Shared By The Soldiers (2 page)

2

CHRIS

W
hat I wouldn’t give to touch my Amy right now. Those soft pink nipples. That beautiful round ass. I wish I could smell her pussy, taste her lips, see her eyelids flutter as I climb on top of her in our soft warm bed, pushing my hard cock into her hot wet cunt, the force of my thrust turning her smile into a moan.

Has it really been a year? Just a year? It seems longer, in a way, though sometimes it seems like it was just yesterday when they shipped me out.

Don’t get me wrong, I am proud to be here, proud to be serving my country, serving the WORLD really. I feel happy and complete in a strange way, especially after those desolate, freewheeling years. Drugs in the car, fighting in the streets, fucking random women in bathrooms and against the rough walls in alleyways. I was in real danger of seriously screwing up as a kid, I realize now as I look around the mess hall and see the faces of my military brothers and sisters, my new family. The Marines saved me, I think. Saved me from myself.

But Amy was the first step to my salvation, I know. Meeting a woman like that: sweet, innocent, devastatingly beautiful in her own way. No way a woman like that falls for a guy like me, is what I thought when I first met her four years ago. And so, when it was clear we were falling in love, I married her as soon as I could afford to buy a ring. Seal the fucking deal, I told myself.

So we’ve been married three years now; known each other for four. And now it’s been one year apart. So we’ve been apart for one-third of our entire young married lives! That’s crazy!

How is she feeling? What is she doing? What does she even look like these days?

Of course, I know the answers to all these questions. I am in the military, not in a goddamn prison. I see her face every few days on my computer, and I hear her voice, see her smile, look into her eyes. She still looks like my Amy, and I love watching her smile as she tells me about her days, her weekends, what she’s been doing to pass the time.

Yes, I love watching her. In fact the other day I asked her to stand up and back away from the camera a bit so I could see her magnificent body. She was embarrassed at first, but she did it, and although I could tell that she’s put on a bit of weight around her ass and thighs, perhaps even got a small gut now, the sight turned me on in a way I haven’t experienced from my private fantasies when I jerk myself off every night under the covers of my military-issue bunk.

And ever since I saw her shyly stand up and twirl in front of the camera, show me her round ass in those tight black yoga pants she likes to wear around the house, bend over slightly and push her tits together to show me some cleavage . . . yes, ever since I saw that, my fantasies are consumed by this image of her on that computer screen. It’s strange, actually—the fantasy isn’t just my Amy, but it’s the act of WATCHING her that is getting me hard as a fucking rock when I grab my cock these days and jerk myself off whenever I get a chance.

Now I shake my head and try to focus on my surroundings again. I am in the mess hall, finishing up lunch with my brothers. The men around me have been talking loudly, making lewd jokes, throwing food around like children in the school cafeteria. The mood is good here these days. It’s not like the early days of the War on Terror. I mean, yes, there is always the sense that we can be called upon at any time, be attacked at any time even, but it’s not the same kind of stress that the soldiers before me had to go through.

I smile and join in with the banter now, laughing when someone jokes about fucking someone else’s mom, getting a blowjob from their sister. I throw a bet down when two guys start arm-wrestling. I talk about football, bitch about basketball, complain about how long the baseball season is. It is good. It is fun. We are brothers here, and it is fucking great.

Now I look down to the far end of the table, and I see my buddy Hale looking at me. He’s got a focused, meaningful look in his eye, and I blink as I make brief eye contact with him and then look away. I know what that look is about. It’s about last week. Last week, when Hale walked in on me with my goddamn cock out, my eyes focused on my laptop screen, my mouth hanging open as I stared at a video of my Amy.

It wasn’t a live video. It was just a recording of one of our chat sessions, and not even the one in which I asked her to stand up and twirl around! No, it was just Amy sitting in front of the camera and talking, smiling, laughing, telling me she loved me, reminding me to call my mom . . . shit like that. But I had the sound turned off and I was just staring at her on that computer screen, and it was getting me hard.

So Hale saw me and slapped me on the back of my head as I covered up my cock. It was no big deal. I mean, we are all brothers here. Everyone knows that the sheets in our quarters are sticky with nights upon nights of young men jerking off to fantasies of their wives and girlfriends (maybe even boyfriends—don’t ask, don’t tell, right?).

So yeah, Hale catching me was no big deal. It would have made a good joke for a few days, and that’s about it. But the next day Hale grabbed me and pulled me aside after our morning drills, and he asked me something that has been playing on my mind ever since.

“Do you know what a hotwife is?” Hale asked me that morning.

I just looked at him like it was a trick question. “Uh, well, ALL our wives are hot, right?” I said.

Hale just laughed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Hotwife. One word. Look it up next time you’re online.”

That’s all he said to me that morning, and I didn’t think much of it. It was only a couple of days later, when I remembered his comment while I was online, that I looked it up, and what I found sent a shiver up and down my spine.

Hotwife. Hotwifing. Wife sharing. Sharing your wife. Sharing MY wife.

It sounded ridiculous at first. Another man’s cock in my Amy? Are you fucking KIDDING me? I should punch Hale in the face for even bringing it up! And why did he bring it up? What, he wants to fuck my wife? Does he really want to get his ass kicked?

But I kept reading that day, looking through stories of men who were living the hotwife lifestyle, and slowly the idea began to take hold. I mean, it’s pretty easy to see why a man would get aroused by the sight of his wife naked, in ecstasy, nipples all perky, pussy all wet. Some of the best fuck-sessions Amy and I ever had were in front of a mirror, where I could watch my own hands squeeze my wife’s tits, see my cock slide into her cunt, watch her back arch as she came. But what if that was another man? That’s the issue. That’s what’s fucked up. Who does that?

“We do it,” Hale told me when I mentioned it to him a couple of days later. “My wife is a hotwife.”

I just stared at him, the color draining from my face. “So . . . what . . . your wife Susan has . . . what are you saying, man?”

Hale just laughed and shook his head at me like I was a child. “I’m saying that there is nothing that turns me on more than sitting across from the bed and watching my wife get taken by another man, sometimes two men. There is nothing that gets me harder than the sight of another man’s cum dripping out of my wife’s pussy, the view of another man’s balls slapping against her chin as she sucks him off. That’s what I’m saying, man. Think about it.”

I just ended that conversation right then and there, blocking the thought from my mind. My immediate reaction was that any man who lets his wife get fucked by someone else is a wimp, a goddamn pussy. There’s no way a marriage can survive that. No fucking way.

But slowly, over the next few days, I found myself reading more and more stories from men who lived this lifestyle, and to my surprise, I discovered that most of these dudes were NOT losers stuck in some awful marriage. In fact, in many cases it seemed to be the OPPOSITE! I found hundreds of men SWEARING that this brought them closer to their wives in ways neither of them thought possible. It opened both husband and wife up emotionally and physically, taking their marriage to the next level, STRENGTHENING the bonds of love and commitment instead of weakening them! But most of all, these guys said, it was just fucking HOT to see their wives in that way, to see them as independent human beings enjoying their God-given sexuality, enjoying LIFE.

And that night, as I lay in the darkness in my quarters, my hand reaching for my cock under the covers, this image slowly drifted into my mind, this image of my sweet Amy getting undressed by a nameless, faceless man, his rock-hard cock bouncing near her face as my Amy got hot and wet, opened her mouth, spread her legs, sucked him, fucked him, screamed, wailed, shouted . . .

. . . while I watched. While I fucking WATCHED!

A
t first I thought I was going crazy, perhaps because of the lack of any real sex in a year. But I couldn’t deny that my fantasies were being invaded by these images of my Amy with other men, my Amy looking at me with those big brown eyes as someone else fucked her from behind, fingered her asshole, came all over her tits. What the fuck is wrong with me?

But like with anything, after a couple of weeks of thinking more about it, what once seemed ridiculous was slowly sounding almost reasonable. I mean, I am confident in my connection with Amy. I know I satisfy her like no one else ever has. My cock is big enough, and I am in great shape. There’s no insecurity in me—not about my own body or sexuality, and certainly not about my marriage.

What about Amy, though? I mean, she’s a fucking LIONESS in bed with me, completely insatiable when we’re together, and she can be downright FILTHY when she gets hot. But outside she’s that sweet, innocent kid that was all starry-eyed when I asked her out on our first date, that romantic who burst into tears when I asked her to marry me. She comes from a nice Christian home, a home where she was loved and supported and SHELTERED. I mean, she wasn’t even allowed to go on unchaperoned dates until she was sixteen, which is pretty wild in today’s world, where fourteen-year-olds (at least the fourteen-year-olds I knew) were having sex in the backseats of the family minivan! Amy, MY Amy, a hotwife? Ha! I can just imagine the look on her sweet round face if I brought it up! I’d give her five minutes before she asks for a divorce and runs away screaming!

B
ut the human brain is a strange thing, and slowly I begin to convince myself that maybe I’m selling my wife short. Maybe I’m not giving enough credit to her spirit of adventure, her sense of daring. After all, I was pretty wild when we first met, and she handled me with skill and confidence, even though she was shy and reserved to begin with. She’s a strong, secure woman when it comes down to it, and besides, if I’m going nuts here without sex, what the fuck do I think is happening to her?! I mean, I don’t have much opportunity to cheat, but Amy certainly does! She probably gets hit on every time she’s out with her friends, and I don’t know how many times a week she has to show some asshole her wedding ring and tell him she’s married to a Marine before he backs off. Sure, she fucking loves me and would NEVER cheat on me, but stranger things have happened, right? Who knows? Maybe I need to put the option out there—at least that way I’ll be in control of the situation, perhaps even show her that I trust in her love completely, absolutely.

No, I think as I snap back to the present and realize what I’m suggesting. No fucking way. I don’t know if I’m ready for it, and there’s NO way I’m going to bring it up with Amy. No way I can even START talking about it. Hotwife? Are you kidding me? I can’t say that to her!

B
ut maybe someone else can, it occurs to me the next day when I see Hale again. Hale is from a town about two hundred miles away from us, in the next state. It’s not close, but two hundred miles is maybe a four-hour drive. It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch if Hale’s wife Susan calls up Amy one day, calls her up and says that she’s going to be in town for some reason, and since their husbands are serving together, maybe the wives can get together and talk. Talk about wife stuff.

Yes, talk about wife stuff.

So with a tremble in my voice I ask Hale what he thinks. My head is spinning as I say the words, and I feel a pounding in my ears as I listen to what I’m saying. Is this really me? Am I really taking the first step along this path, this path that could lead to my Amy, my WIFE, getting taken by another man while I watch? While I fucking WATCH!

3

AMY

S
o today I get a call from this woman Susan, another military wife like me. Her husband Hale knows Chris, I guess, although Chris hasn’t really mentioned Hale to me. Still, I guess Susan’s going to be in town for some work, and she called to see if I wanted to get some coffee or maybe an early dinner on Wednesday. So I said yes, sure, what the hell. I mean, it’s not like I need to be reminded that Chris is risking his life in some faraway land while I sit here alone in this house that seems big and empty. But it wouldn’t be bad to talk to another woman who understands what I’m going through.

W
ithin an hour of talking to Susan, I realize that she understands EXACTLY what I’m going through: those rising needs, the guilt that goes along with fantasizing about being touched by a man, no matter who he is, the anger that sometimes comes into play, and the weird way in which all of it combines to actually heighten your arousal to insane levels.

But what really hits me when I talk to Susan is not that she’s felt all this. No, what really puts me into a state of shock is that she’s actually doing something about it.

We are at a Starbucks in one of the nicer stripmalls near my house, and we have been talking for maybe thirty minutes now. Susan’s phone lights up, and she reaches for it and smiles and responds to someone’s text message.

“This guy Matt,” she says to me when she puts the phone back down on the table. “Someone new. We’re going to try it this Saturday when Hale can get online and watch.”

I stare at Susan as she talks. I have no idea what she means. Is this guy Matt an interior decorator or a house painter? What’s he going to be doing?

“He’s going to be fucking me,” Susan says when I ask her. “A couple of times probably. Maybe in the ass too, if his cock isn’t too oversized. Though an oversized cock isn’t the worst problem.”

I almost fall off my chair in shock. She is smiling as she says this, but it is not the kind of smile that makes me think she is joking. I watch Susan as she takes a sip of her iced tea, and I can see some color rise up in her face now. What, is she actually getting hot right now? Is she actually serious about this Matt guy? Did she really just admit to cheating on Hale?

I blink hard as I stare at this woman. Suddenly I am angry, and I feel like I hate this woman. It is a strange anger, and only when it passes do I realize that some of it is envy, like maybe I am feeling annoyed that she is bold enough to overrule her conscience and just go ahead and follow her body’s primal urges.

But then I go back over what Susan said and I almost knock my cappuccino all over the table when I process what she’s just told me.

“Wait,” I say, slowly, carefully, blinking hard as I feel dizzy suddenly. “Did you say that Hale was going to get online and watch? WATCH?”

“Uh-huh,” Susan says with complete nonchalance, sipping her iced tea as she checks her phone again. “Hey, give me a second, Amy.”

I watch this woman as she steps away from the table and makes a phone call. I stare at her painted lips, her curvy hips, her perfect hair. I used to look like that, I realize suddenly. I used to do my hair every couple of days, paint my face just right, spend hours deciding what to wear. Oh, I used to make sure I looked HOT for my Chris, and I know he loved it.

Yeah, he loved it. He loved walking into a bar or restaurant or party with me on his arm, with me all dolled up, dressed up, made up. There was always that sort of soldier’s mentality in him, like I was his conquest, his prize, something he had fought for, chased after, claimed with the sheer force of his will. And I loved that feeling. Loved how he’d put his arm around me when we were out together, smiling confidently when he saw how the other guys glanced at me and then stared at HIM, passing him looks of admiration, envy, even hatred for having a woman like me on his arm.

But now I look down at myself and feel a wave of disgust and shame pass through me when I realize that I am in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, with no makeup on, no paint on my nails, my feet looking ugly in these old flip-flops that are starting to smell bad. What’s happened to me over the past year? I was never this woman.

No, I think as I glance over at Susan again. She is older than me, but she is so well put together, so well groomed, that the men in here have barely noticed me. No, Susan is getting those second and third looks from the men who are sitting here sipping coffee with their wives and kids. I mean, that guy in the brown sweater is probably forty, and he’s here with his wife, and I swear he hasn’t stopped staring at Susan’s ass in those jeans!

What the hell is WRONG with me, I think now. Am I that starved for attention? Well, suck it up, Amy. This is your life. Being a military wife comes with responsibilities, expectations, the understanding that you will need to make sacrifices too.

And what sacrifices is SHE making, I wonder now as I frown and look over at Susan again. She is running her fingers through her perfectly set hair, smiling with her eyes, giggling like a girl. She is clearly flirting with someone over the phone right now, and no way is it her husband. I can tell. She’s got that look a woman gets when she’s flirting with a new man, someone she doesn’t know well but is very interested in. Is it that guy Matt or whatever?

Now Susan is back at the table, her face still flush with an excitement that she’s trying to hide. She smiles at me now, blinks a couple of times, sips her tea, and then takes a deep breath.

“It’s on,” she says to me, her voice sounding deep and husky, and I can literally feel the arousal in her right now. “Matt’s into it, and he’s going to come over on Saturday. Hale’s going to be thrilled. I can’t wait to tell him.”

I don’t even know what to say to her. I can barely look at her. What the hell is going on? Who are these people? What is this sick, perverted game they’re playing? I mean, I’ve heard of swinging couples and all that, but what the hell is this? Who is this woman sitting next to me?

“I’m a hotwife,” Susan says as she takes another sip of her iced tea and looks up at me again, a strange twinkle in her eye. “Hale and I have been living the hotwife lifestyle for three years now.”

“Hot wife?” I say, completely confused. “What does that mean? I mean, I know what a hot wife is.” I force out a little laugh. “We’re all hot wives, right?”

Susan smiles and shakes her head as she stands up now. “Hotwife. One word. Look it up online.”

She is still standing in front of me, staring down at me as if expecting me to do something.

“Now?” I say, blinking and looking over at my phone.

“Uh-huh,” she says, completely seriously. “Right now. I’m going to pop in next door to pick up a couple of things. I should be back in about thirty minutes. So look it up.” Now she grabs her bag and walks around the table, heading for the door, but as she passes me she touches me gently on the cheek and smiles once more. “Look it up, sweet Amy. It will change your life, I promise.”