Old Friends in Paradise Ch. 01

He eventually posted pictures on his Facebook page of his new 'friend' Gina, a United States Air Force MP working the same detail as him and as time went on I could see they were more than just 'friends'.

Fair play to him he did eventually marry her, adopt US citizenship and is now a very successful military police master sergeant in the USAF himself.

I gave it a while after him and after the disembarkation leave from my first Afghan trip I went to a rather good party in the squadron mess and met a new guy, Paul. We were all over each other from that first night and made out, two nights later we made love and it became a very regular thing. Of a similar age, both single, both heading in the same direction and we really got into each other, or so I thought.

It was another five month affair that ended when his application to do the UK Armed Forces Close Protection Course in Longmoor in Hampshire was accepted. The CP course had a kind of mythical status among service police and is regarded by many as the cream of the profession. I loved doing what I did and did think about signing up for it myself a few times, but it was quite rough and tough and some of the CP qualified boys I knew were a bit... well... up themselves.

He passed his course and was then flying across the world with Admirals, Generals and Air Marshalls, Government ministers and senior civil servants and had a great time being gung-ho and wearing all the coyote 5.11 tactical kit.

We didn't break-up as such, we just stopped contacting each other. I'd met his parents and stayed at their place in London and they seemed to really like me, then he'd met my parents in Dorset and my Mum said 'he's nice!', he went off to his first deployment in North Africa and that was it.

I emailed him a few times with what was going on in my life and got very short replies back and absence didn't make the heart grow fonder. His last email to me was 'see ya then' and nothing else. I replied with a 'yeah.'

I did cry a bit but recovered quite quickly, I hadn't seen him to talk to for months by that stage as he was in Hampshire and I was back at Brize Norton with an amazing but slightly insane springer spaniel 'Poppy' on airport security, looking for explosives or drugs and waiting for my second trip to Afghan, this time with a promise of 2 years in Cyprus and my third stripe if when I got back I signed on for a third time and another three years.

It was the early part in my second Afghan deployment; the start of a messy relationship and messier break-up with a good-looking but older RAF flight sergeant loadmaster while based at Bastion.

Flight Sergeant Ray Wilkins was nicknamed Rodge; with the surname 'Wilkins' he soon became 'Wilco' (more military shorthand 'will comply') so he went on to became 'Roger Wilco' then just Rodge.

Rodge worked Chinooks and C130's and was about fifteen years older than me. He was rather an intense bloke who came with a bit of a reputation that while he was hunky he was 'damaged goods'. Yes, doing the work he did he undoubtedly suffered with PTSD but then many of us did.

According to some of his mates and one of his ex's he was pretty fucked up long before he started to bounce in and out of hot LZ's and watch bullet holes appear in the machines he was responsible for.

I was down after splitting up with Paul, back in Bastion again and to top it all on reflection I'd probably grown a bit too attached to Poppy so was ripe for the strong, silent, moody but charming flight sergeant with a hint of grey at the temples and we started our affair.

I looked at him across a mug of coffee and he looked straight back. I smiled, he smiled. He walked across the room and sat next to me and we just started chatting. I met him for lunch in one of the Bastion cafe's and the chat rapidly went from a gentle flirt to red faces and a real suggestion that 'things' could be afoot.

I was just coming off of my period and was feeling a bit horny anyway, and within twenty minutes we were outside and hidden behind a steel container necking. Rodge was more worldly wise than me and our sexy chatter and suggestions had me panting, and I dragged him inside the container and behind some stacked but empty wooden MFO boxes onto to some flattened cardboard.

From I know not where he produced a condom and I dragged off his flight suit while he pulled down my new MTP trousers and we went at it. It was what I would call a 'quick and dirty' fuck - really sexy and quite nice.

What seemed like 'mutual attraction at first sight' morphed into a rather argumentative lust and was a bit tempestuous, but the lust was addictive and although we were in a thrown-together military base and airfield in the middle of the desert we still found lots of places to go at it and didn't we just.

I'd had sex with my two previous boyfriends and had quite gotten into it, but with Rodge it was out and out fucking, and the speed, gravitas and straight up rawness of it was totally new to me and really turned me on.

I went on the pill simply so we wouldn't have the fucking about with condoms when one of us dragged the other into a crew room WC, an empty tent, a safety equipment store, the back of a white 'Military Police' Toyota pick-up and various other places. It was quite amazing for a previously simple girl like me, and for a while there I thought it might be going somewhere.

Don't get me wrong, I did quite enjoy myself but as our shagging went on I was left hanging most of the time and made the mistake of asking him if we could explore that - perhaps take some leave together, go to dinner first, talk and actually sleep together afterwards? He went fucking spare and walked away frowning grumpily like a nine-year-old girl in the wrong party dress.

I soon discovered that any kind of high with Rodge always had a corresponding low, and he STILL had a temper worthy of a spoilt nine-year-old and would have tantrums, throwing things around and breaking stuff because he knew he'd get away with it. I ignored it as you are supposed to and he was stupid enough to start to threaten me.

I stopped this with folded arms and raised eyebrows learned at my Mum's knee.

The tension between us was obvious now and my colleagues began to worry and warned me, but even he knew it was going to be quite dangerous for him to try and assault me, I was very fit and very well trained to not only fight back, but to win AND cuff him afterwards.

It turned out his nastiness and mind games were infamous and as soon as he was deprived of what he considered his rightful attention he would think nothing of shouting at the top of his voice to his mates, or anyone else for that matter, what we had gotten up to and what a bitch I was to him, normally when I was in earshot - that's how I met Jan, one of his ex's and a freight handler corporal from the Royal Logistics Corps.

"Watch him Lovie," she said to me quietly next to the fork lift she was driving, "he's as mad as a box of frogs," she looked around, "we had something going on when I was working briefly at Lyneham three years back, he pretends not to recognise me of course." she sighed and folded her arms, "He started that name calling crap with me; but I was part of 13 Air Assault Support Regiment and after he started to shout across hangers about what a crap fuck I was, four of my airborne colleagues jumped him in the car park that evening and beat seven shades out of him and put him in hospital for a forty eight hours." she grinned across to where he was, "he stopped shouting about me after that... Hiya Rodge!" she called out to his back.

With that advice and support of colleagues and an understanding Boss I moved out of Bastion and swapped with a mate on the security team at the British Forces HQ at Kabul, and while it was physically a bit more dangerous and stressful, I actually had a better time of it away from him and his love/hate, hate/love and hate/hate approach to the opposite sex.

Within a week of my leaving, my team warrant officer had Rodge locked up when he started to throw a bit of a tantrum at the base police station when he found out I'd moved and no one would tell him where.

I lived quietly and reasonably comfortably at Kabul with my friends and once recognised by the team commander who had been an instructor on my dog handler course, I was immediately given a German Shepherd called Evie that I instantly became good mates with and made me feel much safer, finishing my tour and never seeing Rodge again.

So having done the leg-work through my initial signed-on period, then another three because I having such a great time I had gone back to Southwick Park and completed my qualification for sergeant. It was confirmed that once I signed up again they had a real pearl of a job for me to go with my third stripe that this trip would guarantee.

So after six years I could be found walking into the CJPU cookhouse at Episkopi tired after two long days on duty in my all-time favourite posting - Cyprus.

Stood in the queue with some mates my attention was drawn to someone new.

"Hey girls," said my roomie Penny with her usual suggestive drawl when discussing men, "Just have a look at the new GI Joe across the room there!"

I looked and saw the square jaw and fantastic body of yet another man in multi-terrain pattern camouflage uniform now common to the entire British armed forces. Someone from the Royal Military Police I figured, as he had the roughie-toughie look about him that they sometimes had, the little tab in the middle of his chest bore three stripes of a sergeant. He turned and noticed me staring at him and smiled and nodded. Sticking out of his pocket was the green beret of the Commandos, not the scarlet of the army MP's. Hmmm...

He turned and I saw his shoulder and the familiar green and black shoulder titles 'Royal Marines Commando and a green square beneath with the black dagger that all of the Royals wore, and under that on his right sleeve was the red service police 'MP' square we were all starting to wear on our camouflage operational uniforms. I'd worked with the Royal Marines before but this was the first Marine MP I'd ever come across.

He was chatting to the chefs about something he was obviously impressed with and evidently enjoying a laugh with them, he took his plate and wandered to the other side of the dining room. He looked familiar, but then having done the work I'd done in operational airfields that was not uncommon.

He was around the CJPU generally the next day, getting issued with his tropical uniform and again he was in the cookhouse at lunchtime. Later that evening as I headed back to the police station I saw him again with a load of the boys and girls energetically playing basketball. He was quite tall and just as I sauntered through I stopped to watch and chat with one of our warrant officers, a keen player himself, and obviously pleased that the new marine was like-minded, and telling me in great detail that he'd definitely be putting a team into the British Forces Cyprus competition that year.

The marine had a great body and his shorts and vest top showed it well. The vest was tight fitting, olive green and had '42' in large black letters on the front, I presumed that he had served in 42 Commando. I'd worked with 40 or 'Forty' Commando flying back to the UK after a deployment at the US Bagram Air Force Base.

A year or so later I almost arrested a young Royal flying back into Brize Norton from Brunei that was a bit unsteady on his feet and just reeked of booze, and I referred to his unit as 'Forty-Two'.

"Forty two is a position in the Karma Sutra sweet'eart," he slurred, "we are four-two."

I nearly nicked him for calling me 'sweetheart' rather than his possible drunkeness.

This was the standard Four-Two response I found out from the next Royal Marine, and I figured I recognised this sergeant from that half-company returning from Brunei.

The sweaty players stopped for a moment and he stepped to the bench for a water bottle and took a long draught from it, reaching down to take the front of his vest and lifting it to wipe his sweaty face. His six pack was probably the best defined I'd ever seen and his pectorals similarly so. His body looked great and he saw me noticing and he narrowed his eyes and smiled at me again, this time like he actually knew me.

I was charmed and grinned back again; for a response he pulled the shirt off completely like half of the lads already had.

I didn't know whether this was something he was going to do anyway or just because I was stood there and checking him out, but I didn't mind at all and my smile must have said it.

For some reason I felt I needed to respond, if not necessarily in kind but at least to show I'd appreciated the view.

Still talking to the boss, I innocently turned side on to the marine and casually stroked a hand down the back of my smartly pressed uniform dress and pulling it over my bottom, tightening the thing and giving him a hint of my shape and lace of the high-cut boy-short panties I was wearing underneath it that day.

I peaked from the corner of one eye and saw that he'd seen. He took another slug of water from his bottle and gave just the tiniest nod and smile back to me.

What a little devil I was, and I still don't know why I did it - other than lust of course!

I walked back to the police station giving it a bit of the fashion model wiggle that I did sometimes just for devilment. I went to bed that night and had the strangest dream.

I was back at an empty but anonymous arrivals lounge and stood next to the Royal Marines sergeant in his green 42 vest and shorts while I was wearing my tropical dress rather than the blue uniform we wore on duty in the UK.

"So which position IS 'forty-two' in the Karma Sutra then Sarge?"

"Come here," he said, "and I'll show you."

He reached forward, undid the top few shiny buttons on my dress catching a few caresses of my boobs, then I slid it off of my shoulders letting it fall to the floor (That actually couldn't happen as they'd been tailored and I had to wiggle them on and off if I didn't unbutton all the way) leaving me in just my sexy undies.

Next he was turning me around and pushing me forward over the bag-check table and pulling down those boy-shorts panties I'd had on then slid his hand from my bottom up between my shoulder blades to undo my bra strap, only to slide further up to grab my shoulder for a better purchase. I felt the other hand at my thighs and ready to...

Oh fuck yeah!

Which was of course the very moment I woke up.

My heart was pounding and my puss was swollen and one hand told me how wet I was. My bedside radio alarm clock told me it was 03:30 and I rolled onto my side to get comfortable and saw that my roomie Penny was facing away from me and sound asleep. Still in my semi-sleepy doze I was quite horny and knew I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep until it was dealt with.

I sneaked a hand down to my panties, the same panties I'd give him a hint of earlier that day, the ones he'd pushed down in my dream, and slid them down past my knees and with my eyes closed I silently masturbated my clit to the orgasm that wasn't that far away and was able to enjoy it without causing any disturbance to my roomie, even bringing my big boobs and rock hard nipples in on the action under my T-shirt, silent but for the final pleasured gasp of release.

Oh fuck yeah.

I'd been sleeping in barrack rooms for over six years and it wasn't the first time I'd rubbed one out with someone else in the room or surrounded by sleeping comrades and I know some of them did the same, and I had heard a few.

Especially the short Scottish girl from our support office who was reading the whole 'Fifty Shades' series that was doing the rounds in our block and she got quite carried away with it over several nights, particularly the one I remember most.

I'd just finished a rather late duty having assisted in the arrest of one of two lads that had fallen out over a local girl in the NAAFI bar. Sharing a room with girls that didn't have my shift pattern I stepped into the silent bathroom to undress and could hear someone enter and step into one of the WC's but thought nothing of it, hanging my skirt, shirt and jumper over a spare hanger I found in the shower stall. Taking my clothes and having already had a wee at the guardroom to avoid noise in the block I took my clothes and tiptoed into my four-bed room, two of them occupied the third with the duvet thrown to one side.

I hung my clothes over my locker door, climbed into bed and took of my bra, pulling on my T-shirt nightdress under the covers and settled, my head still buzzing with the pissed-up insults and threats from the two idiot airmen that had put away a few too many pints, and were sleeping it off in the Guardroom and would be standing tall before the man the next morning.

I heard the flushing of the WC and had gotten comfy when Annie, a leading aircraftswoman team clerk in the RAFP office tiptoed back into the room as I had done. My bed space was in the corner nearest the door so I could creep in and creep out as occasionally necessary because of my job while hers was nearest the window.

She climbed into bed and a beam of moonlight from a crack in the curtain lay across the centre of it. After a short while I could see that she had a book and torch under the covers. I could hear her laboured breath and see the movement of her patterned duvet cover at waist level and saw the tiny torch click off and the book placed on the floor, the shape of the silver mask on the black front cover let me know it was 'Fifty Shades Darker'.

Don't get me wrong, I brought myself off in private several times to each of those same books - probably those copies - plus another two or three of the same ilk, but Annie was obviously desperate.

After a few moments the duvet was thrown to one side and from the pitch darkness of my corner bed space, (I doubt she'd even realised I'd returned) I watched as her pale bare skin was moonlit for only me to see as she worried at her clean-shaven puss, quickly then slowly, quickly then slowly with the hint of an occasional squelch until she reached that goal and was forcing her hips up off of the bed with the faintest cry-sigh as she rubbed herself to completion.

I've never been tempted by my own sex but I must confess it was so nice to watch. Even though I knew it was tiny little Annie, it was almost anonymous and like a personal porn show just for me - and Annie of course - but I'd never mentioned it to anyone or felt any different about my friend, quiet, sweet, tiny little Scottish Annie.

Four years later and in my room in Cyprus I had been in the same state as her and the same relaxation technique had done the job and I was asleep in moments.

A day later I was to meet my dream marine properly. Unit orders had said that those of us available for duty should report to the gymnasium the next day and the day after for our new twice-yearly update on unarmed defence training, use of the speedcuffs we all carried, and the ASP batons.

These were common to all police forces across the country and the service police had all been issued with them on the understanding we undertook the same training. We'd all had a bit of a go but this was the real thing apparently.

Dressed in my skin-tight gym trousers and a T-shirt as directed and made my way to the sports hall with my equipment belt.

"Welcome ladies and gentlemen," called out the voice, "my name is Chris and I'm your new PTI. By way of introduction we are all going to be spending the next few days getting to know each other as we work our way through the Home Office Directives on defensive training, restraints, cuffs, ASP's and all of that policey kinda thing."