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When Bart Kolakowski went off to West Point, there wasn’t much time for girls, and the women cadets were highly disciplined and discreet in their sex lives. Not that he was completely celibate.

It wasn’t until after graduation and his first post assignments that he became what he and his fellow young officers called a pussy hunter. It didn’t matter whether it was South Korea, Japan or Panama, the word on the US base was that pussy hunting was like shooting fish in a barrel.

It must be a universal thing among women around the world. Word spread that the now Captain Kolakowski would give them something they wouldn’t believe and would remember for the rest of their lives.

There seemed to always be young women available around these posts for fucking, getting blowjobs and pussy eating. Bart found that although he was a willing pussy eater, women, regardless of the country wanted to get to know his cock: in their pussies and/or in their mouths.

It was in England when he was attached to an RAF wing in Suffolk that Bart found that he had a lot to learn about women. He was twenty-seven and one night in a pub met Margaret Harper, a fifty-six-year-old widow. It was getting late, and the red-headed Mrs. Harper was looking prettier and prettier. “Soldier boy, are we going to sit here all night and chat? My flat isn’t too far, and I assure you my bed isn’t warm, but it could be.”

See what I mean about shooting fish in a barrel.

Captain Kolakowski had a weekend pass, and it was Friday night. It would be fair to say that he didn’t get out of Mrs. Harper’s bed until Sunday midday.

Maggie Harper had not had a good fucking since well before her husband died eight years ago. Oh, she’d gotten laid, but not like Bart fucked her and Mr. Harper wasn’t the only one familiar with her muffy as she called it, but she’d never had one so long and fat.

“Captain, do you think I can make it hard again if I put it in my mouth?”

He laughed, “Maggie, it hasn’t been out of your pussy or your mouth too often, last night or this morning,” he told her on Saturday.

“Oh Bart, I hope you’re not complaining. Mrs. Harper’s muffy has been hungry for a long, long time.”

Of course, the US and the UK were not at war with anyone, which meant that the Captain’s duties were light and for the most part, he had a nine-to-five schedule, Monday through Friday. That meant that over the next six months on weekends you could find him at Mrs. Harper’s or in Mrs. Harper, if you want to think of it that way.

Those first few weekends were fucking, cock sucking marathons. At his age, it didn’t take much to get his cock ready for more. At her age, Maggie Harper, as she said, had a muffy that had been hungry for a long time.

It wasn’t that he had no interest in eating her muffy; it was that the fucking and blowjobs were so good and Mrs. Harper was so willing. Let me reiterate, those blowjobs were so good. Unlike every woman he’d been with, Maggie greedily took every inch of his long cock. Her mouth was as hungry as her muffy.

It happened on a Saturday morning, “Bart, you know my husband died eight years ago, and was sick for another three years before that, I know I’m an old lady, but my muffy would be grateful for the feeling of your tongue, and my mouth would be happy to reciprocate.”

The fact that Mrs. Harper’s mouth had recently, that is in the last hour, made his cock disappear down her throat until he sprayed her tonsils with his man cream, broke down whatever defenses he might have had.

It was by almost thirty years the oldest pussy he’d ever eaten. He’d have to get comfortable with the word muffy.

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