The Ballad of John and Al Ch. 03

Compartmentalization.

Lieutenant John Barnwell had always been good at it. In his line of work you had to be, he told himself. You can't afford to be preoccupied or distracted when you're landing an F-18 on the pitching deck of an aircraft carrier at sea.

But John seemed to be able to bring his ability to focus to most of his more mundane tasks, as well. Whether it was his daily duties as a Navy officer, or the time in class working on his graduate degree, or -- usually -- even his time spent studying, when it was time to concentrate, John was all business.

It was just every other moment of the day when he was starting to have a problem. Ever since his vivacious fiancé Allison had informed him that she was ready to cuckold him. And now that's where his mind went every second that he wasn't occupied professionally.

They had been teasing each other about the whole idea for a couple of years now, but there was something about her pronouncement the other day that told him that she was serious this time.

He had no reason not to believe her; and while for the most part, that thrilled him, he was also finding himself deeply unsettled at the prospect of moving from long-held fantasy to reality.

Because she was just being so damn clinical about it. All along, she hadn't dismissed out of hand her interest in having another, or a few more sexual partners before marriage. She had just pointed out the issues with doing it in the close-knit community where he worked, and she had grown up.

But now he had been transferred to northern Virginia, and they were surrounded by strangers that they would never see again after a year or so, and ... well, she was starting to reveal that she had been thinking seriously about how she wanted to do this for a long time!

When they had made the move, she had decided to go back to school herself, while working part-time. In a Hooters restaurant. Because she had worked in one before and didn't mind the drooling attention or the prudish scolding of the business' critics. She had fun and made good money. And God knows her body was built for the uniform.

And then there was this whole thing about how she wanted to do it. She didn't want him to watch. She didn't want him to know who the other guy was. She didn't want the other guy to know that he knew or was in on the game as part of a mutual kink. She wanted to cuck him with a stranger who thought he was getting one over on the tall, handsome Naval officer who must be neglecting or failing to satisfy his gorgeous young fiancé.

And finally ... she wanted to cuckold him gradually, slowly seducing this other mystery guy. Or letting him believe he was seducing her. One step at a time. And every little prize that she surrendered to the other guy, she was going to then deny to him.

That was such a perverse twist on every cuckolding story he had read since he had first realized he had this kink.

In his experience, adult women didn't yield gradually, like a high school girl giving up her virginity. They either just flirted, or he had been balls deep in them on the first "date." Which is why he was so confused, and aroused, by the notion that she intended to let some other guy take her ... step by step ... and only deny him the things she had given to the other man.

How would that work? He couldn't get his head around it. There would be a point where she had seemingly-reluctantly agreed to give the other guy a hand job, and then she wouldn't stroke him to completion any longer? And then she would agree to a blow job, and John would no longer get those? But at least she would still be having the main course with him, just fewer and fewer of the appetizers? And how would that work on the other end of the spectrum? Would she grant the other guys sexual favors but avoid kissing him? Or would simple romantic kisses also be things that John found himself doing without, at least for the duration of her well-planned seduction, his first and perhaps only full-blown cuckolding experience?

His military history coursework kicked in, and the whole scenario sounded like fighting a rear-guard action; falling back before a superior force, surrendering territory in order to be able to make a last stand around the homeland. It felt like ... doom. And for some reason, the thought made him hard as steel.

He was used to reading stories where it happened the other way around. The woman "gave her pussy" to another man, and the hapless cuck had to settle for the occasional hand job, the chaste kiss, the sexless cuddle in bed. He wondered if, in her scenario, he would have lost even those precious pleasures by the time the hammer came down.

***

When he came into the apartment, Al was in the living area, on the floor, on a yoga mat, doing some stretching exercises. The television was on behind her, and some lithe Asian woman was doing the same exercises on the screen.

"Hey babe," she greeted him, and reached over to pick up the remote control and mute the volume on the TV. But she didn't get up. Which was fine with him; he liked watching her exercise. Whether she was in spandex tights and a sports bra, or just loose jogging shorts and a tank top like today. It sure beat watching the ninth inning of the Nationals' 90th loss, which had been his plan.

"Hey backatcha," he replied. "Don't get up! I'll be right back."

He passed through to the kitchen, just long enough to grab a beer and return to the living room. She had taken him at his word, and was still sitting on the floor, legs spread, stretching her sensuous body. Her sun-streaked blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail, which -- when she stretched her neck and pointed her chin to the ceiling -- fell all the way down to where the small of her back met the swell of her luscious rump.

God, he loved watching her exercise.

He took a sip of his beer and watched her bend to the left, one arm stretched over her head, until an appreciable portion of one breast started to spill out of the armhole of her tank top.

"You worked today?" he asked.

"Just the lunch shift." She shifted to the other side, and her other breast slipped into view, including just the edge of an areola. "Janelle asked me to take her dinner shift, but I've got to finish a paper tonight."

John nodded. He understood. College had been a lot easier when it wasn't on top of an actual job.

"But it's kind of too bad," Al continued. "My favorite customer is probably going to be there tonight."

John's ears pricked forward at her words.

"Oh, you've got a favorite customer already?" he asked.

"Uh huh," she replied, extending her legs toward him and then beginning to reach out to touch her toes. The loose neckline of her tank top revealed all of her magnificent cleavage. She hadn't made eye contact with him recently.

"So," John said, his throat a bit dry. "Tell me about him. What's his name?"

"We all call him FC," she answered.

"FC?"

"Uh huh," she said, sitting upright now and reaching out toward him with her fingers interlaced, her biceps pressing her breasts together. "Favorite Customer."

John laughed. "Oh, so he's everyone's Favorite Customer."

"Pretty much," she acknowledged, getting up on her knees and assuming the Child position. "Some more than others."

"So what makes him everyone's favorite?"

Al seemed to stifle a smirk, then went back to her poker face. "He's funny. He's pretty over-the-top with his flirting, but he's sweet about it. And he's a really good tipper."

John nodded. His heart was beginning to race as his imagination started running away from him. But he didn't want to appear to be digging for anything. He sipped his beer instead.

"And, um, apparently he's hung like a horse," Al added.

John choked on his beer. Trying to avoid spitting it across the room, he forced some up his nose instead. Ow, that burned. He caught Al suppressing another wicked grin.

"Apparently," he reiterated, zeroing in on the fact that she wasn't indicating first-hand knowledge.

"Uh huh," she replied, returning to nonchalance, bending at the waist, and stretching her arms out on the floor in front of her. Her tank top slipped forward, revealing a sliver of golden flesh at the small of her back. "Apparently he's worked his way through about half the staff."

John shuffled in his seat on the couch, adjusting his erection inside his slacks. "No shit," he mused. "So, you've got ... independent verification on this?"

"Uh huh," she answered. "Why, does that surprise you? I mean, he's got a reputation, and ... well, girls talk."

John was still aroused, but at the same time he was feeling a bit nauseous. Jesus. The thought that there was this mysterious, well-endowed stranger out there, plowing (plowing!) his way through Hooters waitresses, and his precious Al was swimming in those waters ... it was very disturbing. He had spent years loving the idea of another man sampling and savoring Al's pleasures. The notion that she was seeing some cad who might just ravage her and move on to the next conquest ... well, it didn't fit with his fantasy, but it was sure making him hard.

"So ... you haven't..." he realized he was asking without having planned to.

"Oh, no," she reassured him. Then she added, "I'm not sure I've earned it yet."

Good thing he hadn't just taken another swig of beer. He choked anyway.

She glanced at him, and then moved into another position. Still utterly nonchalant.

"So, yeah. He's a regular. He's been coming there for years. His granddaughter used to work there. Everyone knows him, and, well, word gets around."

John coughed again. "His granddaughter? How old is this guy?"

Al stood up, still utterly casual, and then bent over to put her hands of the floor. She stepped backwards, into the downward dog position. "Seventy-five," she replied, not looking at him, not seeing his jaw drop open. "Seventy-six on his next birthday, in November."

John swallowed hard. She knew his birthday? Oh, God. She had always teased him about how her older customers were cute and generous, but ... Jesus, he had always pictured men like, maybe, sixty ... graying and thicker, but still robust, like his own dad. Not someone decrepit and sagging like his grandfather.

He watched her move from downward dog to upward dog, lowering her pelvis, arching her back, craning her neck toward the ceiling. He couldn't help but picture her moving that way because some ancient but obscenely well-hung old man was crouching behind her. Bald, but coated with white hair from his flabby pecs to his bearded genitals, grasping her waist, forcing her ass down and her back to arch as he slid himself into her like he was sheathing a saber.

She had opened her eyes and was looking at him with amusement. "Is that what you want, baby?

"You want me to cuckold you with ol' FC?"

No, he didn't. That didn't fit his personal fantasy. But his response kind of died in his throat.

"Because, you know, I think he wants me."

Ya think??? John thought, but he was too tongue-tied to say it. Of course the old guy wanted her. Who wouldn't? But he was struggling to get his head around the idea of a 75-year-old man bagging Hooters girls left and right, on the strength of his saccharine charm and his reputation for having an enormous schlong. He could maybe picture some of Al's colleagues from her previous restaurant -- young women with voluptuous bodies, for the time being, but perhaps on the plain side above their tight t-shirts and shiny orange shorts. But Al was a goddess! Al was his princess. She just didn't let him call her that. Because that was her daddy's nickname for her.

Fuck. How dare a faded, broken-down old geezer even dream of touching his Al? Although Jesus ... he knew she was reading his turmoil and relishing it. Christ, would she fuck a guy like that to torment him, to give him his twisted fantasy?

Would she let the old bastard call her princess as he stroked her face with his weather-beaten hands while his hoary balls bounced off her ass and his apparently-massive cock rearranged her insides?

"Hey, baby," she was saying, shaking him out of his dystopian reverie. She was already on her hands and knees from the yoga, but now she was crawling toward him.

"My goodness, you're hard," she marveled. "Why don't you take that out and let me take care of it?"

John grinned and began to fumble with his belt, while Al settled on her knees between his open thighs. "You liked that idea, did you?"

He looked into her eyes as he lifted his ass off the sofa and pushed his slacks and underwear down his thighs.

"Don't worry," she said. "FC isn't the one.

"Unless you want him to be."

She reached out and wrapped her delicate hand around his tumescent shaft. She leaned down and ran her tongue up the fleshy underside, from just above his balls to the screaming bundle of nerve centers just beneath his knob.

"Is that what you want?"

Somehow, he avoided blurting out, "Yes! Yes! YES!"

"Hmmm. Well, that's okay. Because he's not my first choice anyway."

John tried to gather himself, as she worked her way back down his shaft, her tongue lashing from left to right as she descended.

"You've got a first choice?" he managed to ask.

"Uh huh." She reached the bottom of his erection and drew one testicle into her mouth.

"Who?" he asked, knowing he wasn't going to get an answer.

"Oh, baby," she cooed. "That's the whole point. You don't get to know." She wrapped her hand around him and tilted him toward her mouth, so she could engulf his knob between her soft pink lips and give him a suck. Then she released him again.

"But, yeah, I wanted someone who you might see every day. Someone who could smirk at you behind your back. Or maybe even right in your face."

John whimpered. God, he hated whimpering. He had been through some training about resisting torture. Not recently, but ... it was the kind of training you don't forget. But Al had a grip on him that no foreign adversary would ever have.

"So, the pool closes on Sunday," she said. She drew his other testicle into her mouth and sucked, and then released. "They're having an end-of-season party."

"Oh, yeah?" John breathed.

"Uh huh. So we should go. Because he's going to be there."

"He?"

"Yeah. He. The guy who gets it. The guy who's going to get me."

"He gets it?" John asked, in a ragged voice.

"Yeah. I've been looking all month for the right guy. Someone who sees me as ... young and hot and horny ... a little reluctant, because it's so wrong ... but still hungry to taste a little more forbidden fruit before becoming Mrs. Captain John Barnwell."

John gasped at that. He wasn't sure what was hotter ... her description of herself, or the reminder that by the time they tied the knot, he would be both a captain, and a cuckold.

He looked down at her, her face full of the familiar excitement he had always seen on it when she was giving him pleasure. Now was no different. Better, even.

He reached down to gather her breasts up and maul them together, but she intercepted him, her hands darting from their grip on his cock, to seizing his wrists and holding him off.

"Huh uh," she said.

"Huh uh?" John repeated.

"Huh uh." She locked her eyes on his, and hers were big and round. She shook her head slightly from left to right. "Those aren't for you anymore."

"They're ... wha...?" Oh, God, he realized, his mind a half second behind his vocal cords.

"My boobs are his now," she informed him.

"His?"

She went from a gentle side-to-side head shake to an equally gentle up-and-down nod. Almost -- well, not apologetic, but, sympathetic. "His."

"Who ..." John started to ask, but again, he knew that it was pointless to ask. She had warned him. Not knowing was part of the game she had promised. All he knew for now was, there was a him.

And he couldn't have completed the question anyway, because suddenly he felt breathless, the wind knocked out of his chest by the rising surge of his orgasm.

He had a strange sense of disembodiment, watching his turgid erection bob up off his lap, his glans swelling. Al's soft parted lips were inches away, but not touching it. Similarly, her small skillful hands were inches away, but they were occupied with his wrists.

His penis twitched, waved in the air, as if confused -- searching blindly for something that was missing; the velvet sleeve of a warm, slippery pussy; or a swirling tongue and a wet mouth; or at the very least the palm and fingers of a hand to give that little squeeze and release that gave the urgent spurting reflex some satisfying resistance.

But there was no resistance, and the satisfaction was not quite what he had come to expect when reaching orgasm in Al's presence. His cock pulsed, twice, three times, four, and his pearly ejaculate oozed out onto his belly. A copious amount, but not the exuberant splatter that usually delighted Al and gratified him.

Although Al seemed delighted nonetheless. Her eyes grew wide and her lips parted into a wide, toothy smile. She laughed in amazement and, maybe pride. The pleasure she seemed to be taking in having taunted him into a hands-free orgasm was evident ... and it was obvious that her pleasure was somehow more than just sexual. It was ... celebratory.

She stood up. Reached down and scooped up some of his viscous semen. She played with it between her fingers. John was still catching his breath from his interrupted but still intense orgasm. God, he wanted to see her slip her sticky fingers into her mouth. But she never did that. She was a kinky girl, but she hated the taste and texture of cum.

She wiped her fingers on her tank top.

"Okay," she said, putting her hands on his knees to stand herself up. "I gotta get going.

"I've got a paper to finish, remember?

"It's the only reason I'm not working tonight. Chatting up FC."

John threw his head back against the back of the sofa, as she trotted down the hallway toward their bedroom and bathroom. He let out a deep sigh. What had he got himself into?