The Ghost of Timor – Part 3

My saddles waiting, ride it, your pony.”

– Genuwine

I was now living in Sydney, at the taxpayer’s expense, to act as the liaison officer between the Australian Defence Force’s overall Headquarters (HQAST) and my office back in Canberra. The job itself consisted mostly of shuffling reports from Canberra to the military planners in Sydney and peering over people’s shoulders to make sure that they weren’t about to start WW3 over every illegal Indonesian fishing boat that got lost in Australia’s territorial waters “accidentally”.

Not that there was much chance of anything exciting ever happening in that regard in 1998. By then, Australia had been effectively at peace for almost 25 years. Australians hadn’t fired a shot in anger at foreigners they disagreed with since the last boat left South Vietnamese territory in 1975.

HQAST itself resided on a very exclusive site high on Potts Point. Potts Point over looks Sydney Harbour which is what most people think about when they think of Australia. When the HQ had been built 100 years earlier it no doubt made sense that it should be as close to the nation’s fleet and in its biggest city. If Australia went off to fight in a war, most of the army and navy would then be leaving under the very noses of the Generals and Admirals who sent then and resided at Potts Point. But by 1998, modern communications were making that argument increasingly difficult to justify. The brass at HQAST continued to make every argument they could to stay in such plush surroundings at taxpayer expense – while living in Sydney – but it was only a matter of time before somewhere less picturesque and cheaper was found and a large, modern, soulless HQ built. Hello Bungendore!

But for now, I was the beneficiary of this historical largess. My job required me to be within one hour of work so, given what Sydney traffic was like, I was put up in the very pleasant nearby suburb of Rose Bay. Rose Bay looked out onto Sydney harbour and was just a stone’s throw away from the more famous Double Bay – think Rodeo Drive on the water – in what is known as the Eastern Suburbs. As a sometime visitor I’d never really liked Sydney. It was too busy, too noisy, too concrete-y and had too much traffic. But after living there for a while I came to appreciate that paradoxically, for such a large city, it could be quite pleasant at a local level. If you could walk to where you needed to go then a slow stroll under Sydney’s abundant and massive trees was no bad thing.

Rose Bay was a long walk to work but a fast 10 minutes in a car along the main road leading to the city proper. Few people of my income could live in such style in Sydney and have free parking at their place of business. So, on one hand I could say that I had landed on my feet, but I still felt very, very empty.

I have already said that the regular army (and navy) despised the reserves, so I made no attempt to advertise my double life as a soon to be ex-army Captain. I was content to have them all think of me as a simple civilian. That had its advantages the biggest of which was that the military people would be quite honest with me about their plans. They mistakenly thought that I would be too naive to understand the implications of what they were sharing with me. In their minds they they were covering themselves because they had told me and could say so under oath. They just didn’t know that I was onto them.

One of the things that I’ve learnt over my journey is that the Liaison Officer in any organisation occupy a special place in the hierarchy. Firstly, you are representing your entire agency, so you are effectively considered head of that agency when people you are now working with talk to you. You might be a middle management nobody when you go home but at HQAST I was a visiting king.

Secondly, the military love to showcase the fact that they weren’t all robots from central casting following the next Schlieffen Plan onto the Western Front. So, whenever any kind of function or show and tell for visiting dignitary was organised, I would get an invitation. Most of my weekly protein and carb intake came from eating posh finger food at these parties and presentations.

In between cocktail parties with visiting big-wigs I was shuffled back to my windowless office in the middle of a hideous office block on the dockside of Sydney harbour to read through reports and try not to fall asleep. Not that anyone would have caught me if I did. I was locked behind cyphered steel door that could have survived a nuclear warhead and only I had the combination.

All of this would have amounted to a small anecdote in a forgotten blog if my world hadn’t dramatically changed, again, in the middle of 1999.

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When Jeremy finished talking he stood up and walked over to Alison and uncuffed her from the chair. He then handed her her sweating martini.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I didn’t want your drink to get warm. That would have been rude to the gin.”

Alison slowly stood, legs still shaky from her orgasm, while Jeremy sat back down and resumed regarding her from the armchair. She hadn’t felt self-conscious from his gaze and now that she was free to move around, she didn’t see the need to cover herself. Quite the opposite, her sex covered nakedness and Jeremy’s obvious display of approval made her feel alive for the first time in years.

Her naked body was something that she’d once felt proud of, when she was young, but as life had happened to her her pride had gradually given over to shame. But she could see that, in Jeremy’s eyes at least, she was the object of affection once more. So, she was in no hurry to dress, content to parade around the room in front of him sipping her cocktail, wondering selfishly how long it would take him to be ready to go again.

She turned in profile and sipped her drink, her eyes never leaving his. She looked him over. A decent specimen despite his age. More heavily muscled than he used to be, probably more weight training than cardio which comes so easily the young. He was looking her up and down. He must have liked what he saw because she noticed that he was beginning to firm again. She decided that it was now time for her to take control.

“Delicious,” she said, regarding the drink. “You’ve done well.”

“You are too kind.”

“But I think that there is something missing…”

Alison handed her drink to Jeremy and then slowly knelt between his thighs. She looked him in the eyes and, without breaking his gaze, took him into her mouth. She felt the warmth of his soft cock in her mouth and tried not to smile – lest he slipped out – at his reaction to her attention. His head thrown back and a quick breath in told her all she needed to know.

The taste of her on him mixed with cum was a familiar one. She couldn’t think of words to describe it. It wasn’t something that she’d never discussed with a girlfriend, though for any woman who’d done ever it, it must all taste the same. “Tangy”, was that it? Maybe, but it was something that repelled you when it was expected but enticed you when you were in lust. And right now, Alison couldn’t get enough.

She rolled his soft member around her mouth with her tongue, tasting their exertions mixed with the gin. “Not too bad,” she thought. Still watching his reaction, she was almost oblivious to the moment that he began to harden. The folds in his skin began to stretch out and she again wondered at ability of a soft, useless appendage to transform into something so perfectly pleasurable and useful so quickly.

When she decided he was ready, she released him and stood. “Thank you,” she said, straddling him and guiding him in.

“Why ‘thank me’?” He asked in confused amusement.

Alison took her glass from his hand and finished it in one go. “I’ve always preferred a dirty martini.”