Camouflage

Outdoors, caught out, dirty talk, sweaty sex

The army camouflage greens were saggy, unsexy, and bulky.

The pants and shirt lay directly over Jordana's jeans and fashionable rugby top. The hat was daggier. Hat hair nightmare later in the day.

The camouflage face markings were just plain silly but were embraced by most individuals in this corporate bonding exercise.

Jordana put up with two strokes across each cheek applied liberally by an enthusiastic college. Work and a decent coffee would have been preferable to this —an insane corporate bonding exercise!

Those upwardly mobile middle managers and their belief that team games increase productivity.

They could all go crap on themselves was Jordana's feelings in the present mayhem of dressing up.

It got worse as the laser skirmish weapons were introduced.

The Pulse, a tag gun, was the instructor's personal favourite. He was trumpeting about multiple magazines, over 300 rounds per minute, telescopic, red dot technology, and a metal casing for a realistic look with a resin-moulded handle and only weighing four kilos.

"For the gun enthusiasts," he said.

Then added," The M41a inspired it, a real boy's toy for your day out in the bush."

Hey, thought Jordana, whatever happened to make love, not war.

A much better bonding idea.

The instructor was still blabbing about keeping your hat and commando shirt on as they had the sensor-scoring technology built through the fabric and the hat.

Yes, for the headshot.

Christ thought Jordana, the only way she wanted her brains blown out was through mind-blowing sex. She was overdue for a sweet fuck.

The rather attractive know-all instructor eventually got around to the lightest weapon.

The Scorpion, the name got Jordana sweaty and uncomfortable, not from the extra layer of clothing in the dry heat but the creepy crawly association.

The bugs, ants, spiders and cobwebs worried her.

Fuck the bush, basically.

It wasn't her domain, especially the prospect of lying face-first in the dirt.

The instructor said, "The Scorpion tag gun got out a decent 50 rounds per minute, and at two kilos, this is today's ideal ladies' weapon."

Jordana thought about spending the morning drilling the game instructor in the shed. Everyone else could play cut lunch commandoes. Screwing in the storage hut was a much better idea than being terminated laser-style in the scrub.

She then watched those middle manager arseholes pass around jelly beans.

They asked everyone to take one.

Not a goddamn frickin handful, and not to eat it just yet.

Jordana was thinking: talk about reduced rations in the field.

She needed to get her morning tea. Her usual creamy doughnut. Though she knew it was only adding to the love handles, she was slowly developing and not yet thirty.

Jordana sighed quietly.

A bean counter gave her a bean. His name was Jordan Phillips, and he ran Accounting.

Hot enough, but he never paid her any attention despite the similarity in their names. He was rushing to distribute the lollies and really only noticed her hand.

She screwed her nose- scoring a black jelly bean- her least favourite flavour.

Then it was 'rule' time.

The instructor had verbal diarrhoea and was so dull!

Jordana needed to use the ladies' room before they headed bush. Well, the tin shed to the side, fifty metres away.

She certainly wasn't going to relieve herself in snake and lizard territory.

She knew it was probably urban legend but believed the story of the girl tinkling the pipes in the bush and being bitten on the arse by a snake.

Jordana would risk a trouser snake dogging her in the bush, but these guys were testosterone gun-mad today and were focused on shooting off rounds at each other, not shooting off a personal wad.

She heard some of the game rules.

The limits were the site's boundary fences, apparently two clicks in each direction.

Fuck walking that far.

Jordana set her sights on a clump of low scrubby trees down the slope. Maybe a hundred metres away.

Coloured jelly beans arranged the teams.

They could eat it now.

Yeah, big reward, thought Jordana.

She was grouped with 'the ambushers.'

They would hide and try to stop the 'VIP'' from getting through to the safe zone with his 'armed escort.' team.

It took no corporate strategy to see that the game had been rigged.

The boss had all the fit young males and the power dressing, gym workout, sleep your way to the boardroom, and aggressive females on his team.

In contrast, Jordana was with the balding, overweight middle-aged guys.

The ones who always said yes never complained and took work home. In their cases, pure fear of 'being firing' was indeed more dangerous than the blank-fired rounds of red tag lights scoping through the bush today.

The world's plump, plain Janes were on the same team.

Fuck black jelly beans, thought Jordana.

Still, her team only had to hide, wait and shoot.

Off they went to the left and the other team to the right.

Then, they had ten minutes to plan.

They had a brief team meeting to strategise — but they lacked agreement.

They were not a team, but a group of individuals clumped together— they shrugged — and willy-nilly spread out to hide and wait.

Jordana wanted her spot, the spot she had chosen to get away from all this and pass the next hour before the break, the next group challenge, and finally, some beer and snags at the corporate bush BBQ.

I need the loo, thought Jordana, but I want that hidden spot.

However, she was beaten to it.

And a surprise too — by Sam Mason from Productivity and Marcelle Williams from Advertising. They were an unlikely pair and didn't notice Jordana in their frenzied groping.

Some arseholes have no decorum, indoors or outdoors!

Jordana headed further down the slope than she intended.

She wasn't fit and knew she would have to negotiate the incline later.

She wandered for about twenty minutes until, goddam, it was the lower boundary fence.

She looked around and settled on a clump of scrub. Next, she checked for creepy crawlies and spider webs, but it was dry and looked snake-free.

Christ, she needed to drain her bladder. There was no way she could make the lady's bush toilet back up the hill from here.

Jeez, how to do the deed with even a modicum of ladylike modesty.

Christ, guys had it easy: unzip and spray the nearest tree.

Jordana had the camouflage pants down, then her jeans, then her white cotton panties and her butt was nearly ready to greet the sunshine.

She squatted, then realised she couldn't release the golden shower where she wanted to hide.

And the fucking tail of the camouflage shirt was hanging loose. It would get wet.

There was nothing for it as she turned and lifted everything at the front and spritzed, commando boy style.

She was standing, spraying out in a high arc. She was full. She was concentrating on the pressure to distance herself from her hiding spot.

Jordan Phillips, the lead VIP escort scout, was reconnoitring along the boundary, looking for an easy way to win.

He had made quick progress, and this looked like a winning strategy.

When, whoa! That was one furry beaver on the chick from accounting, Jordana; what's- her- name?

He always remembered her first name, like the female version of Jordan.

Well, not anymore; the association of Jordana would always recall beaver forever more.

She was relieving herself! She was exposed!

He stopped thinking about the skirmish.

He realised her dilemma. She couldn't split her whiskers where she was hiding. Her army greens were around her ankles, and her white knickers were around her calves.

The sunlight was teasing her light, curly, honey-coloured pubes. They looked golden brown, like perfectly cooked toast with melted butter spread and eaten crisp and hot.

The sunshine warming her skin, sunrays glinting through her golden showery spray

Fuck a game!

Screw the chick!

Jordana had that relieved just finished; I didn't wet my pants look when she saw Jordan.

This wasn't how she had ever fantasised about Jordan, and she had once or twice in her shower at home.

She went from a content self-smile to flushed embarrassment. She scrabbled to hitch anything and everything up, but it was an uncomfortable jumble of clothes.

Jordana spun around to adjust everything — at least a little more privately.

Jordan was right behind her. Jordana knew this.

She adopted the ignore tactic, wholly mortified.

"I want you here and now. Are you okay with that," hardly the romantic line of her rooftop private dinner fantasy, but it was the offer of sex.

"Okay," said Jordana.

Her pants were down anyway.

He slipped his full hand between her legs from behind.

Jordana arched and rocked forward and held the nearest tree.

She had never got so sexually wet so fast. The excitement, location and encounter combined. His fingers worked her slit and arse. She enjoyed both holes being given attention.

The prick had two fingers in her butt hole, and the pleasure was rising.

Jordana didn't care how she looked. He was kissing the nape of her neck and interspersing in the trashy dirty talk.

"Your arse craves my cock. Your pussy will go wild when I insert three fingers."

Jordana took one hand off the tree and felt around for his cock.

Christ, it was as big as a gun!

That was the first surprise.

The second was being spun around and guided to her knees to meet and greet his trouser snake.

A rock-hard meat monster, the shaft and balls released outside the zip zone of his pants.

Jordana gripped it double-handedly, and there was prime beef to spare.

She slurped, spat on it, and worked it with her hands and mouth as a team.

Fuck, it was stiff and huge.

He urged her up again and gently urged Jordana to face the tree.

She didn't care what hole got his marvellous heated love stick.

She couldn't lose here.

Her sopping flexible coochie shaped greedily as the immediate winner, meeting his stiff pecker.

He plunged repeatedly indecently deep. The deeper, the better. His girth was driving Jordana to a deranged frenzy of self as her buttocks flowed backwards with his pecker to urge and keep his monster deep in her.

Cock never felt so good.

Cock, cock: all she needed in life was cock.

Christ, she had cock now.

Now was cock, and cock was good.

Perspiration trickled behind her ears. His cheek plastered to hers in a moist sheen. His breathing was hot on her neck. 

Jordana came with shuddering ecstasy, full of rapid shooting, pulsating pleasure spasms.

Her breasts were shaped as moisture packages within her bra. Her back clumped damp patches like the heat in a sauna was on max. Her thighs quivered clammy. Her brain fuggy with rising whiffs of musk.

"Ooh, oh, yes, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh," muffled under her hand.

Jordana didn't want an audience!

Jordan released a massive wad of cum.

Was it the location, or was it the woman?

He thought about that later.

The pair heard twigs break, movement ahead of them.

Several skirmishers — by the sound of it.

Jordan just zipped his fucking pants.

Jordana got everything back up reasonably tidy and secured.

Fuck she was wet between her legs like she had wet her pants.

Jordan whispered to her a quick plan of action.

She smirked.

His plot was awesome.

Well, the Boss took it with good humour and mentally noted who might be next in the boardroom.

He had underestimated Jordana's talents.

She had potential, as he told Jordan at the BBQ.

A sneaky, adroit tag player. Taking Jordan out with a close-range maximum scoring head red tag and The VIP himself, defeating the escort team single-handed.

Jordan shared a beer and snag with Jordana, telling her the excellent promotion news.

Jordana gave the new man in her life the wink.

She was experiencing pussy power and enjoying it.