I’m addressing you, James K, my creep of an ex-husband. Now that we have irrevocably ended out ten years of marriage, fortunately without children, I relish revealing to both you and the world-wide public an incident that happened at an early stage in our marriage – and you knew nothing of it.

I’m confident you will read this – since I know you avidly visit this site, and that the reference to Dublin in the title will prick your curiosity.

Yes, James, this is what really happened that wet March night on my fifty mile drive from outside Newry to collect you from Dublin airport.

For general readers, this was around the time the Northern Irish Troubles had wound down yet military patrols were still active around both sides of the border. On this evening my husband was on the last flight in from London, due to land soon after nine thirty.

As he had been away for most of the week – and I was still in the sexually enthusiastic stage of our marriage – I dressed appropriately. My scooped top black clinging sweater didn’t leave much to the imagination, especially as I was braless underneath – though a little black satin jacket ensured I could walk through the airport without attracting too many lascivious comments. However, I knew my matching black satin short skirt, black stockings and high heels were sufficiently attention grabbing to let him see what a package I had prepared for him. With my scarlet lipstick and my black hair piled high the way he liked it, I was sure we wouldn’t make it home before he’d had his way with me up a country lane somewhere.

It was dark but not too cold, due to heavy cloud cover when I left home, about seven thirty, in plenty of time. As I barrelled down the Dublin road I was fizzing with sexual anticipation at seeing him again. I had travelled about twenty miles and was now south of the border in the Republic of Ireland when I became aware of a tremoring in the suspension. Immediately I suspected a soft tyre so I pulled off the main road, as it would be too dangerous to change a tyre there in the dark, and drove a few hundred yards down a country lane before I saw somewhere suitable to pull in. I lifted the little flashlight from the glove compartment and got out. I was right, the tyre was almost flat.

I was annoyed. I wasn’t dressed for this and I knew that in changing a spare I was bound to get a little dirty. So, to protect my jacked I popped it in the car before bunching my skirt up to my waist to avoid getting it soiled. Then I got the jack and wheel brace out. I heaved the spare wheel on to the ground before squatting down to secure the jack in place and wound it up. Then it started to rain.

It didn’t just rain, it deluged. My car had only two doors, but one was too tight to the ditch for me to enter and the other already had the erect jack blocking the driver’s door. The little flashlight was suddenly totally inadequate. I could see nothing with it and there was no obvious shelter around. I was being drenched. I could feel my sweater already soaking; my hair, arms and legs were dripping, but I had to keep working, there was no option.

What a mess. I need to start loosening the wheel nuts next, but I could barely see them through the downpour. Then, in the distance, I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. I stood up and pulled my skirt down, smoothing the soaked satin in a vain attempt to tidy my appearance. I could see the headlights now; they were higher than a car’s and as it grew closer I could hear the rasp of a big engine. It must be a truck.

While yards from me I made it out as an Irish Army truck with a canvas top, and as it pulled up beside me I could see the uniformed passenger in the front cab grinning down at me.
“Looks like you could do with a hand, Miss,” he shouted out. The truck pulled in at the front of my car.

The passenger and the driver, a big man, got out pulling on waterproofs. As they got closer to me, the driver’s eyes widened.
“Jesus, you’re soaked through. You’d better climb up into the back and get dried off. We’ll change your wheel”

Just so you know, James, I was almost crying with relief and felt so grateful that I opened my arms to him in an emotional thank-you and embraced his already soaking oilskin torso.
“Thank you! Thank you,” I gushed. “That was turning into a nightmare!”
I felt him pull me so close that his stubble scraped against my face and I heard him whisper, “Relax now, sweetheart. Just get into the truck. You can thank me later.”
I felt his big hand grope my breast as he spoke.

Yes, James, I was being rescued from catastrophe by a big full-blooded male and a surreptitious grope was a cheap price to pay. Anyway, such a scenario matched your occasional fantasy, so I didn’t feel guilty. I thought it might get you going later.

By this stage the flaps at the back of the truck had opened enough for me to see a squad of soldiers clustered inside, illuminated by a weak yellow glow from a bulkhead light. Already hands were thrusting down to help me, while my saviour driver lifted me high towards the tailboard – his hand slipping up under my skirt in the process, whether by accident or design. Whichever, it lingered; in fact, he was still trying to finger me as the others pulled me inside.

He jumped up on the footrest until his head and shoulders were above the tailgate and said, “Take good care of this lady, Corporal. Get her out of those soaking clothes and get a blanket for her. We’re going to change the wheel; you entertain her here meantime.”

I looked around. In the weak light I could see about ten of them, all armed with rifles, which sent a peculiar frisson through me. They were all grinning. The corporal guided me down onto a slatted wooden seat beside him. “Sergeant’s orders, Miss,” he said grabbing the hem of my sweater and starting to lift it up. “Got to get these off you.” I struggled ineffectually against him for a moment but I knew he was just doing as he was ordered and surrendered. Then I remembered – I wasn’t wearing a bra! Whistles of approval filled the back of the truck as my top was stripped bare.

Strangely, their response empowered me. Determined to take charge of my own destiny, I stood up and removed my dripping skirt myself. One of the younger soldiers took it from me saying he would put it and my sweater in front of a small heater they had at the bulkhead, but the majority of them simply applauded or whistled. I knew, despite my soaking hair hanging around me, that my appearance wasn’t too short of any virile man’s wet dream, standing there in matching black high heels, stockings and thong with large firm breasts and upward pointing nipples that were erect and quivering either from the chill or the excitement.

The corporal stood up and moved in front of me. “We’ve been lying in ditches for the past twenty-four hours, Miss,” he said, his voice quavering, “this is the last thing any of us were ever expecting to see!” He reached his trembling right hand out and cupped my naked left breast. “I’ve just got to touch you to make sure you’re real!”

You’ll be interested to know, James, that I didn’t recoil, didn’t push him away. In fact, I felt the urge to demonstrate that I was actually in some sort of perverse control; so, with the stripper’s rhythm that I know used to turn you on so much, I lifted my hands above my head and pirouetted in the dim light.

Now hands were sliding all over my torso as others followed the corporal’s lead to check my reality while I revolved in front of them. As they surrounded me their closeness hampered my movement. I gently pushed free and leaned back against the tarpaulin, my arms stretched out in crucifixion pose and my long legs apart.

They converged on me. There were even some on their knees stroking the length my stockinged legs from my high heels up to my groin. Others jockeyed for position around my breasts. Yes, James, you’ve guessed it: all the attention and groping were making me horny, and when the corporal began to kiss me on the mouth I didn’t hold back.

He grabbed my hand and placed it on his naked cock, which I willingly started to wank. Events began to escalate as I felt my thong pulled aside and my legs pushed wider apart as an unseen mouth began to lick me. That’s right, James, you know how I love that – though you didn’t do it too often. Within moments I could feel a climax building while still wanking the corporal’s cock furiously.

I struggled to remain upright as the corporal started to pull me to the floor. He wanted into my cunt, but I was too close to an explosive orgasm that I couldn’t abandon. Multi-tasking, I clamped my unseen vaginal benefactor tight against my cunt with one hand while maintaining the wanking rhythm on the corporal’s cock with the other. In slow motion, we tumbled, in a mess of bodies to the floor.

The corporal could now see that I was being eaten out and that I was revelling in it. “Suck me, you dirty cunt,” he hissed, “Suck me empty!” forcing my head down with his hand. I complied, taking his cock deep into my throat – remember how good you used to tell me I was at it, James? – grabbing his balls and squeezing them until he emptied them into me. Simultaneously, I came to my own rip-roaring orgasm, soaking the young man’s face and shirt as I held him tight, squirting and spraying my sexual juices all over him. You never liked that, James, but believe me, that young man didn’t complain, in fact, he wanted more.

Unfortunately for him, he didn’t get it as, at this point, the sergeant bounded over the tailgate. “That’s you back on the road, Miss,” he said, climbing in, before taking in the sight in front of him. He whistled. “Very accommodating of you, Miss – especially as they’ve just been entertaining you while I did all the work.” For the first time I felt a sense of unease.

As he approached me the others fell back. He trailed me up and kissed me savagely on the mouth, his stubble scraping my face as his hands reached between my legs and ripped my thong completely off.
“Come on, you wankers, throw a couple of greatcoats on the floor. We can’t stay here all night”

Suddenly, the magic of my control disappeared. “Turn your backs,” he ordered them. “What you can’t see you can’t bear witness to.” There was no stroking or nuzzling. He threw me onto the few greatcoats on the floor. In survival mode I decided to play up to him, feeling for his cock as he knelt between my legs – it was substantial, much bigger than yours, James. He grunted as he penetrated my soaking wetness (you know how wet I get with all that squirting), but after a couple of thrusts he pulled out.

“How many of them have you fucked already? It’s like slipping my cock up a bowling alley – turn over, you whore,” he ordered.

I was on my hands and knees now. He scooped a handful of vaginal fluid and smeared it around my anus, then hawked and lubricated his knob with it. His cock felt as big as a milk bottle as he pushed into me (yes, James, I know you always preferred warming me up with a wine bottle). Immediately he started pumping me violently.

I tell you, James, it was the most amazing buggering I ever had. He ripped my stockings to shreds pulling on their tops as he reined me tight onto his cock while unloading into me (so now you know, my stockings weren’t ruined changing the wheel, not directly anyhow); he milked at my tits as though they were cows udders, but the only fluid was what he was filling my asshole with and what I was hosing from my cunt. Then he pulled out, wiped his cock dry against my thighs and stood up.
That was it, no thank you, not a word to me.

“Okay, James, your turn next,” he barked. His words alarmed me for a moment – but it wasn’t you, my husband, he was addressing; it was the soldier who had helped him change the wheel. “I’m going to the cab. Don’t be too long with her, we’d need to get going.” With this final order he climbed out and disappeared.

I was still lying on the greatcoats, partially on my side. James looked down at me, smiling. “Your wheel’s changed, Miss. So time to say thank you,” he said, sneering, as he produced a semi-hard from his trousers. I didn’t have a lot of options, James, and remember, he had been very helpful. So, I beckoned him down beside me and began to lick and suck his cock to hardness as he started to give my tits a working over, not unlike the one his sergeant had just given them. What is it about these country boys, James – they seem to just love milking big firm titties? At least that’s what I’ve gone on to discover time and time again since our divorce. Hope you’re missing milking them yourself.

Anyway, my rescuer James definitely didn’t want to come in my mouth, he wanted to shoot up me. But a moment’s investigation confirmed to him what the sergeant had experienced, I was way too wet. So he grabbed the hem of a greatcoat, fashioned the coarse gabardine into a cone shape and stuffed it up me like an improvised tampon and twisted it round inside my vagina while I continued to wank him. I must say the greatcoat was a unique experience and quite enjoyable. When he felt I was dry enough he entered me again and began to ride. The others had turned around since the sergeant left and were shouting words of encouragement to us both. Strangely, this was a turn-on as I found their comments empowering me again – fuck it, James, I was showing off.

Yes, I felt back in control. These boys had come to my aid and weren’t going to harm me, so I gave them a good show. Soldiers were on their knees around me as James humped; cocks were everywhere, but the boys were out of luck – the best I could do was wank the occasional one, no sucking, as James was kissing me passionately as he rode. We came together, with me soaking his trousers from squirting. He pulled out too soon for me, though – I’m sure you remember how I hate that, especially when I’m still coming. So, I stuck my own fingers in and finished myself off as my audience cheered, wanked and ejaculated. Yes, my hair, tits and face finished up covered with soldier’s spunk – you didn’t know that when you fucked me later, did you James?

It was still pouring when I clambered down from the truck and they drove off. I wiped as much spunk from my hair, face and body as I could with an old scarf I had in the car. I then dressed, reapplied some makeup and lipstick by the glow of the interior light, and tried to disguise my dishevelment as best I could. I was sure you’d be horrified when you saw me at the airport, but you weren’t. To a cursory glance I didn’t look too bad. Sure under my jacket, the only garment still dry, I was wringing wet. But the soaked sweater, skirt and the high heels seemed to impress you, and the ripped stockings were a bonus, maybe a bit punkish with the laddering. And, of course, the no-knickers look proved especially welcome. Certainly, the just-fucked look definitely turned you on that night, remember?

By then I’d decided against titillating you with what had happened. A grope or so might’ve been okay, but I suspected a full-on gang bang would’ve been a fuck too far for you, especially as I enjoyed it. It didn’t matter anyway, we were barely past the airport perimeter when you pulled over into a layby and fucked me. I’d had a busy evening, and believe me, my dear ex-husband, you were the least memorable part of it. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

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