My Milf Story
As a married couple, she would have the option to short tour, and we could apply for married quarters together. However, she declined with a 'not yet,' expressing that she had personal goals she wanted to achieve first, but she strongly implied that we would eventually marry.
Thus, in September 1977, after a few weeks of overseas disembarkat. A few months before I was scheduled to return to the UK for my advanced engineering course, I proposed to Julie, who was only halfway through her deploymenion leave, I found myself back at the training school, alone, trying to maintain a 'long distance' relationship primarily through letters. Being professional signallers, we occasionally managed to 'sneak' voice calls over the radio networks; these were frowned upon but generally overlooked as long as they weren't excessive. These communications were closely monitored for security reasons, so our conversations had to remain very 'matter-of-fact' and definitely not sexual.
From almost the day we met, Julie and I had had a wonderful sex life. As we lived in separate single accommodation blocks (no mixed sex dorms in those days), it was not always easy to find a place to fuck. But we managed, and if anything, the clandestine nature of our couplings, made it even more fulfilling, when they did happen. I was missing that desperately already.
Julie was an absolute stunner, way above my league for sure! A blonde bombshell, with an incredible body, which she knew how to use to give me intense pleasure, whilst also wringing the maximum out of me for her own sexual satisfaction. Her appetite for all forms of sex, was greater even than mine. So it was probably inevitable that with 2000 miles between us, she would eventually need to seek gratification closer to her home, and not just as a solo artist.
The crunch came in the November. I’d written asking Julie to let me know her shift schedule over the Christmas and New Year period. I was planning to fly out to see her during my block leave, and wanted to arrange my stay to match as much of her time off as possible. When the reply came back, instead of her shifts, it gave me a list of ‘time slots’ when I could phone her. ‘We need to talk’ her letter stated. A proper talk where we could discuss things openly, and not worry about being eavesdropped by the monitors. It was blatantly obvious what the ‘talk’ was going to be about, so I booked a call for the first opportunity (no direct dial available to her at that time), wanting to get this over with ASAP.
When the time slot arrived, there was a bit of a delay on that international link, but after about an hour’s waiting anxiously, I was connected to Julie. Struggling a bit with the time lag on the line (satellite delay), we exchanged pleasantries, then I asked her directly what she wanted to talk about, as if I didn’t know. She didn’t beat about the bush either, and came straight out with it. She was seeing someone else; well colour me shocked!
I asked who it was. She wouldn’t tell me, but did admit it was another member of her ( my previous) unit, one of my former colleagues. I had my suspicions who it was, someone I knew had always lusted after her, and threw a name out, but she would neither confirm nor deny; that was as good as an admission to me.
It was her that initiated things, she told me. She had been lonely and horny and “…I just let it happen.” I was angry at the betrayal, by someone who, if I was correct, I had thought a friend. In retrospect though, I could not really blame him. By any measure, Julie was a goddess. And when a goddess comes on to you and wants to fuck you, no sane man, or woman, is going to turn her down. I certainly didn’t when it was my turn.
I tried, quite half heartedly, to convince her we could still rescue our relationship. I’d fly out to Cyprus over Christmas as planned. I still loved her, and wanted to try and sort things out. She was not having it though. She asked if I seriously thought, even if we did get back together for a week or so, we could hold out for over a year until she finished her deployment, and then there was no guarantee we would be colocated again. We would be if she married me, I told her, and stated my proposal stood.
“I’m not going to marry you Titus.”
No ‘not yet’ like before. This time it was a definite no, wasn’t it? I queried that is what she meant, which she confirmed.
She reiterated what she had told me previously, that she still had so much she wanted to achieve in her life. That although she had genuinely thought before I could be a part of that, our separation had proved that was not going to work. She couldn’t live like a nun, waiting for my letters to arrive. Apart from anything else, she loved sex too much for that, which is why she’d ‘cheated on me’ already, after just a couple of months apart, and would undoubtedly do so again, even if we briefly met up once more and managed to patch things up.
That was that then. She’d made up her mind that we were over and nothing more I could say was going to change that, so I didn’t try. It would have been pointless. I wanted to be furious with her. I wanted to scream and shout, and call her all the bitches under the sun for leading me to believe we had a future, when it was doubtful she had ever actually thought that.
But I couldn’t. If I was one hundred percent honest with myself, I’d known it was over the moment she first declined my proposal. From that moment on, we were simply going through the motions for sexual gratification. And someone else was fulfilling that need for her now. And good luck to him, she was awesome in bed.
We wound up the phone call, which had already cost me a King’s ransom. We could at least agree we’d both had a blast during our eighteen months together, and did not regret a moment of it. We even managed to wish each other the best for the future and, I at least, meant it. With that, I ended the call, and the era of Julie.
To try and bury my hurt, I threw myself into my studies, and even though I do say so myself, was achieving outstanding results in the tests and projects I completed. That part of my life was going well. There was one spoiler to bring things down though. When I’d arrived at the school back in September, there was a huge number of trainees going through. All of the ‘more comfortable’ accommodation blocks were fully occupied. To house us, several old style barrack blocks, that had been shut up for years, had been reopened. The bed areas were hideous 24-man dormitory rooms and the communal facilities (toilets, ablutions, baths and showers) were seriously outdated and in a poor state of repair.
I had just spent three years overseas in living conditions that, during my tour, only just improved from utterly horrendous, to totally crap. I was really pissed off that I was in that situation again, as were others. It was no surprise then when many of us jumped at the opportunity to ‘live out’. We could find our own digs off base, where we had to be self-sufficient. In return our food and accommodation charges would be refunded, (yes, contrary to popular belief, we didn’t live rent free or eat free, we had to pay for it, like everybody else!) I got together with three other members of my intake, and we found a two bedroom flat, in the local town to rent between us. It was nice to have virtually total freedom from the restrictions of barrack room living. Of course, I still had flatmates to consider.
When it came, I was really glad of the two weeks block leave we had at Christmas. I needed it to regroup and recharge. I spent that leave at my parents home, which pleased them immensely, as I had not done so for several years. It also gave me the chance to look up a few old friends from my teenage years. Sadly Gillian, who had taken my virginity, and I hers, the last time I’d spent Christmas ‘at home’, was now away at University, so any hopes I had of a repeat performance were dashed.
When we returned to school in the new year, I was chosen to lead a major project, to be conducted at another military establishment. The idea was that we would spend a couple of weeks conducting an audit of engineering practices at the location we were allocated, then develop a plan to make improvements. It was a training exercise, so they did not have to accept our findings, but in the past many good ideas had in fact been adopted.
To my total surprise, when the venue was revealed to me, it turned out to be on an RAF base in North Wales, Anglesey to be precise, where we would be auditing one of the resident aircraft squadrons. Aircraft engineering was totally alien to us, but that was largely the point; to take us out of our comfort zone, as well as giving a fresh perspective to suggest alternative possibilities to the hosts.
After spending a couple of weeks researching and developing our plan of attack with my team, we were ready to head off to Wales. There, we’d been told, due to extensive improvement works taking place on junior ranks accommodation, we would have to be put up in civilian bed and breakfast digs in nearby Holyhead. A nice little bonus for us.
The first week of the exercise went smoothly enough. It was a matter of going through all of the squadron’s processes and procedures, finding out what they did, why they did it that way, how they documented what they’d done and so on. This involved asking loads and loads of, what must have seemed like stupid questions, over and over again. This must have pissed off the local engineers no end, but give them their due, they cooperated fully with us.
We put in six full, extended days that week, but managed to gather all the evidence we needed to generate our report. But that was the next week’s task. Sunday we would award ourselves a day off. A lie in in the morning, then a pub lunch and a few bevies, before a relaxing afternoon in front of the telly, then more bevies in the evening.
It's often said that most battle plans fall apart with the first shot. That's exactly what happened to us. We managed to get the lie in, but then, to our dismay, discovered that part of Wales was dry on Sundays at that time. The only places serving alcohol were private members clubs. We were in trouble. Or were we? One team member suggested, “Is there a British Legion club here? As servicemen, we're automatically Legion members.” This wasn't entirely accurate, but most branches welcome serving personnel as guests.
Luckily, there was indeed a Legion club. We gave it a shot and were admitted, “Provided you behave yourselves!”—as if we wouldn't! It was a typical drinking club, with basic furnishings and fixtures, but it had exactly what we needed: a well-stocked bar and snacks and sandwiches for lunch. The local patrons were mostly older veterans, some with WWII service under their belts. We probably nearly halved the average age there (at 22, I was certainly among the oldest in my team). Many of them came over to chat, sharing their ‘war stories’ or wanting to hear ours. A common warning from some was, “Watch out for Maggie-Mai, she likes the young ones.”
Maggie-Mai, it turned out, was a fifty something widowed grandmother. Her late husband had been a former Royal Navy sailor and later trawler man. He’d died in a tragic accident at sea on his fishing boat, some fifteen years previously. Maggie had never remarried, but allegedly still had a fearsome sexual appetite, particularly for her ‘toy boys’.
She was, at that moment, at a table across the room from our group, but could be seen glancing in our direction every now and then, I assume trying to decide which of us would be her target. How to describe Maggie. Well, the polite word would probably be ‘matronly’, but hell, there is no point in trying to sugar coat it. She was short, plump and had the ‘lived in face’ of someone who’d had a hard life.
Long before it became popular amongst women, Maggie’s arms bore several intricate tattoos, and some that looked distinctly prison cell applications. I was never brave enough to ask if she had indeed served time. Her clothes were ‘charity shop chic’ and far too tight for a woman of her stature. The button up shirt bulged, struggling to contain her massive breasts (42G it transpired). The short skirt barely covered her arse, leaving her chunky orange peel thighs bare. Another simple description would be ‘fucking scary!’
We were several pints in, as the 2pm closing time drew near and I needed to take a piss before we started the walk back to our digs. The bogs were tucked away at the back of the building, out of sight of the bar area. I took my piss, washed up and started back to rejoin the others. But on exiting the gents, there, blocking my escape route was Maggie-Mai (gulp, target acquired it seemed).
Speaking with her lyrical Welsh accent, she basically went straight into chatting me up and propositioning me. Where was I from, what was I doing in Holyhead, did I have any plans for that afternoon, would I like to come back to her place for ‘coffee’, etc!
