I had given blow jobs and I had come close a time or tow to giving it up, but either I backed out or the guy lost it and couldn’t get it back up.
I was a cheerleader in high school. I joined the Army, because a pretty smooth talking Army recruiter convinced me it was what would be best for me, giving me a leg up on others in the job market, helping me to get an education and affording me an opportunity to develop leadership skills. He didn’t tell me it would take years to get where I would be in charge of anyone or get to a rank where I would call the shots.
As a private first class, I got stuck with all the shitty jobs, like guard duty at 2:00 in the middle of the night.
Word soon got out in my platoon that I might be an easy conquest after I gave a guy a blow job for a candy bar. I was desperate, not easy. I was also hacked that I had developed the nickname of “Snickers”. It was given to me by one PFC Adrian Vegas, for whom I had the pleasure sharing an intimate moment in exchange for a “Snickers” candy bar, which unfortunately has earned me the nick name “Snickers.”
Vegas wanted in my pants in the worst way. He was a fairly good looking guy, with a square jaw line and muscles on top of muscles. He was from New York city. I was from Texas. He talked with an accent, and liked to make fun of mine. We were total opposites. He wanted to fuck and I didn’t. He liked to brag and I hated his bragging.
One day, after we had finished cleaning out our Bradley fighting vehicle, Vegas found me alone in the motor pool. He slipped up behind me as I was bending over checking something on the Bradley and pushed him-self up against my ass, while holding on to my waist.
I tried to pull away, but he had a strong grip on me.
“Vegas! Let go!” I exclaimed.
“You know you want it,” he shot back.
“Fuck you!” I exclaimed.
I could tell I had hurt his feelings. He stepped back and apologized.
“If you want to fuck me,” I told him, “You’ve got to get rid of that New York sense of entitlement.”
Vegas was not a dummy, just a horny guy. He apologized a second time.
“Look,” I responded, “I’m a girl before I am a soldier. As a girl, I want to be treated with a little respect. If you want in my pants, you have to earn it.”
Vegas stood still and stared back at me as he absorbed my words of advice. He apologized a third time.
There was something I really liked about Vegas. Yes, he had a huge cock, but he was also very confident. When he made his mind up, he was a strong force to be reckoned with. All of the guys in the platoon seem to do whatever he said to do. I was the only one who could stand up to him and I think he saw that as a challenge.
Vegas invited me to the enlisted club. I am not a party-person, but decided to take him up on the invite. As we walked out the motor-pool, we chatted about our decisions to join the Army. Vegas had dropped out of school, to take up a job to help support his siblings, but managed to get his GED on the side. He joined the Army to get out of New York, because New York for him, was hell on earth.
He was surprised when I told him I had been raised on a farm outside of Dallas and had been a cheerleader in high school.
“I’ve never dated a cheerleader,” Vegas replied.
It was only a short walk to the enlisted club. I was surprised to find out Vegas had a car. He offered to drive us to the club.
At the club, we found some of the other platoon members. I was the only girl in the group, which didn’t bother me, as I had five brothers and was used to hanging with a group of guys. Vegas bought me a beer- my first beer. It was ice cold and in a frosty glass. I quickly downed it.
“Do you want another?” he asked.
“Oh yeah,” I cheerily replied.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” I replied.
After the third beer and a lot of chit chat with several of the guys, my first real beer buzz hit me. I had to go pee. I managed to make it safely to the ladies’ latrine, where I emptied my bladder.
After another beer, my fourth, I knew I needed to cut back, but I didn’t want to be the weak one in the group.
Vegas suggested we go for a drive. He slipped his arm around my waist.
“We’re a team,” Vegas said. “We have to have each other’s back.”
As we wandered out to Vegas’ car, several of the guys in our group broke off and followed us outside.
“Hey, Vegas!” one of them shouted, “Can you give us a lift?”
“Sure,” Vegas responded.
Vegas had a late model Mustang and although it could fit four of us comfortably, there were three guys wanting a ride, plus Vegas and myself.