He introduced the “Texas gentlemen” to Regina. The tallest of them -- taller even than Tex—was a Marine Sergeant from Dallas. The fattest was a land-locked Navy Captain assigned as a p.r. liaison man who hailed from El Paso. The highest-ranking was a one-star General of Artillery who came originally from Houston.
After a few liberal rounds of bourbons, Tex handed out the toy Lugers and a generous supply of “ammunition” to each of them. He set Regina up as the target and explained the scoring system and the rules to his guests. When Regina dropped her robe to reveal her naked, strategically lipsticked body, the “Texas gentlemen” designation was immediately put to the test.
The General reached for his crotch. The Navy man sprouted a visible yardarm-—give or take a few inches. The Marine Sergeant reached out with both hands.
Tex repelled the Marine invasion before it could get properly underway. He scuttled the Navy with a warning. He told the General in no uncertain terms to secure his artillery.
“This here lady’s purely for shootin’ at!” Tex told them.
“I demand my choice of weapons!” barked the General.
“Maybe we could just play a little game of ‘Drop the Soap’,” suggested the Naval officer.
“Fix bayonets!” The Marine Sergeant charged again, and again Tex was forced to repel him.
“You can look, but you can’t touch!” Tex told them firmly. “Now them’s the rules! We all shoot, but Ah’m the only one does the retrievin’.” He pushed the Marine back behind the chalk line he’d drawn on the floor. “You first,” he told him. “Draw an’ shoot from the hip.”
The Sergeant slapped leather. The Luger fairly jumped out of his holster and into his hand. The upward motion to bring it to his hip was like greased lightning. The Sergeant really looked like a pro—-except that the barrel of the Luger encountered an obstacle on the upswing and went flying out of his hand before he could fire.
The Marine looked down at the protrusion responsible for the mishap. “Now how’s a man supposed to draw with a thing like that stickin’ out in his way?” he wondered.
“Jes’ simmer down an’ control yourself,” Tex told him. He turned to the Navy man. “Your turn,” he told m.
The fat Captain, showing off for Regina’s benefit, swung around and bent low in one smooth motion to shoot from between his legs. Alas, his filled scrotum hung lower than he’d realized. The momentum of the Luger carried it into sharp contact with the sensitive sac. The fat Captain sat down abruptly, took his swollen, injured testicles in the palms of his hands, and cried wracking sobs.
The General toed the line. He assumed the stance of a gunfighter, feet apart, hands tensed away from his sides. He eyed the target.
“Draw!” Tex gave him the go-ahead.
The General’s right hand slapped against the front of his pants. He pulled the zipper expertly. He drew. “Ain’t that cute?” Tex eyed the exposed organ.
“Smallest I ever seen,” the Marine remarked.
“Reckon that’s why he went into the Artillery," the Captain, who had taken some psych courses in his ROTC days, surmised. “Over-compensation.”
The General covered his mini-calibre cannon.
The contest proceeded by fits and starts, with moans and groans, lechery and frustration. Tex’s three friends seemed unable to stir up much enthusiasm for the competition aspect of it. The “target,” on the other hand, continued to claim their rapt attention.
One by one, they stopped participating, satisfied to let Tex’s marksmanship go unchallenged. They sat and watched his missiles score bullseye after bullseye, their hands straying groinwards as Regina reacted to the titillations of the darts. Surreptitiously, zippers were opened and hands turned into fists. Then, more openly, the three allowed their weapons the freedom for which they strained.
Nor was Tex himself any longer immune to the appeal of Regina’s sensual writhings. Removing the missile which had scored a thirty point bullseye, he found himself quite stirred by the pulsating of the warm, moist sheath in which it was embedded. The burning nipples grazing his cheek as he bent to the task seemed to send signals of acquiescence to the core of him. Tex wanted Regina, and he wanted her now!
He unbuckled his belt and let his pants fall to the floor. His shorts followed. His large hands fastened over her hot derriere and he pulled her to him, lifting so that her knees clutched his hips and the thirty-point target was brought into a direct line with his erect penis.
“Just you,” Regina panted. “Not them. Just you!”
“Damn straight, Ma’am.” Tex looked briefly over his shoulder. His three friends were all seated and staring at them, their fists moving in a blur of motion. “Eat your livers out, fellers!” he jeered. He plunged into the thirty-point target, scoring a bullseye. . . .
Now, on the flight to Calcutta, remembering, Regina Blue admitted to herself that for all his Texas clumsiness, Tex Kincaid had provided her with one of the most erotically memorable interludes of her professional career. What he lacked in savoir faire, he’d more than made up for in youth and enthusiasm and staying power. Even if she had given up prostitution, Regina told herself, that was no reason why she and Tex shouldn’t . . . She’d never vowed to give up her personal pleasure, after all!
Regina wriggled in her seat. The jet engines roared. Calcutta, and then East Pakistan and Tex Kincaid were drawing closer. Sex with Tex! It had been a long time. Too long! She conjured up visions of making love to Tex.
Alas! Regina was doomed to disappointment. The best planned lays o’ mice and men (and hot-blooded girls) gang aft agley!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Short Cut to Success
Luck was with Regina Blue. With war raging in East Pakistan, she’d anticipated difficulties in making her flight connection to Dacca. At best she’d expected a lengthy layover in Calcutta. Instead, she was able to board a flight which was just leaving-—three days over-due—-only moments after her arrival in Calcutta. The plane took off while she was still looking for a seat-belt to fasten around her slender waist.
There was no seat-belt. The craft was a bucket-seat job, a converted bomber left over from World War Two. Regina was the only passenger.
The stewardess wore a sari. She also wore a parachute on her back. She stood in the aisle with a ghastly smile on her face and went through a rote explanation of how to inflate a life jacket.
“Why?” Regina wanted to know. “We’re not flying over water. “We’re flying over the Ganges Mountains. What good is a life jacket?”
“We cross the Ganges River,” the stewardess replied.
“It’s already behind us,” Regina pointed out.
“That’s no reason to alter the routine!” The stewardess was huffy. “You know a lot of research has gone into establishing these safety procedures. They’re designed to reassure the passengers.”
“I thought they were designed to show them what to do in case of emergency.”
“Well, they are! And some day when you’re flying over water and you have to abandon the plane, you’ll be glad you know how to inflate your life jacket.”
“I don’t even have a life jacket,” Regina reminded her.
“There’s always one creep to give you a hard time every trip!” The stewardess retired, muttering to herself.
The plane bounced roughly through the air, the four engines determinedly out of sync. Half the time Regina was bracing her hands against the cabin roof to avoid banging her head against it. The other half she was clutching the jagged edges of the bucket seat in order to maintain contact with her derriere. It was like trying to ride a bucking bronco in a doll’s house whirling through a tornado.