Crimson Grin

Sueliami and I returned to his home town as part of our work with an international peacekeeping force. Our patrols covered the ’Stans; some days it was difficult to determine on which side of a border we found ourselves. We arrived at the village’s lone café. A woman sitting at the bar kept giving me sideways glances. While neither she nor the man next to her appeared to be insurgents, one could not be too careful. The man stood, followed by the woman. I turned sideways in the aisle between tables to let the two of them pass. The woman’s perfume wrestled with the room’s sour smell—tobacco smoke, sweat, alcohol, and boiled vegetables. She stumbled on the uneven dirt floor and fell into me. I managed to arrest her downward slide to the dirt. Having recovered her footing, she turned to face me, then stooped to smooth out my rumpled trousers. I felt her hand linger for a brief moment before she stood up straight. Her eyes flicked downward and then back to meet mine with a quick lift of the eyebrow. “Very nice,” she said softly. Her smile… Warm. Simple. Morphing to beguiling. Then, like a morning’s mist, she disappeared, but the hot tongues of desire’s fires remained, banishing the clawing daggers of the cold night air. In Su’s culture, an unmarried woman could signal her desire for a man to pursue her by briefly resting her hand between a man’s thighs. Was that what she’d just done? “Do you know that woman?” I asked my translator. “Sharon. Come last week. From your country. She study the local culture. She friend of missionary family in village. Come six months, complete study, and then return home. Friend’s husband show her village. Not good woman in public unless with man.” That night, falling asleep, I mused about the encounter. I determined that some day I would be between Sharon’s thighs. It wouldn’t be brief. It wouldn’t be only my hand.

Su was nearly crying when the time came to say our goodbyes. He had informed me there was a price on my head. I was likely to make more enemies in my next assignment as well. His mourning turned to joy, however, and he danced when I told him Sharon had agreed to be my wife. Sharon and I agreed it was best not to travel together to our homes in the central US. I didn’t want to jeopardize Sharon’s family. She visited with them for two weeks before returning to college. We were married at the courthouse in a small town where no one knew us. We lived happily ever after—well, maybe not everafter, but at least for the next two years, while I trained for my next assignment and Sharon completed her study program. She always had a warm smile when one of us was between the other’s thighs.

***** Sharon’s Errand ***** I’d received instructions to attend the annual Halloween Masquerade Ball, order a drink and wait near the bar. I wasn’t sure why, exactly. But at the very least, it provided a fun opportunity to wear a sexy costume-esque dress and show off my cleavage a bit without anyone recognizing me. I surveyed the crowd, and two men drew my attention. One seemed very familiar, somehow. They were talking to each other, standing on the far side of the dance floor. After several minutes, their conversation ended. The one with his back to me—the eerily familiar one—disappeared amongst the revelers. The one looking in my direction nodded in recognition of my presence. Was he my mystery contact? My heart pounding, I smiled and waved back. He began to walk toward me. Some hand signals from him suggested he appreciated my costume, which showcased my bosom quite nicely. I responded by miming, “You can look, but no touching.” He responded in mock horror, as if to say he would never do such a thing. Something pressing into my ass startled me. I spun around to confront the owner of the hands groping at my melons, but immediately cut off my sharp rebuke. I hurriedly set my empty drink glass down and flung my arms around his neck. “I knew I recognized you!” I gasped with joy. He pulled at the neckline of my dress to kiss a tit before I shoved his hands down to my ass. The “mystery contact” walked past me and exited the ballroom. “What are you doing here?” I hissed. “I came for an appetizer,” he said with a suggestive grin. I pushed closer, lifting my chest toward his gaze, and whispered, “You can have these hors d’oeuvres.” “Ready for the entrée?” He responded. “Coming like this, I imagine you know where dinner will be served.” “I do.” I stood, pretending to adjust the position of my skirt, and intentionally stumbled toward our guest in the chair next to me. He caught me. My sister, behind me on the other side, did not see the moment when my hand lingered between his thighs. “I do miss him,” I continued, as if nothing had happened. “But there are these—” I held up my fingers for him to see. “And this—” I pulled a sex toy from my pocketbook. “I do miss the real thing, though.” “Ah, I think we all get the picture,” my brother-in-law said, red-faced, and clearly trying find a way out of the uncomfortable topic. He and my sister busied themselves with their own conversation, and allowed me and the guest to talk just between ourselves. I cautiously sat back down in my chair. The charade of the drunk whore had gone well.

***** Revelation 1 ***** I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The man behind me, naked, worked to brush the passion-induced tangles out of my hair. As he dressed, I touched up my smeared makeup and turned to wipe the lipstick from his neck. I couldn’t do much about the tear in my pantyhose; he had simply torn the crotch open to finger me. While that had been unbelievably arousing, it did leave me a bit exposed. We needed to get back to the event, but I couldn’t help teasing him by openly rubbing my breasts. It was amusing watching him try to wrangle his still-hard penis back into his pants. We returned to the ball, masquerading as the president of some corporation and his paid-for escort. With dinner and dessert completed, he stood to bid farewell to the guests at the table. “I must thank you again for allowing me to join you tonight. Especially with the company of such beautiful ladies. Clearly you’re taken,” he said, looking toward my sister and brother-in law. Turning to me, he said, “And surely, as much of a prize as you are, you must be married too. Where is your husband?” “He doesn’t tell me,” I giggled like a little girl. My sister gagged on her sip of wine. Her coughing fit threatened to spill her boobs out of her very revealing dress. She stared at me. “You’re married?” she squeaked. My head wobbled in the affirmative. My sister was seated next to me, and leaned in close. “Then who is this?” she hissed, jabbing a finger in the direction of our guest. “Don’t think I didn’t see. He was practically making love to you! You told me you needed to leave on some errand—screwing each other is what I’m thinking—and what is this?” I whispered back to her, “The handkerchief is part of a wedding tradition. The bride gives it to the groom the night before the wedding. The groom takes the cloth, saturates it with his semen, and presents it to her parents the following morning.” “My guest is my husband. We met while I was overseas. Earlier tonight, I gave him a hand job and caught his semen in the handkerchief. He passed it along to you, since he’s not able to return it to my parents. Now, I need to catch up with him. I expect he’s getting the ropes, cuffs, and blindfold ready. He has to screw me until I give him a warm smile. Then he cums.” I quickly stood and followed him, leaving my sister with an utterly shocked expression.

***** Revelation 2 – The Color Pink ***** As the chill of December rolled in, Sharon woke up one morning feeling awful. Tired. Nauseated. Again. How many days had it been since the Ball? She reviewed the notes in her calendar—the usual monthly mark was notably absent from November’s page. She suspected she knew why. And as she studied her recent purchase from the local pharmacy, reading its simple but unmistakable message, her suspicion was confirmed. A warm smile lit up her face.

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