet shirt skin-like, emphasizing every muscular curve of his chest and ripple of his torso, his head dripping wet and his smile less amusing than sexually arousing. And she started to shiver. "I'll be right back," is all she said as she headed to the bathroom and closed the door. Tom sat down on the arm chair in the corner of the room. He had barely asked "What you doing in there," and hadn't even turned on a light when he saw her silhouetted against the light in the bathroom doorway. She was naked and smiling. For the first time, he saw the thin and graceful lines under the midshipman's uniform, saw Tracy's breasts without a bra restraining them. They were already full, the nipples hard and elongated. As she passed from shadow to light and again into shadow, he noticed that her breasts were traced with light blue veins. Her abdomen was flat, her hips were tight and round. As she came very close to him, facing him as she crouched down and undid his fly, he reached out and felt without the interference of any panty the softness of her pubic hairs and warm, moist fleshiness of her vulva. She undressed him; and as she did, they kissed; first furtively, then more passionately, then hungrily-as though each kiss was meant to fulfill a lifetime of starvation and thirst. Gently, Tracy stopped kissing and moved quickly down Tom's chest with her lips and tongue. He was out of breath as she licked his penis and made the already swollen erection even harder and more rigid. She put her mouth over the end and started to pass it in and out of her soft, warm, wet mouth; up and down, very carefully. With each movement his penis would involuntarily twitch; more semen being prepared for an ejaculation unlike any he'd ever experienced. Tracy slowly extracted Tom's enlarged and rigid organ from deep within her mouth and at the very tip started her tongue back down towards his scrotum. He was desperate not to come; he grimaced and felt wildly pleasurable spasms as she neared the based of his organ. At the last moment, Tracy moved back up his penis with her tongue and at the very moment she forced it deeply into her mouth, Tom came; more powerfully and satisfyingly then ever in his young life. Tracy just swallowed, licked, sucked and swallowed. Then as she removed her mouth from his penis, she looked up at him and smiled a dirty smile, a bit of saliva and semen dripping slightly from her lower lip and put her hand on his organ. Tom lifted her up, picking her up from under the arms in one powerful and gentle motion. Even with the mighty ejaculation he'd just been encouraged to experience, he was still very hard and with an easy movement slipped his penis into Tracy's very soft and wet vagina. Tom was amazed at how little resistance past the labia there was. She fit perfectly. As she wrapped her long legs around his back, he stood up straight and arched his back slightly backwards. Tracy crossed her ankles behind him and pushed back from his chest until only her hands were locked behind his neck. Tom felt her hips squeeze; and his organ felt a rhythmic pressure begin. One hand behind her back, one hand squeezing her breast, he supported her weight, with her help, on his penis and slightly thrusted with his hips upward; again, Tracy shuddered, her body quivering from a series of mini-orgasms; again, she moaned and pulled back her head, again, her face came close to his, her eyes were half closed, she was biting her lower lip; her brown hair was over her face. In the deepening dark of the room and the day, Tracy's body was hot and both of them seem to glow from their desire. Again, Tom thrust his hips upward, and Tracy shuddered; again, and her pelvis began a soft shudder; again and she let out a gasp, eyes closed tightly in ecstasy. On his final push, she came, twisting and moaning, shivering, breathless; he kissed her, and her lips were ice cold, the blood drained from her lips, her fingers, her feet. Tom moved slowly to the bed, his firm but now less rigid penis still firmly held deep within Tracy's still pulsing vagina. As he finally let Tracy down on the bed, she let him go and came again as he withdrew from her. Moving carefully next to her in the bed, Tom lay down, turned his face towards hers and whispered "Thank you." Her mind bleary from pleasure, she looked into his eyes and felt her body released, floating above their little world in the motel and beyond life itself. The whine from the fan-jets were very distant at that moment. Tracy's eyes were closed. And for the first time, in a very long time, she felt herself wanting to cry. She was going to do the impossible in the next 12 hours; her life was very much in question. And the one thing she wished she could have at that very moment was Tom for that instant in that motel all over again. Suddenly, Gates' voice crackled over the intercom. "Sorry to disturb you Ma'am. We're less than 40 minutes from the United States." "Too late, Tom," thought Tracy. She sniffed and began to prepare herself all over for the mission. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----