After completing our training events—air refueling, low-level, bombing—we were supposed to land at KI Sawyer AFB in Michigan for the night. Instead, a snowstorm diverted us back home, and now we were punching holes in the traffic pattern until we burned off enough gas for a full-stop landing.
“Radar—Pilot.” The aircraft commander’s voice crackled over the intercom as the huge plane turned over base housing yet again. “Looks like you’ll be doing a ‘fidelity check’ when we land…the Swans’ man is still parked in your driveway.” That was a common joke among the pilots, since we didn’t have a window at the navigator station downstairs.
“Slewing the EVS, pilot,” I called back to him and swung the lowlight camera mounted on the bottom of the jet to the coordinates of his own driveway. B-52 training sorties were long and boring, so I had plenty of time to fuck around and plug coordinates for every crewmember’s house into the OAS.
“Actually…it looks like a minivan in your drive, pilot.” It was probably his wife’s, but the truth didn’t matter as long as it was funny.
The next voice over the intercom was the electronic warfare officer: “Yeah, I loaned my van to Crew E-41. According to the schedule, they are pulling a five-v-one right about now.”
I clicked my mic. “Roger that, Edub.” I cringed at the visual; that clam in the middle of a gang bang? No.
I glanced right, to see the Nav’s shoulders shaking, laughter drowned out by the deafening roar of the cockpit. No one else dared key his mic at the joke, though—THAT would be bad intercom discipline.
This shit-talk continued between checklists and our actual jobs of flying the airplane. Every fifteen minutes or so, we’d pass over housing. I’d aim the camera at another house, identify the make and model of a car, and we’d all speculate about who might be plowing whose wife.
No one but me actually knew which house was on the small green screen, so when I pointed at my own duplex…Fuck, there IS a pickup down there, and it’s not the Swans’ truck. Bizarrely, a raging woody, not jealousy or anger, was my first response. Then I checked my watch. It’s only 1900. What the fuck? Are the kids downstairs watching TV while he rails their mom in our bed?
That said, the wife exchange was a pretty open secret at the northern tier SAC bases. On our last alert tour, the co-pilot and I tag-teamed his wife at the alert pad visitation center. My own wife was just down the hall in the common area, coloring with our kids and his. But this was different. This was my house, my bed, and whoever was down there wasn’t even on our crew. Bad form.
++++++++++++
The tedious post-flight paperwork crap seemed to drag longer than usual. It was two hours before I was idling out front of our duplex, waiting for the garage door to roll open. Light snow was beginning to cover the dry rectangle on my driveway.
The side door slammed behind me to announce my arrival. From upstairs, her syrupy voice called, “Was the Class VI still open?”
I just shook my head. She does love her wine, doesn’t she? Without answering, I climbed the stairs, letting my flight boots fall heavy. I peeked into the boys’ room—empty. Had the co-pilot’s wife returned the favor and taken them for the night?
When she saw it was me in the hallway, she froze, fumbling to close the robe over her naked body.
It was the dead of winter, and at this time of night she never wore anything less than flannel pajamas and woolen slippers. “Oh. You’re home.” was all she said, her face blank as her mind raced for something more substantive. “What happened?”
“Snowstorm at Sawyer.” I kissed her; mouthwash. “We’re heading back tomorrow.” I don’t know why she even sucks dick if she has to rinse the taste out after every mouthful.
Her face flushed when I pulled the tie at her waist to open the robe again. The pink nipples of her B-cup tits were as hard as my cock. Fucking slut or not, she was a sexy woman, and I wanted to see her stripped naked.
“You going to take a shower, love?” she stammered, clutching the robe. After a ten-hour flight, I did smell pretty bad.
I went to the closet and unzipped my flightsuit. ‘Love’? Really? I ripped each patch—name, squadron, SAC—off the Velcro, tossed it all in the hamper, and hit the shower.
Lathering my balls, working my shaft up and down, I pictured some clown from the other squadron—I probably knew him—grinding into my wife, stretching her tight snatch wide. My hand tightened, pace quickening. No kids around to hear their mother’s moans. A tremor started deep in my gut. I breathed deep and held back. I didn’t want to waste it in the shower.
When I stepped back into the bedroom, she was waiting in the doorway, breathing heavily as if she’d just run up the stairs. Sliding my arm around her waist, I felt gooseflesh beneath the robe, flecks of snow melting into the fabric.
I realized why she flinched when I dropped it off her shoulders to the floor. Her breath hitched as I raised my hand over the crimson handprints on her ass, then she swallowed a yelp when my palm landed with a satisfying ‘crack’ to leave my own mark. Did she wince like that, or squeal with delight when he did it? Did she beg for another?
She eased herself back onto the bed, letting her legs fall open—probably the umpteenth time that night. He had obviously ridden her hard and long—her puffy, used cunt shimmered. Remnants of semen clumped in her curly blonde pubes. Fresh. He had just pulled out of her before I pulled into the driveway.
Small breasts flattened against her chest; the purple mark I left Saturday night bloomed against her pale skin next to her erect nipple. What did he think about screwing a woman already branded by her husband? Did it make him hard, like it did me?
“Roll over.” I didn’t want to look at her face right then. Gripping her hips, I yanked her back up to her knees, so the head of my cock pressed against her twat. She sighed and nudged back, teasing, taking only my tip inside. I swatted her red ass again, then drove the rest of the way, balls deep. Christ, nothing’s tighter than a well-fucked woman. Nothing.
After, we lay there silently with her back to my chest. I rubbed my finger along the rug burn on her spine. Did I do that or him?
She hadn’t said ten words to me since I walked into the house, and I could tell by her breathing, she wasn’t asleep either.
Slipping my fingers between her cheeks, I felt my cum dripping out of her. Is she going to pretend mine was the only load she took tonight? His DNA was still swimming in her belly, while I was shooting blanks. Fuck. She hadn’t been on the pill since I got snipped last year.
