Rescuing a Snow Angel Ep. 03

"How, Jimmy?"

Guiding Carmen to her knees, I had her kneel by the pillows and had Gabby scoot up slipping her now pursed-lipped face between her sister's spread thighs. Less said, I figured. I knew they would figure it out from that point. I returned to gently laving Gabby's glistening cunt. Not in any rush now, I circled her outer lips with just the tip of my tongue, staying away from her clit for the moment. She needed time to get used to being ensconced between a woman's legs for the first time.

"Lower, I can't...reach you."

"S'okay. How's this?"

"Mah, Mum, ah...S'okay, Sissy," came Gabby's muffled response, as Carmen's thighs widened to lower herself closer to Gabby's lips.

"Fuck! Yes, Sissy...it sure is okay! Yes, ahhh, yeah! Nice...not so...fast! Like that!"

I watched as Carmen slowly lowered herself down. It wasn't easy to smile, but I did enjoy it, while watching Gabby's first, tentative tongue maneuvers reaching upward into her sister's widespread oasis of moisture. Carmen's face blossomed into an amazed open-mouth look, as her sister's tongue tentatively touched her slit. It didn't take long for the hesitancy to fade between them. With Carmen experiencing her sister's probing tongue, I found it easier to concentrate on stoking the fires of lust in Gabby's cunt. Using a combination of my tongue and forefinger inserted and stroking her G-spot, I built up a massive climax deeply within Gabby while watching Carmen's head tilt backward.

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! Fuck Me! I love you, Gabby! Damn, Jimmy, this is so...fucking good!"

Seconds later, Carmen's eyes squinched closed and her breathing shorted into faster pants, moment by moment. She climbed to the proverbial mountaintop and screamed as her release sent tremors rolling through her body. Her head snapped backward, forcing her mouth into that familiar wide 'O' pose; signaling immeasurable pleasure. Her hips roiled. She shuddered, unable to take anymore. As though hit by lightning, her body muscles jerked, spasmed, and then tensed over and over. Until, finally, Carmen's overwhelmed body pulled up off Gabby's head. Falling face first into the wad of sheets and blankets, she collapsed alongside her sister. Curling up into a ball, she lay limp, unmoving.

I watched as Carmen's eyes roll up into her head, just the whites showing, in that state of rapture where one disappears while awaiting a return to consciousness. She was oblivious to her sister, still thrashing and bucking against my viscous covered face. The vision was wonderful, but I didn't miss a beat striving to make Gabby arrive at the same blissful gate; the one her sister just fell through.

Gabby, lifting her head, looked at me with astonishment as her body locked up, struggling to wring every last pleasurable sensation out of my tongue's battle with her slit, her clit, and the waves emanating from her G-spot, as I stroked it from within. She came nearly as strongly as Carmen, who still lay collapsed by her side. It took at least a full minute, maybe two, before she could catch her breath and start to speak.

"Is she going to be, okay? Did I kill her?" Gabby gasped out the words between deep breaths. She was, momentarily, in panic mode; until I reassured her that Carmen would be fine.

"She is just in sensory overload, Gabby. She blacked out for a moment. That's the result of coming so strongly," I explained.

About that time, Carmen groaned, dragging her arms across her breasts, as she regained consciousness and began to recover from her sexual peak. She rolled toward Gabby, blinked, and gave her a weak, wry smile. Gabby grinned right back at her, as the sparkle in her eyes returned. Panic gave way to excitement again as the twins lay like sprawled like wet noodles; nearly devoid of energy.

"Carmen, that was crazy!" Gabby exclaimed, when Carmen's eyes opened again, "I tongue-FUCKED, you, girl! And you fainted!" She giggled at the sight of the perspiration-soaked mirror image of herself laying unable to move or to even speak coherently for a while.

I found myself grinning at that conversation! My face had been bathed in Gabby's cunt juices and it still dripped down my chin as I tried to catch my breath for the next round.

In the myriad of positional changes that followed, I lost track of who was whom, in the name association game, and mistakenly called Carmen, Gabby. Quickly, she gave me a pursed, pouty-lips look; as she lightly slapped my butt and announced that she was Carmen!

"Sorry, ladies! But I can't seem to see any distinguishing differences about either one of you that would help me to tell the two of you apart. Identical twins are--identical--you know?"

"Yeah, well," came Carmen's smirky rejoinder, "maybe you were just too busy and didn't notice it, but I'm the one with the prettier pussy, Jimmy." Her mischievous eyes lit up with a laconic grin while reaching down between her legs to spread her glistening labia. "See, Jimmy, you haven't had this one yet. Isn't it prettier than the one you just ate?" she added, while running her fingers up and down her swollen inner lips. Lasciviously, she was attempting to bait me into choosing one sister over the other.

"Well, that's not going to be of much help in distinguishing between the two of you -- unless you're both always naked when the two of you are around me!" I chuckled, while avoiding answering her explosive-ladened question as to who had the prettier cunt.

"I heard that, Carmen!"

Gabby rebuked her as she came out of the bathroom with a wet washcloth and towel, intent on cleaning up some misplaced cream and my slobbery face. She flounced up to my face and plopped down near my head, spreading herself for a comparative look. Identical as far as I could tell, but I wasn't going to go there!

"The way to tell us apart, Jimmy, is our vocabulary!" came Carmen's counter reply, while taking my freshly cleaned dick in her hand. "I'm the polite one, without the vulgarity, and smarter, too!" she said, giving my limp member a couple of soft strokes -- looking for renewed life.

"The fuck you are, Carmen!" Gabby shot back.

Then both girls broke out in laughter. I watched their interactions with amusement. Clearly, they're great at ribbing one another -- without malice. It turned out that once I got either one of their bodies approaching orgasm, their vocabularies were almost identical. So, no, vocabulary wasn't going to be of much help in distinguishing between the two, I concluded.

Perhaps just getting them a different color neck choker, as a belated Christmas gift, would be the best solution. I'd noted in my overseas time that, by wearing a choker around their necks, Vietnamese girls tended to feel more secure, and had a sense of safety wearing one, albeit at a subconscious level. Playing, or twirling it, helped them ease some anxieties, as they waited for the next GI to enter the room.

Reflecting on last night's Christmas sharing of lovely supple bodies had eaten up some of those pre-dawn, restless minutes. I just had to wait out the tick of time, until dawn crested my window.

Another solution was to get up and brood over coffee until the sun cut a swath through the gray, cumulus clouds that had hung over the city for the past two days. I still had half an hour to kill before the rays pierced the apartment's dim shadows. My night light; my constant beacon in the night when I couldn't sleep, was helping to hold some of my past demons at bay. I rolled over and flipped the radio on. The weatherman promised a thirty-degree day. The city had a fighting chance of digging out of the frigid, icy mixture of snow and sleet that nearly killed a snow angel on my watch, yesterday. A scrawny one, that I had managed to rescue from the storm's savage grasp.

Twenty-year-old Rachel, a runaway as a child, -- came into my life that previous night. Although our encounter was brief, I felt it added a purpose for my living that evening. Her overnight stay and her exhausting sexual congress helped bury a few night demons for me. The fact that she also pilfered a hundred dollars, and fled the next morning before I awoke, prodded me to stay more vigilant around strangers. I had finally saved someone -- one from among the many that I had lost over there; Horvath, Koenig, Drodz, Talbert, and Esquivel and so many more floated through my thoughts. I took some solace in that good deed. Then tried to will away their ghosts from the present -- letting them slip back into my unconsciousness -- hoping they would stay submersed in the foliage of those dark jungles.

Sitting at the table, drinking coffee, and focusing on a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, I thought about a remark by an American financier, John P. Grier, in my MBA studies. He wrote, 'No good deed goes unpunished.' As proof of that, for having done a good deed, I found myself caught up an emotional meltdown triggered by the innocuous banter of the twin plow-girls. Just some stupid girlish bravado; talk about tying me up and jumping my bones for the weekend. That's all it took to undo months of therapy. Months that tenuously helped weave a semblance of sanity and normalcy in my life. Lest that a three-minute silly conversation, pulled me back down into that mental tiger pit -- as real as the tiger pits dug by Vietcong soldiers to maim or kill Americans.

The twins, having rescued me during another meltdown, came to understand the gravity of their words and how it affected me. They turned what would have been another Christmas of turmoil in my life, into a semblance of sanity. Pity sex. That was their way of apologizing for the grief they caused -- the same way Rachel fucked me as her way of repayment for my life-saving act, I suppose. No matter, it felt good; it lifted my spirits; it added a human touch to my survivorship.

Unlike Rachel, the twins hadn't run off to leave me as an abandoned castoff. That's how I knew I had a fighting chance of digging out of the mental tiger pit that often sprung up to suck me into it -- of stepping out into the sunshine and soaking up the warmth of a new beginning. Gabriella and Carmen would be here. The sun would come out and cut a swath through my trauma once again. I watched the brightness of the rays beaming through the window and land on the edge of the table where I sat.

Watching it creep toward me, as these thoughts played out in my mind, amidst the radio chatter, I focused on the Major's mantra. I spoke the words, softly, as the renewing sunlight crept across the table and touched my hands. The warmth felt healing.

Finally, rising, I cleared the table, cleaned the dishes, and then searched for the box with my suit and dress shoes. I had to prepare for work -- real, civilian, first-day employment. I pressed the wrinkles from an unused suit from centuries ago and ironed a white, long-sleeve shirt carefully hanging them in the bedroom closet. They were ready for my first day at work. I spent more time spit shining a black pair of shoes -- yeah -- GI issued, but ones I could now replace with the money from Mr. Montgomery's kind payment for watching over the vacant hotel complex for the holiday period.

The buzz of the gate alarm sounded, but I was prepared for it today. As promised, Monday morning, Mr. Mortenson arrived to discuss future accommodations. I met him halfway up the driveway; he motioned for me to meet him by the office. I did an about-face and trotted behind his jeep back to my temporary quarters. Opening the door, I motioned for him to enter and followed him inside. I saw his eyes do a quick survey of the room, taking in the clean-up and rearrangement of the furniture. It looked almost the way one might expect a hotel office to look, if it weren't for the age of the décor. However, its appearance didn't lighten his demeanor. He looked worn, worry lines creased his brow -- it was not the look of man who had spent a restful Christmas holiday before returning to work.

"Did you get through the ice, okay, Mr. Rawlings?" he asked perfunctorily, no jovial holiday greeting, just straight forward business talk.

Ruefully, I replied, "Fine, sir, all was quiet. I met the twins who came to scrape the lot. Very proficient workers. They made quick work of the lot, in about an hour-and-a-half, then left for their next job. They took some time to spread sand along the walks for the guys when they come back."

I left out all references and details of my encounter with Rachel, the snow angel, and Christmas dinner with the twins. Rachel didn't cause any harm, except to my wallet, and left without a struggle, so I let those details go unreported. General orders would have called for a full accounting, but I had learned in the Army that a full accounting was not always expected, if it meant more work for the grunt doing the reporting or the recipient's need to know. Dinner with the girls and what followed, was none of his business, since it didn't happen on his property.

Taking a seat at the table, I poured two cups of military-grade coffee. He took a couple of swallows before exclaiming, "Did you have this shipped in, or just beat some tar off the asphalt and brewed it, yourself?" I could swear I saw a slight smile creep out around his lips as he took another slug.

"Brewed it myself, sir!" I cracked back.

My thoughts flashed back to my first coffee brewing assignment at Bragg, before I left for 'Nam. I'd arrived at the HQ [headquarters office], earlier than anyone else that morning and proceeded to scrub the 'coal-tar' laden pot before making a fresh batch of coffee. TOP [First Sergeant] was the first to arrive and, after the first swallow, exclaimed, "What the fuck, Rawlings, did you do to this coffee?"

"Wrong, PFC Rawlings!" was his next response after I explained that I'd scrubbed the pot.

I caught shit for that the rest of the day from the office crew, but no one threw out the coffee. The morning clerk promptly filled me in on the art of fine coffee making.

"Don't ever clean the pot; don't throw away the grounds until Friday or Saturday maybe; just add new on top of the old grounds until it gets full then take out half and refill the basket again. Repeat as often as needed."

I related my experience with coffee making to Mr. Mortenson as small talk, looking for a way to ease his pensive mood.

"No wonder it always tasted like tar," he harrumphed, as he acknowledged how he also acquired the taste for the nearly paste-like consistency he, too, had experienced in his Green Beret days with Worthington, his former Commanding Officer.

A look of deep, vine-like thought seemed to have its tendrils wrapped around him for a while. Finally, he seemed to shrug them off and opened up.

"Rawlings, the Colonel says you have a background in something called forensic accounting," his voice came out like a low growl as he spoke. "What the hell is that?" he grunted. I sensed by the furled brow and pursed lips, that he wanted something more than a definition.

I took another swallow of Army coffee, before offering him a short-dogged version of forensic accounting.

"You have an external auditor, like Mr. Worthington's company -- that's like a guard-dog role, or perhaps a bulldog, watching over your business," I said. "They have overwatch of your company's internal bookkeepers' work, to keep them on the up and up. A forensic accountant, on the other hand, is like a bloodhound. That kind of accountant does a deep dive into all levels of accounting that might be doctored up to hide criminal activity."

Outside of letting him know that a forensic specialist prepared analyses that would stand up in a court of law, I didn't get too detailed by way of explanation. My MBA classes had focused deeply in the forensic side of accounting, I explained to him. I also explained that my background was purely in case studies and mock simulations that the professors created as part of our background training exercises. Those exercises were not too unlike the military's OB [order of battle] exercises, and as a 96C MI Interrogator; an MOS that I trained in before going to Vietnam. [Today the latter designation has been, euphemistically, changed to Human Intelligence Collector.]

Those, as it turned out, I learned were useless exercises and had no real-world application in combat over there in a non-conventional war.

"So, if I thought I was getting ripped off, you could find that out without them finding out?"

"I could certainly take a look into it and see if it looked the least bit suspicious," I told him, "but I'm not a certified expert in that field -- just getting started. Does Mr. Worthington know about this?"

I asked, knowing that I didn't want to get crosswise with the new boss. Can't just go rushing up a hill following the orders of another shitass lieutenant, as I came to know that so well. I'd already paid for that lesson, dearly. As I glanced down, I could feel the phantom pain jolt of that payment in the nubs remaining from my severed fingers and the gnarled ones, still attached on the other hand.

"He knows," Mortenson said, as he leaned back against the chair before adding, "Look, whatever you can do -- I'd appreciate it. More inventory seems to be flowing through this place than the progress being made here. Perhaps with you, on-site, as a kind-of overwatch position, you might be able to spot something that I've not been able to pick up on during the last four months. I'm bleeding red, big time, on this project and a couple of others. The Colonel will fill you in on the details, I'm sure."

"Now, about the rent -- let's call it a wash." He changed subjects and continued, "You can stay here as compensation for some of your work, but I'll pay you for your time on-site when you are checking on the forensic stuff. Whatever Worthington pays you, I'll give you half those wages, until we catch these sons-of-bitches. You okay with that?" He looked expectantly at me for an agreement to his proposal.

Mortenson had me at a disadvantage. I still hadn't read the contract with Worthington's company. I was so eager, when Sally pushed a contract under my nose, that I just signed on the dotted line in the heat of the moment. The rush of adrenaline in just having a job to stave off homelessness and unemployment made me throw caution to the winds. But Mortenson needed help, the kind I could offer, so I reached out my hand in acceptance. Mortenson's hand grasped mine. Among warriors to bind one another to the spoken terms, a handshake was all that was necessary. I'd hold up my end -- regardless of the consequences; or die trying. And this evening, I'd make time to read the damned contract; to see if I sold my soul to the 'company store' or worse!

As Mortenson stood and headed for the door, he remarked, "I'll tell the foreman that I've hired you to stay on premises as a night watchman against vagrants and vandals. We've had some of that so it shouldn't raise any suspicions. By the way, I'll have a telephone installed for you this week if Ma' Bell can get to it. That way we can stay in contact without having to meet up somewhere and risk getting seen together."

Changing into my suit, by five-minutes of nine, I was standing alongside Mr. Worthington, as he and I raised Old Glory, the state flag, and the black POW flag. As it unfurled and whipped about in the cold winter wind--it served as a grim and chilling reminder. I felt honored to join Worthington's daily ritual that the twins had commented on a couple of days ago. I found myself snapping to attention; just barely remembering not to extend a salute, as a civilian now. We stood there watching, listening as the sharp snapping of its material bristled in the brisk winter wind. Work was held in abeyance for a few moments as the Colonel pondered some distant thoughts before returning to the present; then we walked inside -- the start of a new day and the beginning of a new career awaited.