This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.
* * *
Chase and Bridgette
Why couldn’t I feel something … really feel something … when I was with a man?
Sex was a riddle to me without an answer.
The physical pleasure was there, but I always felt like there was something missing. Was it wrong for me to believe that there was something more? A depth of feeling that stirred more than just my physical desires?
These thoughts ran through my mind as a man … an attractive man … was sitting next to me and telling me his life’s story. He’d been hitting on me from the moment I sat down at the bar. I’d been with many like him, and wondered how this one night stand was going to be different. I cradled my bourbon, my fourth of the evening, and the pleasant glow it gave me also gave me the courage to give sex another go.
“You want to get out of here?” I asked, knowing it was what he was waiting to hear. I gulped the rest of my drink, feeling that all too familiar warmth in my mouth and throat, the unmistakable flavor of caramel and wood and the sticky sweetness of a corn dominated mash.
He brushed his fingers against his two day growth of beard and studied me. Of course he wanted to leave with me but didn’t want to appear too eager. Who wouldn’t want to go home with a twenty-eight year old woman, short blonde hair, trim and fit, blue eyes burning with intensity, and a low cut dress that showed enough of my full breasts to tell any serious man that I was on the prowl?
“Sure,” he said. It was a familiar dance for me. He’d suggest going to his place so the two of us could have more privacy. But for some reason he hadn’t studied the standard playbook.
Maybe he saw something in me. Maybe it’s what he intended from the beginning.
“My wife …” he started to say.
Time froze for a moment. I spent thirty minutes of small talk sizing up my latest one night stand and he had a wife? Why was he admitting to this to me? He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Most men would have lied.
He paused for a moment, maybe to summon the courage to continue. “Do you mind if she watches?”
I felt an unfamiliar sizzle. It started in my toes and made my pussy tingle. I’d engaged in a lot of kinky sex over the years … anal … bondage … spanking … but had never been with more than one person, even if the third was just a spectator. And never with another woman.
What the fuck. I wanted to feel something, and his invitation resonated with something deep inside me.
“I don’t do women,” I told him, in case he was expecting more.
“No … no … Bridgette will be cool with it. It’s something we’re sort of into …”
“And somehow you thought it would be me?” I asked. “Why?”
He nervously took a sip of his drink. “I don’t know … we’ve been together for a while … and this sort of spices things up for us. You looked … adventurous.”
He sized me up correctly. My idea of adventure was landing a $70 million fighter jet on a pitching deck of an aircraft carrier on a moonless night. I had already decided to say yes, but I wanted to know more about her.
“So tell me about … Bridgette … you said?”
His eyes lit up at my mention of her name.
“Yeah … she’s great. She’s a veterinary technician. She works in Visalia.”
He stopped, thinking he answered my question. It wasn’t nearly enough.
“What does she look like?”
“Kind of built like you. Good figure … kind of a reddish blonde hair … sexy smile.”
He stopped and couldn’t suppress a grin. “She likes to try new and … uhh … different stuff … and so do I.”
“And by ‘new stuff,’ you mean me?”
“Yeah.” That boyish smile again.
I didn’t think about it anymore.
“Really?” He clearly wasn’t in sales. For some reason he seemed surprised.
“Really,” I told him. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
* * *
He drove. I left my rental car at the bar, with Chase promising to bring me back later. I got into his car, some sort of nice German sedan I think, and settled into the passenger seat. There was a child’s car seat in the back. I was wondering what I was getting myself into. We were only a few miles down the road when he broke the silence.
“Hey, you mind if I call her?” he asked.
“Bridgette, I mean,” he added, as if I needed that clarification.
“Sure, go ahead,” I answered. I could already sense that this experience was going to be different, and hopefully in a good way.
“Hey Bridgette,” he called out. The call was going through the Bluetooth on the car’s speaker system.
“Chase? Are you coming home now?”
“Yeah …” he replied, pausing before adding, “I’ve got someone with me.”
I could hear the excitement in her voice.
“Is she pretty?”
“She’s pretty. You’re going to love her.”
He looked over at me. “Say hi, Jacks.”
“Hi Bridgette.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“So you’re going to be home soon?”
Her voice was now anxious. If it was me, I’d be scrambling to pick up the house.
“Yeah … we’re only a few minutes from home.”
“Shit … OK … I’ve got to go,” she said. The line went dead. I’m sure she was doing some last minute cleaning before I showed up.
* * *
The house was modest ranch, a three bedroom, two bath, with a detached two car garage in the back. There was plastic lawn furniture in the front yard along with a kiddie wading pool and a tricycle.
Chase followed my eyes.
“Oh yeah. The kids are at Grandma’s for the weekend.”
That answered my question.
The door was unlocked. We stepped into a darkened foyer. He turned on the lights. There was a small living room with toys strewn about. We stepped around them and went down a narrow hallway. At the end, on the right, was a closed door. He pushed it open. The window shades were open, and the light from the half moon cast shadows in the bedroom. Bridgette was sitting in an upholstered chair in the corner. I couldn’t quite make out her hair color, but it was clear she was slender, with a smallish breasts and long, lanky legs curled underneath her. She was wearing only a frilly bra and matching panties.
“Hi Jacks … don’t mind me,” she said from the darkened corner.
It was clear this wasn’t their first time. Chase paid no heed to his wife and was already stripping off his clothes. It felt weird to me to have someone watching, but somehow it felt right. I wasn’t sure why.
I started taking off my clothes, and a naked Chase was sitting on the bed watching me. My breasts were much larger than Bridgette’s, and Chase’s eyes never left them as I took off my skirt, and then my panties. He was laying back on the bed. His cock was already hard and jutting upward. I leaned over him and took the leaking head of his penis into my mouth, tasting the mild flavor of his clear precum. He cupped my hanging breasts. I looked out of the corner of my eye at Bridgette. Her hand was in her panties. She wasn’t hiding the fact that she was masturbating as she watched us.
“Yeah baby …” he moaned. He was breathing heavily as I took the shaft into my mouth, but my ears were focused on the squishing sounds in the corner. Bridgette was fingering herself as she watched, and her eyes were glued on us. I wanted to perform for her, so I resisted gagging and took him all the way in.
“Oh God …”. He pulled away from me, leaving me empty.
“I don’t want to cum yet … Jacks … you’re so beautiful …”
He positioned me so he could enter into me missionary style. He started fucking me. It felt good, but as I closed my eyes I was thinking about Bridgette, her fingers inside her pussy, watching me, and wanting me. Chase was already panting and I sensed he was getting close. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I couldn’t get his wife out of my head.
“Bridgette. Come here. Kiss me,” I said impulsively.
I tried to keep my eyes open to watch her strip off her panties and bra.
Chase was still fucking me … hard … as his wife crawled on the bed and bent over me. All I could think of was her soft lips touching mine, her tongue swirling in sync with mine, cupping my breasts, as her husband brought me to an orgasm. Her fingers encased my nipple, squeezing it, as the first wave suddenly crashed down upon me. I put my hand behind her head so her lips were pressed hard against mine as I came … again … leaving me breathless.
Chase stilled, and I could feel his cock pulsing inside me, flooding me with his cum, as Bridgette and I continued to kiss. He groaned and fell to the side, my knees still up, and his cum leaking out of my pussy. I laid there, not yet finished, and not yet satisfied. But I didn’t have the same hollow feeling that I’ve had in the past. My hands were on Bridgette’s breasts, feeling the contours of the velvety soft flesh, while kissing her with a passion that was always seemed missing when I was with a man. Our eyes met, and hers seemed to ask for permission for more. I nodded a silent asset.
She put her knees on each side of my head, facing away from me, and bent over, taking a tentative lick at the rivulet of cum trickling out of my pussy. The feeling of her tongue touching my ultra-sensitive lips, was electric. A low throated growl rumbled in her throat as we shared what could only be described as a moment of pure wantonness and depravity. My lust for her knew no bounds. I put my hands on her bare bottom, pulling my head up and smothering my face in the swampy mess of her pussy.
“Ohhh!” she exclaimed, maybe not expecting me to reciprocate.
Chase was all but forgotten and Bridgette and I licked each other, satiating our desires for our own sex. I loved the smell of her — her musky scent … the feel of her … and knew at that moment that I had been denying my true desires … desires that weren’t exactly compatible with my career in military service.
* * *
“Rear rotor seems to have a shimmy in it.”
I just finished a training flight and noticed an unusual vibration. Megan was wiping her hands on a clean rag, listening to me, as she approached the Blackhawk. The main rotor was still spinning slowly. The bright sunshine made me squint, even though I was wearing sunglasses.
I was a fighter pilot by training, but was learning how to fly a helicopter. Each progressive fire season in California was getting worse, and there was a shortage of helicopter pilots for flying search and rescue in the heavily wooded mountainous area to the east of Lemoore Naval Air Station. I volunteered for the training. Anything to be up in the air. Jet … helo … it was all the same to me.
Lemoore was smack in the middle of California’s Central Valley, a short drive south of Fresno, and a few hours away from Kings Canyon and Yosemite National Parks. I’d been stationed there for three years, the longest posting of my career. Most of it was spent on aircraft carriers, so being on dry land for this long was a welcome change.
Megan took a mini-tablet out of her fatigue jacket and scribbled a few notes with her finger.
“Anything else?” she asked. Megan was the lead mechanic on the base, and everyone who went up in the air was trusting their life with her.
“No … but there is something else … not having anything to do with anything mechanical,” I said cryptically.
“What?” she asked.
“Maybe after a few drinks tonight?” What I wanted to ask wasn’t appropriate on the tarmac of a naval air station.
She climbed up into the open bay door and then looked back at me. “Eight? Kilgore’s?”
It was just like Megan not to ask what I wanted to talk about. That would have required more conversation.
* * *
Kilgore’s was the usual hangout for the personnel at the base. It was a Friday night, but it was still early, so I was able to stake out a booth away from the bar. Megan was probably in her forties, and still looked like a tomboy with her short haircut and t-shirt and jeans, though her large, pendulous breasts removed any doubt of her gender. It was common knowledge on the base that she was a lesbian. Being in the critical position that she occupied, no one gave her shit about her sexual orientation, and no one stared at her breasts, lest they risked a wrench being thrown in their direction.
Getting there a half hour early allowed me time to reflect on what I wanted out of the conversation. Certainly my experience with Chase and Bridgette had been the “Ah hah” moment for me. I’d always enjoyed looking at other women, and appreciating the beauty of the female human form (even my own), but I never thought I had interest in women, sexually I mean. Bridgette, and the feelings she engendered when I was with her, made me rethink my preconceived notions of sex.
Coming from a conservative background in rural North Carolina and spending most of my adult life in military service didn’t allow for the possibility that I might be a lesbian, but here I was, about to bare my soul to my chief mechanic. Having a reservoir of courage in calling out Megan for this conversation told me that I was going down a path that felt right. I reconciled myself to the fact that I might be discovered, and accepted the reality that there could be serious repercussions with my family and with my career. But first, I had to be sure about myself and about my feelings.
I had already ordered bourbons for both of us. They were sitting on the table, untouched. I was drumming my fingers nervously on the tabletop when she arrived at my booth.
“Maker’s?” she asked, as she sat down across from me.
“Did you have to ask?”
She lifted the glass to her lips and emptied it. I signaled to the waitress for another round.
“What’s up?” she asked. We weren’t good friends, but we were friendly. She wasn’t one of my usual drinking buddies. She also wasn’t a chatty type.
I was a bit embarrassed, and a whole lot hesitant. “It’s … um … personal.”
She looked at me in the eyes. “You like women.”
Did I have it tattooed on my forehead? “Well … I think so.”
“I need another drink,” she replied. Fortunately the waitress was carrying a tray with two more drinks on it. Megan picked up her glass and took a sniff, then a big draw.
“You’re not the first to ask me about this.”
I hadn’t really thought about it, but I guessed it was true. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Everyone knows I’m into women. And most women who are like me try to keep it a secret.”
“I’m not a lesbian,” I said unconvincingly.
“Sure you’re not,” she said, mocking my statement.
“Well … I’m not sure,” I responded, the experience with Chase … and Bridgette … still fresh on my mind.
“So you want to find out for sure.”
“Well … yes.”
“And you don’t want to do it here.”
“For obvious reasons,” I answered.
She finished her second drink and waved her hand to attract the attention of the waitress.
“Go to Rusty’s,” she said. “Rusty’s a good egg. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for there. On a Friday night.”
“It’s about a two hour drive. Up in the foothills. Friday night is just for the ladies. Tell her I said hi.”
We talked for at least another hour. I don’t quite remember about what, except that we ended up having three more rounds before we took an Uber back to the base. The only thing I remembered for sure was Rusty’s … and getting sick later that night.
* * *
Rusty and Ronnie
Even though it was well past midnight, there were still a handful of cars scattered in a large asphalt parking lot surrounding Rusty’s Bar and Grill, a popular bar and restaurant that was housed in an ancient wooden barn. I decided to park in the gravel overflow parking lot across the street. Random flakes of snow were fluttering down when I opened the car door. I hadn’t seen snow, at least at ground level, for as long as I could remember. The crystallized water evaporated into small droplets on my face, freshening me after a two hour drive. The bracing chill of the night renewed the case of nerves I had since I left.
The barn, bathed in a soft, yellowish light, looked quainter in person than the picture on Rusty’s website. I went to that website many times, wondering if I could summon the courage to go, and now, in the chilly night air, it loomed as a reality.
I could recite the facts about the bar and restaurant from memory. It was built inside an old dairy barn that was located a stone’s throw from one of the entrances to Kings Canyon National Park. The park, located about fifty miles east of California’s Central Valley, generated plenty of drive by traffic for a place to eat a gourmet meal and enjoy a well-stocked bar . The steady stream of cars, combined with a popular local following, made it busy most days of the week.
The listed owner of the bar and restaurant, as well as the barn, was Rusty Thomas. Rusty was something of a local personality, and it was her idea to convert the barn to a stylish eatery . The restaurant featured prime steaks and fresh seafood, and was always busy. The bar was a bit sleepier, a place where locals and tourists could play a game of pool or darts, drink a pitcher of beer, and listen to live music on a Saturday night.
Fridays were different. Rusty was a confirmed lesbian, and it was well known that Friday was a woman’s night. I was told that Rusty manned the bar herself and often provided a friendly ear to the newbies.
I left my car door open and stayed seated, wondering if I should get out. The car, something I rented, was still idling. My doubts still weren’t completely erased. Even talking about going to a lesbian bar could make you a pariah in my unit, so the discussion with Megan was forgotten the next day and Megan, of course, honored the private nature of our conversation.
I looked up the website the day after our drunken conversation and for the first time I felt the pull of something that was stronger than the ten years of discipline instilled in me by the United States Navy. It took me two months to gin up the courage to drive there.
I watched the white wisps from my exhaust drifting in the air towards the entrance of the bar, and the first step in a long journey. I was strong. I could do anything. But could I do this? Could I confront questions about my own sexuality? Those thoughts started on the flat roads surrounding Lemoore Naval Air Station and continued through the windy mountainous roads leading to Rusty’s Bar and Grill.
I laughed to myself. I found it ironic that I could handle almost 9 g’s in a fighter, and yet here my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest. But I couldn’t leave. Not after months of agony, confronting a truth that came to me after years of promiscuity with the opposite sex.
I willed myself up, closed and locked the door, and then trudged through the light dusting of snow to the entrance to the bar, only announced by a farm style bell shaped lamp over it. It was almost one, and although the bar’s posted hours ended at 1 a.m., I suspected it was open a wee bit later on Fridays.
The light in the rustic wood paneled bar was dim. I was still shaking even though it was hot and stuffy inside.
I found an empty stool at the bar. There were a few couples sitting in booths and two women dancing slowly near the jukebox. There was a woman sitting next to me. I kept my eyes straight ahead. Maybe it was my military training, or maybe I was scared. I didn’t peek sideways, even though I was deathly curious of who was sitting next to me. I ordered a drink; it was a Manhattan I think. My usual drink was a bourbon neat, but I didn’t want to appear as a butch. I was nursing the Manhattan and eyeing the cherry floating at the bottom when I heard the voice of the woman sitting next to me.