Rescuing a Snow Angel

10 Ocak 2022 0 Yazar: sexhikayeleri

Big Tits

This story is a sequel to ‘I Got Lucky When the Dorm Lights Went Out.’ Jim Rawlings, as the leading character, appears in both stories. As a Vietnam POW, he has many unresolved issues and is doing his best to deal with those matters. Here, in this story, he has sex with a new, of legal age, acquaintance — nothing unusual for –


“Good morning Mr. Worthington. My name is Jim Rawlings. I’m a recent MBA graduate looking for work. I understand you might be willing to take in a green recruit, someone willing to work long hours, and eager to contribute to your company’s growth.” I said, as I began my first job interview.


Just over a year and a half ago, I had left Fort Bragg and made my way across the mid-west settling into a small-town university joining an academic life as a graduate student. The transition was rough but my exposure to a non-military environment was what my psychiatrist prescribed. Don’t close yourself away from people — get out — into the mainstream of life and overcome your fears, he directed. The alternative, he warned, would be a park bench, a bottle, and desperation — and, quite possibly an early grave, he noted.

The major knew me well. I had spent nearly two-years in post-POW surgeries, phyical therapy, and his psychiatric counseling at the end before I was discharged. He helped me enroll in grad school — a cocoon environment, he called it. Living in a dorm, with older students, will take care of your physical needs, he told me. While class time will occupy your thoughts during daylight hours, he advised me. I would just have to find a way to deal with the darkness and the enclosure it meant for me, he said during our last meeting.

I can still remember the encounter with the other graduate level students at the first dorm meeting as though it were yesterday. Today, now, I know better than to begin an introduction with, “I’m Jim Rawling. It’s been ten years since I left college. I got drafted two days before I graduated. Then four years, three months and three days later I ETS’d out of the 82nd Airborne, that’s in North Carolina. Not that I was counting …” What followed were silence, frightened faces, scurrying away as fast as they could — away from the crazy ex-GI. They fled, as quickly as they could, from the guy with the severed fingers and mangled hand; waving them for their awareness.

Like I said, that first day of grad school was a rough start. However, by the time I was graduated the major’s words came true. I immersed myself into academia, made some friends, got fucked by Gennie when the dorm lights went out, and overcame a shit-load of fears. I thought I was ready to take the next step, striking out alone into the business world.


My interview seemed to go well enough with Mr. Worthington. It turns out that he was also ex-military, a former Green Beret. Small world, I thought. He didn’t make a direct offer for a job, but said he would let me know either way before the end of the week.

As I stood up to leave his office, I inquired about an inexpensive place to stay — until I could find a job, I added.

“Where are you staying now, Mr. Rawlings?” Mr. Worthington asked.

“I have a pickup truck with a camper,” I sheepishly replied, “but since this is my first day in the city, I haven’t found a place to park it yet.”

I could just see the hint of a slight smile on the corner of his lips as he replied, “I have a client working on a major hotel renovation just down the street from here. How about I put you in touch with Eric and you see if the two of you can work out a deal on temporary living quarters?”

“That would be great, sir,” I replied, “Thank you, sir.” Then I stopped abruptly and nodded my head instead. Much too military I noted to myself. Got to remember to cut that ‘sir’ shit out on the next interview.

“Just stop by the HR Department on the first floor and ask Sally for Eric’s number and address. She will get you together with him.”

I thanked him, again. And made my way down the stairs to the front lobby and located the HR office tucked away behind a glass wall with a great view of the park across the street. The office was quiet, just the sound of soft music playing as I stepped inside. A bright smiling face greeted me with, “Mr. Rawlings, Jim Rawlings?”

“Yes, guilty as charged!”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rawlings. I’m Sally — the boss’s daughter. I’m also the temporary receptionist, temporary secretary, temporary bookkeeper and all other duties as assigned!” she giggled.

“That’s a lot of temporary hats to be wearing, Ms. Sally Worthington,” I joked.

“That’s what happens when my Daddy, lets everyone take off early for the Christmas holidays!” she answered, “We’re closing this afternoon also; right after we get you taken care of. Daddy says you need Eric Mortenson’s contact info so I have that for you. You can see the place he is working on, there,” she gestured escort sincan through the panoramic windows, “just across the other boulevard, catty-corner to us. And these are your keys and papers.”

My smile turned to puzzlement. “I came to get the contact info, but I’m afraid you are mistaken about the keys. I’m not an employee, Ms Worthington, I haven’t been hired; just looking for work.”

Sally’s face lit up like a Christmas tree as she replied, “Well then, if you hurry up and sign the papers you will be an employee and then you can take the keys and come back anytime to check out the building and, by the way, your office is across the hall, first door on the right, facing the park; it looks just like this room; but just two people in it. But you have to make it quick, because Chris will be closing up shop soon as well.”

My face matched the look on Sally’s as I scrawled my name as carefully as I could on the contract. I didn’t even read it or look at the terms and conditions. Somehow it just seemed to be the right thing to do — a leap of faith — Karma seizing the moment for me. It took all of my will power not to scoop up the diminutive doll handing me a copy of the employment contract and kiss her! On the other hand, she was not as reserved and hugged me with a welcome to the company friendliness of the holiday season.

I crossed the parking lot, watching the accumulation of new snow growing deeper, and drove over into the nearly deserted courtyard of the hotel looking for someone to point me in the direction of the project manager, Chris Mortenson. Nearly everyone there was in the process of packing up vehicles. It looked for all intents and purposes as if a convoy was about to embark for places unknown. We shook hands; the same grip as Mr. Worthington and he seemed to be cut from the same stone. I took note of his eyes studying my hands and then he quickly came to focus on my own eyes. He didn’t ask. He seem to intuitively know. I didn’t make an effort to provide an answer to his unasked question.

“Bob Worthington says you need a place to stay for a while. Well, I got one possibility for you. But I’m afraid it’s not the best of places at the moment. I have the management office suite that is still powered on. It has heat and water. But it could use a good cleaning up. The furniture is still there, so is the bedroom stuff. Come take a look at it and tell me what you think.”

We walked through the falling snow over to the unit. It faced the street as well as the courtyard and had a tactical vantage point for the comings and goings of the hotel through the main entryway. One way in and one way out. Mortenson was right; the place needed a good cleaning but I had slept in worse places. Before I could ask about the rent, he surprised me.

“I can give you three hundred cash, today, if you can wait for the rest next week, Friday. All I ask you to do is make the rounds every once in a while, and make sure there are no vagrants trying to get in until the work crews return at the end of next week. The front gate is coded and wired to an alarm in the office you’ll be using so you’ll know if it gets opened at night. You can keep your truck right out front. That way, people will see we have a guard on duty. Sound fair enough, Mr. Rawlings?”

“Fair enough, Mr. Mortenson. I’ll keep watch over your property until you come back next Friday.” I replied with a nod of my head and a grin on my face.

Two jobs in one day! I was expecting to pay for a place to camp out in my truck, but Karma took care of me with a warm bed, hot water, and place to cook. Surely angels were watching over me as the Christmas holiday had everyone rushing to exit their worksites. For me, it was just another quiet time. I needed to find something to do, to fill the void as the major said. Standing guard wasn’t exactly what the major would have had in mind, but it filled the need for purpose in my life at this point. I was down to using the rolls of quarters I had squirreled away for emergency funds and then hitting the homeless shelter as a last result. Now, with three hundred dollars in my pocket, I hit the grocery store first and then looked for a used bookstore to help fill the night hours. I had enough money and activities to keep my mind occupied until I started my new job, after the Christmas holidays, with Worthington and Worthington Accounting.

By the time I returned to the hotel from shopping, the courtyard was vacant and the parking lot was filling up with heavy wet snow. The radio’s weather forecast was for intermittent sleet turning to snow after sunset. I felt glad to know that I wouldn’t be sleeping in the back of the camper for the next week, at least. I cleaned out the office’s refrigerator and put away the perishables then made the rounds. I felt pretty secure in making the tour since there were no tracks anywhere as I trudged around the perimeter of the lot. I headed back inside, out of the steadily increasing ankara escort fall of sleet and buffeting winds.

I spent the next two hours in general cleaning mode. Opening a closet door, I even found clean sheets and pillows in the supply closet behind the front desk. Opening one door, I discovered a fully functional laundry room with boxes of laundry soap and softener. Thanks guardian angels, I smiled as I gave them a nod of appreciation for watching over me. With things squared away inside, I put on some condensed chicken soup on the stove to warm. Then, grabbing a couple of filled trash bags from my cleaning, I headed out toward the dumpster. I intended to grab a few things my truck on the way back before it turned totally dark outside. It was just a quick trip, so I hadn’t properly dressed for the weather — just threw on my jacket and went bare-headed out the door. Foolish, I know, but it was just a fifty-yard trip out and then right back into the warmth again.

I began to regret not putting a hood over my head about twenty feet out. The icy rain was cold and trickling down the nape of my neck, into my shirt, sending shivers down my back. I scrunched up my shoulders and picked up the pace, intent on slinging the bags up and over into the thirty-yard construction dumpster. Ten feet away I barely saw an outline that brought me up short. The sight of a prone form caused me to stop dead in my tracks. At first it looked a lot like a snow angel glistening in the freshly fallen snow. But as I approached, I spotted a barely discernable pair of combat boots buried in the snow. The unmoving body in them was sprawled in the shadows of the retaining wall beside the dumpster.

Flashbacks of passing the bodies of dropped soldiers as I made my way up the ill-fated charge to the high ridge in Vietnam shook me to the core. It took what seemed an eternity before I came to my senses; enough so that I reacted by initiating triage preparation. A quick check found a weak pulse beneath the icy crusted form, clothed in a tattered Army field jacket. It bore the name Murphy.

Murphy was completely unconscious and his core body temperature seemed to be almost non-existent; symptomatic of hypothermia. I knew that I had to get him inside and initiate a warm up of his body if he was going to have a chance of living. I struggled to pull his light-weight frame free from the icy-crusted snow and placed him across my shoulder, in a dead man carry position. It was not an easy task for a guy with three fingers on one hand and the other hand mangled by blows from my captors, but I managed to get him upright and began to make my way across the parking lot. The rain showed no mercy as it pounded down upon us. By the time I flung the door open, we were both encrusted with ice and soaked completely through.

Shivering, I knelt down, lowering Murphy to the floor in the office. A pool of icy water flowed from beneath his field jacket onto the floor. I sprang up immediately and headed to the bathroom spinning the dial on the thermostat to maximum on the way. I grabbed a washcloth and plugging the drain, I spun the dial on the water spigot to hot and jerked the knob out to fill the tub. Back in the living area, I began untying Murphy’s boots intent on getting him stripped down and into the tub as quickly as possible. His boots, even with the frigid water in them, smelled rank; as did the rest of him when the warm air began to circulate the odor from his field jacket around the room. Unsnapping and then unzipping his field jacket was next as I tugged, first one arm, and then the other, from the frayed sleeves. It was then that I saw the tattered University of Notre Dame sweatshirt underneath his Army jacket. My thoughts took a different direction at that point.

I had to stop thinking of Murphy as a combat soldier. I had to stop thinking of Murphy as a soldier, period. My snow angel rescue had become something else. The lumps beneath the exposed sweatshirt, now, told me I had to start thinking of this unconscious person as someone who’s name was probably not Murphy at all. I continued to work at pulling the frozen stocking hat away from its icy grip on her hair. Her face matched the dirt on her clothing, except for the welt mark on her forehead. In the dark, I’m guessing, she must have walked into the handle of the dumpster’s open door and got knocked out at least an hour before I found her.

I paused for a few seconds after getting the stocking hat off, then decided that the rest could wait; I scooped her up once again and gingerly lowered her into the slowly filling tub of warm water. I watched, mesmerized as water worked its way up the length of her legs, creeping up between her crotch and then spilling over her waist. As it flowed across her chest and reached just below her breasts, I turned the water off. The water’s warmth soaked the dirt loose from her clothing, slowly forming a muddy yellow tinge in the tub. That same warmth also released etimesgut escort bayan the odors from what must have been months of stink accumulated within her garments.

Murphy, or whoever she is, remained unconscious but breathing on her own. After a few minutes as I watched over her, the pale color of her skin began to take on normal flesh tones again. The heat from the water was doing its job of warming her body, increasing the blood circulation; a sign that she was going to make it through the hypothermia episode with some possible frostbite. The girl should get medical attention, I thought. But without a telephone to call for help, that would mean carrying her back outside into the frigid weather. And trying to find my way to some medical facility would certainly not be an easy task when you have no idea where that would be or how far you would have to travel to find someone that did. Nearly everything is shut down for the holiday season and the road conditions were only getting worse.

The dirt from her clothing and the associated smell compelled me to take further steps. I had thought to wait and see if she regained consciousness, but that didn’t seem to be happening soon. So, my inner self debated with my practical self and determined that even if she woke up her clothes still needed to be removed and cleaned. I reached over the tub and untied the electrical cord that she used as a belt, unsnapped the men’s jeans she wore, and gently tugged down the zipper. Carefully, I lifted her by the waist and scooted the jeans down below her butt then tugged them off one leg at a time. In the murky water you could see her legs bore the battle scars and bruises of a harsh life on the streets.

Next, I attempted to remove her sweatshirt. I was able to scoot it up above her tits, but had little success from there up. Fortunately, I didn’t have to remove a bra; she wasn’t wearing one. I was afraid of hurting her head wound and try as I might, I couldn’t get her arms out of the waterlogged sleeves. So, I retrieved my scissors and sliced it from the hem at her belly button level to the collar of the sweatshirt and then peeled it downward easily sliding both arms out as I did so. I stared at her; not with lust, but with sadness at the gaunt body before me. Most girls her age, probably nineteen or twenty, wouldn’t be rail thin. You could tell her frame wasn’t meant to be this way. There should be meat and bones with curves and softness flowing around her body — not these skinny bones lying in a pool of murky stench. I felt my jaw tense with anger at the thought of such mistreatment; it reminded me of ‘nam. I took the scissors to the last garment hiding her modesty and pulled it from between her legs. Pulling the washcloth from the drain, I let it drain and then refilled it with clean, warm water. Despite my empathy with her, watching the water retrace its path between her legs this time stirred me in a way that had me thinking about her as a source of pleasure rather than as someone in my care. I tried to brush those thoughts away knowing that I had a moral responsibility of caring for her – a wounded warrior or not.

As the tub re-filled with water, I gently washed the dirt from her face. An alabaster skin replaced the grime. It bore a soft luster beneath it as the blood flow warmed her lips once again. This face had once known kindness; you could just sense that it had once known better times. I managed to work shampoo through her tangled hair and worked out some of those tangles as I rinsed away months of accumulated grim. Similarly, I worked my way down her body, lathering and wiping away the soils. Nothing in her body tremored the way it would have if she had been conscious as I found my way between her legs. Not the way Gennie did when my hands wandered around her body the night the lights when out in the dorm during my MBA days.

I drained the tub and did my best to dry her off then scooped her up. I was glad at this point that I had made up the double bed in my earlier cleanup session. At least I had a place to let her rest. Her breathing seemed normal and her core body temperature seemed to be also; she just wasn’t conscious — I figured it had to be the blow to her head. I laid her down, covering her with the sheet and blankets. Then placed a couple of towels over a pillow and placed it beneath her wet hair. Unfortunately, I had no quick way of drying her hair. As an afterthought, I pulled out a tee shirt from the one bag that I had thankfully carried in earlier today and placed it on the foot of the bed — just in case she awoke.

It was at that point, that I realized I was just as soaking wet as Murphy, or whatever her name is. The office suite heater was still cranking out waves of heat, struggling to reach the maximum range I had dialed in my haste to revive my patient. I dialed it back to 80 degrees as the perspiration formed on my brow. I figured 80 would still keep Murphy’s body warm and help dry her hair at least and I could tolerate that level as well. I peeled off my soaked clothing and tossed them into the tub with Murphy’s stuff. Standing in my underwear, I mopped up the lake of icy water on the floor where she first lay.