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In the summer of 1969, the Summer of Love, I was a 21 year old gunner aboard a river assault/patrol boat in Viet Nam. My crewmates and I had just completed a four day combat operation near the designated “in-country R up over the helmet, down against his sack, another gentle squeeze of his balls, then back up the growing shaft. God, it was erotic.
It was also about then that I saw the perfect spot to shoot the guns. I was abruptly consumed with the thought of the two nude women standing with legs apart, firing the .50-caliber machine guns, M16’s, grenade launchers, any number of the powerful weapons of war that we carried on board.
I wrenched the boat to port, and charged into the small indentation in the coastline. Making sure we had plenty of maneuvering room, I pulled back on the throttles, tied off the wheel with enough port rudder that we’d circle safely inside the small cove, and announced, “Okay people, drop your cocks and grab your socks; it’s show-time.”
With reluctant groans and a final thrust, Marty and Shauna broke off their sensuous foreplay, while rapture kindled between them. In my anticipation of beholding naked girls with guns, I ignored their bliss and prattled on. “Tell you what, Kerri,” I said indicating a red button on the instrument panel. “Give the horn three honks, see if anybody’s around. You never know, there might be a few jarheads messing around the jungle here. They get kinda pissed when they start taking friendly fire; besides, tootin’ the whistle’s part of the tour.”
Kerri laughed and gave out three long, loud blasts from the boat’s twin electric horns. Birds twittered and flew, a few monkeys scuttled up and down trees at the water’s edge, but no grunts showed up to warn us off.
Unclothed, aglow with sweat and cum, lust and anticipation, we trooped out of the pilothouse as I mentally thumbed my nose toward the small lounge I had made of the fold-up rack just outside the coxswain’s station. This simple boudoir was now a Puritanical relic in a sea of debauchery. At the stern, Marty and I, by now recharged with the stamina and animal lust of youth, checked the .50s and asked which of the ladies wanted to shoot first.
Shauna stepped up to the port gun, her bronze pubes glistening, and her nipples jutting nearly an inch. Marty indicated the butterfly trigger, and said, “Grab the handles, pick out a target on shore, sight in, use your thumbs to push down on the trigger, and fire away.”
Hunched over the machine gun, ass displayed alluringly to all of us, her legs spread in anticipation of the shock and recoil, Shauna swiveled the gun over he stern, spotted a huge evergreen that stood well above the surrounding coconut palms, and opened fire with a long, rippling fusillade.
“Short bursts, cutie,” Marty cautioned her as he reached to caress her breasts hanging udder-like over the trigger. “Six, eight rounds at a time.”
Shauna opened up again, this time taking Marty’s advice. We could see the tracers arcing straight and true into the middle of the towering tree. As she fired, she began to buck, and swivel her pelvis. She completed her orgasm as the tree began to split in the middle where her rounds shredded the trunk. Pussy juice squirted over the gun mount and smoke eddied off the glowing barrel. “Oh God, that was good,” she gasped collapsing onto one of the ammo boxes and spreading her pussy lips with one hand, cooling her hot box. The gun barrel hissed and popped as it cooled down as well.
Marty sat beside the panting redhead to run his hands between her slick thighs, while Kerri and I moved to the starboard machine gun. I showed Kerri the basics of aiming and shooting, and she leaned over the breech of the weapon while we waited for a worthy target to present itself. I took advantage of the moment to ease my cock, rock hard again, between the crack of her ass.
We both straightened when an abandoned sampan, derelict and listing against the shore, came in front of the sincan escort bayan .50. Kerri, heeding Marty’s advice to use short bursts, fired on the sampan, and I shoved my member deep into her gaping pussy-lips from behind. The sampan disintegrated before her gun as Kerri kept firing and I fired into her wildly pumping mound.
When the last rounds smoked from Kerri’s weapon, as well as my own, we sagged to the deck, littered with empty shell casings, still sizzling and smoking. We were all as spent as the hot casings, as empty as the ready ammo boxes. Parched and exhausted, we gasped to breathe the humid, tropical air.
After some moments, I staggered to the cooler, kicking shell casings hither and yon, where I gathered four beers, handing one each to the two women who lounged in the shade beneath the tarp over the engine compartment. Their breasts were slick with sweat, and their pussies glistened with post-coital moisture. Appreciating once more how luscious, how attractive the two women really were, and after thanking the gods of sex again, I collapsed next to Marty on one of the ammo boxes and passed him a beer. The girls whispered and smiled seductively toward us.
I noticed my crewmate gazing at Shauna with an expression I could only interpret as, well, adoration. “You like her, don’t you?” I said to him after a minute or two of silence.
“Yeah, I do,” he replied quietly. “Both those gals are nurses; both of ’em are officers, too. Shauna’s a j.g. and Kerri’s a lieutenant.”
“Yeah, I sorta figured that. They sure fuck like enlisted, though, huh?”
“Don’t say it like that, okay?” Marty shifted uncomfortably on the box.
I shrugged and simply stared off toward the steaming jungle while the boat still puttered in a precise circle around the cove. I was too tired to point out the difficulties that Marty was doubtless aware of in falling for an officer, especially one as drop-dead gorgeous as Shauna.
Kerri rose and approached me. “Hey, Jimmy? Shauna’s asked if you and I would give her and Marty some time alone together. Maybe we should drive the boat in a straight line for awhile.”
We went forward and I found myself resurrected at the thought that this finely put-together young lady and I would, once again, be by ourselves in the sweltering steel pilothouse. I freed the wheel, nudged the throttles, and with the nude goddess standing at my shoulder, tits nudging my back, headed the Stoned Pony out of the small bay and northward again.
As I conned the boat, I glanced occasionally at the near unearthly beauty next to me. I noted the fine sheen of sweat dappling the tops of her magnificent breasts, the beads of moisture that glistened, dew-like, amid her ebony pubic hair, the hint of pink labia nestled within her love nest. It’s no wonder, I thought to myself, that I can bust a nut every time I touch her.
I pictured Marty and Shauna at the stern, Marty with his flaccid member dangling languidly between his pale thighs, Shauna with her fine cinnamon-hued pubes allowing one to appreciate her sculpted pussy lips and peek-a-boo labia, her pronounced and well-wrought clitoris, her small, welcoming tunnel.
Knowing that Kerri and I were a one-shot deal, a pleasant interlude in a most unpleasant time and place, I began to envy Marty, despite the feeling that he was doomed to pursue the unattainable in the lovely Shauna. I sighed as I checked our position, while Kerri, perhaps pondering, as I was, the vicissitudes of love and war, leaned her awesome boobs into my arm and ran her fingers through my sweat-slick hair.
We cruised northward, passing sampans loaded with fish, rice, pigs, and people; huge cargo vessels steaming madly for the relative safety of Vung Tau harbor or seaward out of the range of enemy gunfire. We saw, as well, the occasional South Vietnamese Navy gunboat bobbing lazily as far off the coast as conscience permitted from the possibility of engagement with Victor Charles eryaman escort — Charlie, as we called our designated enemy. I could feel my energy returning and realized that I could use another beer, maybe a can of C-ration franks and beans.
I began to give Kerri the short course in boat handling, fondling her breasts only a little. I didn’t want either of us becoming too distracted in these unfamiliar waters. Finding her reasonably proficient, I took another look at her statuesque profile, boobs proudly outthrust, finely sculpted hips tapering to form her superb ass, and was painfully aware that I would seldom, if ever, encounter such a lovely creature again. I pulled my gaze reluctantly away and headed aft.
Making as much noise as possible so that I wouldn’t surprise Shauna and Marty, I hoped to disturb them for as short a time as I could. I needn’t have worried. The pair stood in unclothed perfection at the stern rail, laughing and chatting, arms around each other, beers in their free hands, obviously enjoying each other’s company. The aft deck had been cleared of empty .50-caliber casings and threw off a fierce heat in the midday sun.
“Chow time,” I said in greeting.
Both came over to help me root through the boxes of C- and K-rations, but they remained far more interested in each other than in lunch.
Returning to the wheelhouse with a few cans of C-rats, I asked Kerri if she wanted me to take the wheel. We were approaching a short, rocky promontory jutting from the coast and I wasn’t sure how far into the sea those rocks extended, wanted to give them a wide margin. Kerri affirmed that she was quite happy conning the boat so I handed her a beer, instructed her to keep well to starboard of the promontory, and asked if she wanted some franks and beans out of a can. At the slight shake of her head, I began to run my hands up and down her nude back, reveling in the silken feel of her soft, nearly flawless flesh.
A whoosh of streaking brightness passed just in front of the wheelhouse, followed by the pop-pop-pop of AK fire and the hammering of rounds off the armored bridge bulkhead. Kerri and Shauna screamed in unison and I heard Marty bellow, “Jesus Christ! Incoming!”
I was momentarily shocked into immobility at the notion that Charlie would so callously disrupt our idyllic cruise — an idyll that I had never envisioned in my wildest sexual fantasies. The sight of Marty clambering into the 20-millimeter gun turret mounted just atop the bridge housing, his member swinging wildly and his notably hirsute balls dangling over my head finally jerked me into action.
“Floor this thing,” I yelled to Kerri. “Get us the hell outta here.”
Kerri stood rigidly before the wheel, immobilized by fright. Her face had paled and she had begun to shiver. I noticed a thin stream of urine jet from between her thighs as green tracers screamed and thudded into the bulkhead around us. Darting crazily about the bridge, I slammed the armored windscreens shut, grabbed Kerri on each side of her head, and using a desperate strength, forced her eyes to mine. “I’ve gotta get to the forward gun turret,” I spoke as calmly as I could. “You can drive this bitch. You’ve gotta get us outta here.”
She blinked at me, held her water, and nodded. She reached for the throttles and I turned to head for the forward 20-millimeter gun mount. As I ducked through the pilothouse hatch, I heard the roar, felt the surge of the throttled up engines. I also felt the boat dip to port, meaning that instead of turning to starboard, away from the bullets and the RPG’s, Kerri had, instead, turned toward shore, into the teeth of the hostile fire. Jumping into the gun mount, I remembered the empty ready ammo boxes at the stern .50’s, the rocks that I’d wanted to avoid, and thought: We’re fuckin’ dead!
I charged my gun, heard Marty cut loose with a deafening burst topside, and furiously cranked my weapon to port. Pressing the trigger, I was, as always, stunned etimesgut bayan escort at the noise and concussion of the heavy machine gun. But our rounds, all red and white tracers, explosives, and incendiaries, tore into the shoreline, immediately suppressing the enemy fire.
By now, Kerri had reversed her turn, missed the rocks, and we were rapidly distancing ourselves from the ambush. My gun, unable to traverse farther aft, was out of action, but I was amazed to hear the deliberate booming of one of the .50s at the stern. Apparently Shauna was as courageous as she was beautiful.
Scrambling from my useless gun mount, I threw Kerri a quick thumbs-up and ran aft, the noise and concussion of Marty’s 20-millimeter cannon pounding my ears and balls the whole way. Shauna, legs wide apart, labia protruding between her ass cheeks, boobs dangling over the breech, hunched behind the portside .50, firing at the receding shoreline. Somehow, she had located the reserve .50-caliber ammo, loaded and charged the gun, had even remembered to use short bursts.
One last, futile RPG splashed harmlessly into the ocean well astern of us, and the firefight ended as abruptly as it had begun. Shauna continued to pour rounds, now falling short, toward the enemy position until I heard the click of the empty breech.
She stood a moment behind the smoking gun, and then collapsed, weeping, to the deck. I moved to comfort her, to praise her, but suddenly, Marty was at her side, and the two were locked in a fierce and silent embrace.
I quietly turned away and returned to the pilothouse. Kerri stood stolidly at the helm, throttles still firewalled, pounding all of us along at nearly 24 knots. Wordlessly, I caressed her smooth shoulder, deliberately ignoring her nakedness. She briefly brushed my fingers with one hand and continued to stare out the windscreen. I gathered our clothes, stepped into my cut-off camo’s, opened the armored panels, and gently urged her from the steering platform. She took her clothes with a grateful smile, and began to dress as I throttled back and turned southward toward home, keeping well out to sea when we passed the smoldering ambush area.
Finished dressing, Kerri gathered the rest of the clothes scattered around the pilothouse and started toward the hatch.
“Hey darlin’?” I said. “I’m not the brightest guy in the world, but I think Marty and Shauna are in love.”
“I know,” Kerri replied, her eyes shining. “Lucky them.” She hunched over and stepped through the hatch.
Less than a minute later, she was back. “They’re making love on that cover thing in back. I just left their things and came back here.” She put a hesitant hand on my arm. “I want to apologize for freezing up earlier. And then — oh, God! — I drove us right toward them, right into their guns.”
“You did fine, Kerri,” I replied. “All we’ve got is a few more dents and holes in the bulkheads. I sorta panicked myself in my first firefight. Most everybody does.” I caressed her back, and we stood together, silent.
“Shouldn’t you radio in to Vung Tau about the battle, Jimmy? Maybe tell them . . .” Kerri began.
“I b’lieve we ought to keep that business back there our little secret for now, darlin’,” I interrupted her. “Me and Marty’ll figure out what to do later on.”
We cruised that way, Kerri and I silent once more, almost brooding, past the gunfire support ships, through the harbor, below the radio towers atop Monkey Mountain, while at the stern, Shauna and Marty were falling deeper in love. As I turned the Stoned Pony to approach our berth, Kerri gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze, and said simply, “Thanks for the tour.”
“Tell all your friends,” I replied quietly.
Marty and Shauna, clothed now, flushed with love and making love, wandered to the bow. They stood placidly holding hands, Shauna’s head resting comfortably on Marty’s wide, tanned shoulder. As I maneuvered the somewhat battered, un-swabbed, and ammo-less Stoned Pony against the pier, Marty tenderly took Shauna’s arm from his waist, and with a look of near-infinite regret, moved to tie us to the dock. Shauna followed him longingly with her eyes until the boat was secure, her man once more at her side.
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