Officially these trips are called 'assignments' by the branch of the military I work for. I finished doing real tours a few years back when I was selected to do more... well, specialized work.
As far as family & friends are concerned, All they need to know is that I'm still in the military, only they have me travelling all over the globe. The smart ones can put 2 and 2 together to realise it's something covert, but they're also smart enough to know not to ask, since I won't tell them anything anyway.
Which is one of the many difficult aspects of my job - specifically that if I am to choose between providing details about my work, or death, with no alternative, then I am to choose the latter.
Intelligence, counter-intelligence, counter-terrorism, security details, even a little corporate espionage on one occasion. Interrogations. Sometimes torture. Sometimes me doing the torturing. A few times the other way.
My most recent assignment had me in the most popular hot-spot of most war related news stories these days - the Middle East. It was a nasty trip. I was slightly injured from a strenuous climb out of a canyon to get to safety. I was sleeping in 3hr shifts for 3 weeks. It was hot. Worst of all, I lost a colleague. I was used to this from my earlier days in the military, but with the world a little more 'settled' of late (at least, the parts I operate in), and withdrawals happening all over the place, I wasn't quite expecting this one.
Needless to say, I had arrived back in my country, and was in need of some serious R&R. To begin with: no family, no friends. The reason for the former is long and convoluted, but the best way to sum it up is that I have no immediate family, and nothing in common with the rest of them. The reason for the latter is that I will be pretty grumpy for the next week, so best not to inflict that on friends.
No partying. No clubbing. Heck, I was even prepared to avoid bedding any random women for the fact that I just couldn't be bothered going out and meeting them. This contradicted the fact that sex was on my mind after the incredibly cute air hostess giving me her phone number after our 14hr flight. A flight involving surreptitious flirting with said hostess; the occasional breast view as she'd lean over me; brushing the same breasts along my arm at least a dozen times in passing while I'd return from the A380 bar; and finally an uncomfortable-but-arousing awkward silence following the point I'd awoken from a brief nap in my reclined business class seat to find her standing over me staring at the enormous bulge in my pants from the erection I'd produced mid-sleep. I looked down, saw what she was staring at, and raised my eyebrows before she blushed uncontrollably and left hurriedly. Nice. Pity she was heading north once we were wheels down. I guess there's the chance she's on my next flight back over in 2 weeks. I've always wanted to try sex mid-air with a hostess.
Anyway, instead of heading to one of the many cities I can theoretically call home, or the one I call home since I was born there, or the one I call home since I spent my early adult life there and 90% of my family live there along with many 'hometown' friends, I decided to head to my late-grandparents house on the south-east coast. It's the perfect setup - a beach house with an online calendar booking system for family members to use (also used for the many other holiday houses within our family). Find a week - block it off to all other participants, and the place is yours.
One week of doing nothing in this nice, big house set back from the beach in the bushes, with not another house in sight on an enormous private block, with 4 huge rooms to choose from in 2 wings, and a big sun deck overlooking a lower deck with pool, then bushland and a creek that meanders its way into the ocean. I needed this to forget many things of the past month. I needed the space before returning to family and/or friends.
So you can imagine my disappointment when I pull into what should've been an empty driveway and there is one dusty but semi-new looking Prius, with 'L' plates beaming out from the rear window.
Fuck.
I did a quick calculation: 3 of my relatives would be in the 16 - 18 year old age group where 'L' plates are required. The thought of any of them intruding on my space made me want to walk in there and shoot them - point blank (except I didn't even have a service revolver, having left it at base after debriefing).
First option: my step-brother's daughter Anna - 17. But she couldn't afford a Prius on her waitressing salary, and besides which I saw she'd booked out an apartment of ours on the other side of the country. Second option: my gay-as-a-row-of-tents half-cousin Filip - 19. Even at 19 he could well still be on his 'L' plates since he's a terrible driver and probably failed his test since I'd seen him last. But he too couldn't afford a Prius that couldn't be more than a year old, and he knows he isn't welcome in this particular locale where homosexual men are unfortunately preyed upon by the somewhat redneck locals. And he's as outwardly gay as they come. Good on him for not hiding it I say.
That left Kate. Cousin Kate who, it turns out, is a selfish little cunt of a girl I unfortunately have the honour of sharing the closest blood bond out of all my living relatives. The same living relatives I only found out existed after my 19th birthday, when they'd found me after 8 years of living in foster homes. Anyway - that's a whole other story I'll get into later. We'll call that story "Foster sister Julia."
Kate, who should be 17 or 18 by my reckoning, could possibly afford a Prius as a first car since her parents are reasonably well-off and she would likely be sponging off them for the rest of her self-absorbed, probably drug-fuelled, unaccomplished life of misadventures.
Kate, who I believe took up smoking at age 10, and drinking not long after. Kate, who is unhealthily overweight thanks to a diet of nothing but McDonalds & KFC, yet dresses as if she were a size 6, with layers of fat rolls poking out of every seam. Kate, who similarly dressed inappropriately at every family wedding I'd been to in the past 5 or so years, as well as a couple of funeral. Even though she had one heck of a rack for a young girl, she would always choose to display it in the most disastrous manner. Kate, whose string of boyfriends - there seems to be a new one every time I saw her - were all losers who just wanted to get into her pants. I've no idea whether she let them. And Kate - dear cousin Kate - who I argued with at great length in some manner at every one of these occasions we were together. Usually started by me, I'll admit, for telling her to get her freaking act together and stop being such a fucking loser. The last argument, over a year ago at a wedding, was particularly brutal as I'd had to stop her boyfriend from beating her up after he caught her blowing the married best man. After putting said boyfriend to sleep and tying him up in a broom closet, I'd torn her a new arsehole (metaphorically, of course) for being such a fuck-up. I truthfully told her how disappointed I was, since when she was younger she was such a beautiful little girl with such potential.
So here I was, at the beach house, behind this Prius, wondering if it was the same girl a year or so later. Wondering what kind of a clusterfuck I was about to find myself in, in order to get some peace and quiet for the next week or so.
I walked past the car; nothing inside indicated anything about its owner. Pretty clean interior - therefore perhaps not Kate since her life would most likely be a mess, just like any personal space I remember her being located within. I started running through options in the chance we had a case of squatters. Environmentally-friendly, reasonably well-off, hybrid-electric car-driving squatters.
I could hear music coming from inside, faintly. Feminine voice, slow beat. Sensual. I walked toward the house, avoiding the front door to make my way round to the deck, under which the key was strategically hidden. The music got louder and I realised it was coming from inside the main living room facing the deck area, which meant the sliding doors were open. The house had two wings, with two fully contained rooms in each wing above each other. The lower room in the wing I'd walked past was deserted. So still no clue as to who was in the house. I inched round the side of the house to peer onto the deck.
Nothing could quite prepare me for the many surprises I was about to encounter over the next 10 minutes.
Firstly: lesbians. Making out. On a sunbed. Right there on the deck. Right there in front of me. I got a brief glimpse of one of their faces and had never seen it before in my life. She was tiny. Like, really tiny - almost sickly skinny but with decent sized breasts for her size - probably B cups. All the fingers on her right hand other than her thumb were buried in the pussy of the other girl - much larger, but probably average sized by comparison, and thin in all the right places with a truly spectacular arse writhing around with that skinny arm buried between her legs. I couldn't see much of her as she was more on top of the skinny one. She seemed to be enjoying the finger blasting she was getting as she was dripping wet, and moaning in a nice, not too deep but obviously teenaged voice. She had some nice ink work too. In fact it looked pretty fresh, some of it. IF I had to guess it was Bald-man Dave's work from in town - one of the aforementioned rednecks but a premium tattoo artist. He'd done a few of my own pieces while I sat through his vile diatribe about how immigrants were ruining 'our' country. Fucking stupid bigoted arse-hat. But he did good tattoos.
I inched further around the side of the house to get a better view of the second girl, kind of forgetting the fact that these two people were trespassing. When I realised this implication, a small, somewhat sadistic part of me imagined capturing and punishing them both. However I began to feel the hype of intruders being replaced by the arousal of what was taking place before me, as I moved a good metre into the open, hoping to not be seen behind the surrounding bushes or the other furniture on the deck.
Then came the second surprise. The second girl - the one moaning as her lesbian friend slowly moved her hand around inside her. This second girl was cousin Kate. Well, it was Kate's cute face, minus a whole lot of excess weight, transposed onto an absolutely goddess like body. Slim waisted, taut, with the same truly enormous breasts she'd already possessed, but firmer and ... well ... hotter now that they were attached to such an amazing body.
The next surprise was one of self-realisation: For starters, I was getting aroused looking at the naked form of my teenage cousin getting finger-fucked from her lesbian girlfriend. Also, I wasn't turning away.
Confused though, I did turn away. I turned, and walked back around the side of the house, without a sound, and without turning back to look. I leaned against the house, and noticed my heart was beating fast enough for me to notice. Which for me is not normal. Not even when I'm about to get laid does it beat like this.
My cousin? Really? Was that her?
After another few minutes, I realise two things. Firstly, I don't want to be busted watching them. Secondly, I don't want to be standing here for as long as it takes them to finish, and then get dressed, so that I can arrive without it seeming like I knew what was happening. But ... wait. Fuck it. They shouldn't be here! This is my fucking week down here so I'm perfectly justified in just walking up to them and say "WTF?" Fucking Kate and her fuck-up of a life has caused me nothing but strife for years. Not this time!
I turned and angrily walked towards the deck area again, with the intention of stomping up behind them loud enough that they can hear and I can start yelling - my natural mode of communication with her. I again make it two steps round the corner when I realise the situation has changed. Now Kate's back is to me, and beyond her I can just see the tiny girl's form on her hands and knees bent over in front of her. And Kate is thrusting. It's at this point I notice Kate has a belt going around her waist, with another strap going down her crack between her amazing arse, and between her legs.
Which brings us to surprise number four: My cousin is fucking her girlfriend with a strap-on.
Fuck! Can this get any worse? Or can it get any better? No ... fuck, that's wrong. Isn't it? Fuck!!
For about 10 seconds I was standing there in a combination of anger and arousal. Standing there watching my cousin's arse move back and forth, very slowly, occasionally leaning down to whisper into the other girl's ear, occasionally turning her head to the side - obviously watching their reflection in the massive windows. I found the fact that she was doing this equally arousing as I've always been a bit of a self-voyeur during sex, looking for mirrors or simply videotaping the whole event.
In any case, each time she turned her head to watch herself, I was at risk of being seen out of the corner of her eye. So I decided to retreat back around the corner to try and figure out how to resolve this. I was indeed quite aroused and had a decent erection forming. Part of me wanted to just bust my nut out right there and then. But that would be wrong? Wouldn't it?
OK. New plan. You can't go elsewhere - you are set to stay here for a week. You booked this house to relax in, you've had a rough trip, you wanted this, you are the adult, you're in charge. Right. At the same time, you can't deny you're finding this pretty arousing. The bulge in my shorts flexed involuntarily in response.
Fuck it - if she's going to wreck my plans and invade my privacy with her little lesbo-friend, I can sure as well enjoy watching it until they're finished, before busting in on them and telling them to get the fuck outta here.
