Uncle Matty

 Pt 1: https://stumblingfillies.blogspot.com/2023/11/yes-dear-i-am-zzzrunk.html

Part 2 (AI):

Lorraine’s breath hitched as Sylvia’s fingers fumbled with the straps of the harness, her movements sloppy but determined, the alcohol making her bold. The dim light of the living room cast shadows over their flushed skin, the air thick with the scent of wine and desire. Lorraine sprawled across the armchair, her legs parted, skirt hiked up to her hips, her eyes glassy but burning with need. Sylvia, now fully naked except for the strapon, grinned wickedly, her lips still glistening from earlier.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ hot like this,” Sylvia slurred, her voice low and rough as she positioned herself between Lorraine’s thighs. The armchair creaked under their weight as Sylvia leaned forward, the tip of the strapon brushing against Lorraine’s slick entrance. Lorraine let out a soft moan, her hands gripping the armrests, her body arching instinctively toward Sylvia.

“Stop teasin’ me, Sylv,” Lorraine murmured, her words still slurring but laced with urgency. “Fuck me already.”

Sylvia didn’t need more encouragement. With a clumsy but forceful thrust, she pushed into Lorraine, eliciting a sharp gasp from her lover. The rhythm was uneven at first, both women too drunk to keep a steady pace, but the raw need between them made it work. Lorraine’s nails dug into Sylvia’s shoulders, urging her deeper, her moans growing louder with each thrust.

“Harder,” Lorraine panted, her head thrown back, hair spilling over the back of the chair. Sylvia obliged, her hips slamming forward, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. The strapon hit just the right spot, and Lorraine’s body trembled, her thighs shaking as she clutched Sylvia tighter.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Sylvia groaned, her own arousal evident in her tightening grip on Lorraine’s hips. She leaned down, capturing Lorraine’s lips in a messy, hungry kiss, their tongues tangling as their bodies moved together. The world outside their heated bubble faded—Henry, the country club, the phone call—all of it irrelevant in the face of their shared intoxication and lust.

Lorraine’s hands wandered, sliding down Sylvia’s back, nails leaving faint red trails. She reached lower, grabbing Sylvia’s ass, pulling her closer as she bucked her hips to meet each thrust. “Don’t stop,” she gasped between kisses, her voice breaking as she teetered on the edge. “I’m so close.”

Sylvia’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Not yet, baby,” she whispered, slowing her movements just enough to draw a frustrated whine from Lorraine. She pulled back slightly, the strapon still buried deep, and ran her fingers teasingly over Lorraine’s clit, circling it with deliberate slowness. Lorraine squirmed, her body begging for release, but Sylvia held her there, prolonging the torture.

“Beg for it,” Sylvia demanded, her voice thick with desire and the haze of alcohol. Her fingers pressed harder, teasing Lorraine’s sensitive nerves, making her writhe.

“Please, Sylv,” Lorraine whimpered, her pride long gone. “Please, make me come.”

That was all Sylvia needed. She resumed her thrusts, harder and faster now, her fingers working in tandem until Lorraine’s moans turned into cries. Lorraine’s body tensed, her back arching off the chair as waves of pleasure crashed through her. Sylvia watched, enthralled, as Lorraine came undone beneath her, her own arousal spiking at the sight.

When Lorraine finally collapsed, panting and spent, Sylvia didn’t stop. She leaned down, kissing her way up Lorraine’s neck, her lips brushing against her ear. “My turn,” she whispered, her voice dripping with promise.

Lorraine, still catching her breath, smirked. “Oh, you’re gonna get it, Sylv,” she said, her hands already reaching for the straps to switch roles.

Pt. 3:

Meanwhile, half way around the world, Lt. Cor. Henry Blake went over to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a rye. As he’s drinking, Lt. Leslie Scorch enters his office.

Lt. Col. Henry Blake leaned back in his chair, the rye burning a familiar path down his throat as he stared at the ceiling of his cramped office at the 4077th M*A*S*H unit. The call with Lorraine had left him uneasy, her slurred words and evasive answers nagging at the back of his mind. He shook it off, chalking it up to her having one too many at the country club. Lorraine was a good wife, a good mother. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their life together. Would she?

The door creaked open, and Lt. Leslie Scorch stepped inside, her uniform crisp despite the late hour, her dark hair pulled back tightly. She carried a stack of medical reports, but the way her eyes lingered on Henry suggested her visit wasn’t entirely professional. The air in the room shifted, charged with an unspoken tension that had been simmering for weeks.

“Evening, Colonel,” Leslie said, her voice smooth, almost teasing, as she set the reports on his desk. “Thought you might want to go over these before tomorrow’s surgeries.” She leaned forward slightly, her blouse straining just enough to catch Henry’s eye before he quickly looked away, clearing his throat.

“Uh, right, Leslie. Thanks,” he mumbled, taking another sip of rye to steady himself. He reached for the reports, but his fingers brushed against hers, and she didn’t pull away. The contact lingered, electric, and Henry’s pulse quickened. He wasn’t blind—Leslie was attractive, confident, and had a way of making him feel like more than just a harried doctor in a war zone. But he was married. Happily married. Mostly.

Leslie perched on the edge of his desk, crossing her legs, her skirt riding up just enough to draw his gaze again. “You seem tense, Henry,” she said, her tone softening, her eyes searching his. “Everything okay at home?”

Henry hesitated, the rye loosening his tongue more than he’d like. “Oh, you know, Lorraine’s just… having a good time back home. Country club, drinks with friends. The usual.” He forced a chuckle, but it came out hollow.

Leslie tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Sounds like she’s keeping herself busy. Must be lonely for you out here, though.” Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, inching closer to his hand. “All work and no play…”

Henry swallowed hard, his mind flashing to Lorraine’s slurred voice on the phone, her vague answers about Sylvia Jaffe. He pushed the thought away, but Leslie’s presence was impossible to ignore. She leaned closer, her perfume subtle but intoxicating, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You deserve to unwind, Henry. No one would blame you.”

Back in the States, Lorraine was far from lonely. She and Sylvia had switched roles, the strapon now secured around Lorraine’s hips as she stood over Sylvia, who lounged back in the armchair, her legs spread wide, her eyes glinting with anticipation. The room was still heavy with the scent of their earlier escapade, and Lorraine’s confidence surged with the alcohol coursing through her veins.

“Ready for me, Sylv?” Lorraine purred, her voice steadier now, though still tinged with a drunken drawl. She ran her hands over Sylvia’s thighs, teasing her with slow, deliberate touches.

Sylvia bit her lip, her body already trembling with need. “Fuck, Lorraine, don’t make me wait,” she slurred, her hands reaching up to pull Lorraine closer. “Give it to me.”

Lorraine didn’t hesitate. She positioned herself, easing the strapon into Sylvia with a slow, deliberate thrust that made Sylvia gasp and arch off the chair. The rhythm came easier this time, Lorraine finding her stride as she watched Sylvia’s face contort with pleasure. Each moan, each shudder from Sylvia fueled her, and she leaned down, capturing Sylvia’s lips in a fierce kiss, their bodies moving in sync.

“You like that, don’t you?” Lorraine whispered against Sylvia’s mouth, her hips driving harder, the armchair creaking beneath them. Sylvia’s hands gripped Lorraine’s back, nails digging in as she nodded frantically, too lost in sensation to form coherent words.

Back in Korea, Henry’s office felt smaller, the air thicker. Leslie’s hand was now resting on his, her thumb tracing slow circles against his skin. “Henry,” she said softly, “you don’t have to carry all this alone. I’m here.” Her eyes locked on his, and for a moment, the world outside—the war, the hospital, Lorraine—faded.

Henry’s breath hitched, his mind a tug-of-war between duty and desire. He thought of Lorraine, of her voice on the phone, of the life they’d built. But Leslie was here, warm and real, offering something he hadn’t realized he was craving. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat as Leslie leaned in, her lips dangerously close to his.

Henry’s hand trembled slightly as he pulled back from Leslie’s touch, his mind racing. He needed to slow this down, to regain control before he crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Clearing his throat, he stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor of his office. “How about a drink, Leslie?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. “Rye’s all I got, but it’s good stuff.”

Leslie’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, her eyes never leaving his. “I’d love one, Henry,” she said, her tone smooth as silk. She leaned back on the desk, crossing her arms, her posture relaxed but deliberate, as if she knew exactly the effect she was having.

Henry turned to the liquor cabinet, grateful for the excuse to move, to put some distance between them. He poured two glasses of rye, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light of the lamp. His fingers brushed hers again as he handed her the glass, and this time, she didn’t let the moment pass without a lingering touch, her fingertips grazing his knuckles.

“To unwinding,” Leslie said, raising her glass, her voice low and suggestive. Henry clinked his glass against hers, his throat tight as he nodded.

“To unwinding,” he echoed, taking a long sip, the burn of the rye grounding him, if only for a moment. Leslie sipped hers, her eyes locked on his over the rim of the glass, and the air between them crackled with unspoken possibilities.

Back in the States, Lorraine’s confidence had reached a fever pitch. Sylvia writhed beneath her, her moans filling the living room as Lorraine drove the strapon deeper, her movements steady and commanding despite the alcohol still clouding her senses. The armchair groaned under their weight, but neither woman cared. Sylvia’s hands clutched at Lorraine’s hips, urging her on, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“God, Lorraine, don’t stop,” Sylvia slurred, her head thrown back, her body trembling as Lorraine hit just the right angle. Lorraine grinned, a mix of pride and lust sparking in her chest. She leaned forward, her lips brushing Sylvia’s ear.

“You’re mine tonight, Sylv,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire. She quickened her pace, relishing the way Sylvia’s body responded, every shudder and cry pushing Lorraine closer to her own edge. Sylvia’s nails raked down Lorraine’s back, leaving faint marks, and Lorraine hissed at the sting, the pain only fueling her.

Sylvia’s climax hit hard, her body arching off the chair as she cried out, her hands gripping Lorraine’s shoulders like a lifeline. Lorraine slowed but didn’t stop, drawing out every last tremor until Sylvia collapsed, panting and spent. Lorraine pulled back, her own breath ragged, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips as she unfastened the strapon and tossed it aside.

“Fuck, you’re good,” Sylvia murmured, her voice hoarse as she reached for Lorraine, pulling her down into a sloppy, heated kiss. Their bodies pressed together, slick with sweat, the room heavy with the aftermath of their passion.

Back in Korea, Henry set his glass down, the rye doing little to quiet the storm in his head. Leslie had moved closer, her thigh brushing against his as she leaned in, her glass now empty. “You’re a good man, Henry,” she said softly, her hand resting on his arm, her touch warm and steady. “But even good men need to let go sometimes.”

Henry’s heart pounded, his eyes flickering to her lips, then back to her eyes. The weight of her words, her closeness, the rye—it all swirled together, clouding his judgment. He thought of Lorraine, of her drunken laughter on the phone, of the distance between them, both physical and otherwise. Leslie was here, offering something immediate, something he could feel right now.

“Leslie, I…” he started, his voice faltering as she leaned closer, her breath warm against his cheek. The office door was closed, the camp quiet outside. No one would know. But the ring on his finger felt heavier than ever.

Henry’s hand shook as he reached for the rye bottle again, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light of his office. “Another?” he asked Leslie, his voice rough, the edges of his words already softening from the first two drinks. Leslie’s smile was slow and deliberate, her eyes gleaming with something that made his pulse race.

“Keep ‘em coming, Colonel,” she purred, sliding her empty glass toward him. She shifted closer, her thigh now pressed firmly against his as she sat on the edge of his desk, her posture relaxed but her gaze anything but. Henry poured generously, the rye splashing into their glasses, a little sloppier this time. He handed her the drink, their fingers brushing again, and the heat of her touch lingered longer than it should.

“To… whatever the hell this is,” Henry muttered, raising his glass. Leslie clinked hers against it, her laugh low and throaty.

“To us,” she corrected, her voice dripping with intent. They drank deeply, the burn of the rye spreading through Henry’s chest, loosening the knot of guilt that had been tightening there. The room felt smaller, warmer, the world outside the 4077th fading into a distant hum.

Back in the States, Lorraine and Sylvia had collapsed onto the living room floor, the armchair abandoned after their last frenzied round. The strapon lay discarded nearby, and an empty wine bottle rolled lazily across the carpet. Sylvia, still catching her breath, reached for another bottle from the coffee table, her movements unsteady but determined. “We’re not done yet, are we?” she slurred, popping the cork with a clumsy twist and taking a long swig before passing it to Lorraine.

Lorraine grinned, her lips stained red from wine and Sylvia’s kisses. “Not even close, Sylv,” she said, grabbing the bottle and tilting it back, the wine spilling down her chin as she drank. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes locked on Sylvia’s naked form sprawled beside her. The alcohol had stripped away any pretense, leaving only raw desire in its wake. Lorraine crawled over, straddling Sylvia’s hips, the bottle still clutched in one hand. “You’re too damn gorgeous like this,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss Sylvia’s neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

Sylvia moaned softly, her hands sliding up Lorraine’s thighs. “Fuck, Lorraine, you’re gonna kill me,” she said, her voice thick with lust and liquor. Lorraine chuckled, offering Sylvia another swig from the bottle before setting it aside and letting her hands wander, reigniting the fire between them.

In Korea, the rye bottle was nearly empty now, and Henry’s head swam as he poured the last of it into their glasses. Leslie had slid off the desk and into his lap at some point—he couldn’t quite remember when—her arms draped loosely around his neck. The reports she’d brought were forgotten, scattered across the floor. Her blouse was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the curve of her collarbone, and Henry’s eyes kept drifting there, his restraint crumbling with each sip.

“You’re too good for this place, Henry,” Leslie whispered, her breath hot against his ear. She shifted in his lap, her hips pressing against him in a way that made his breath catch. “All this stress, this war… you deserve better.” Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, and Henry’s hand found her waist, almost without thinking.

“Lorraine…” he started, his voice barely audible, but the name felt distant, like it belonged to another life. Leslie’s lips hovered inches from his, her eyes searching his face for permission, for surrender.

“She’s not here, Henry,” Leslie murmured, her voice soft but firm. “I am.” She closed the gap, her lips brushing his in a tentative kiss that quickly deepened as Henry’s resolve shattered. The rye had dulled his guilt, and Leslie’s warmth, her scent, her weight in his lap—it was all too much. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer as he kissed her back, hungry and reckless.

Back in the States, Lorraine and Sylvia were lost in their own haze. The wine bottle was empty now, and Lorraine had Sylvia pinned beneath her, their bodies slick with sweat as they moved together on the carpet. Sylvia’s nails dug into Lorraine’s back, her moans growing louder with each thrust of Lorraine’s hips. “Fuck, yes, right there,” Sylvia gasped, her body trembling as Lorraine pushed her closer to the edge again.

Lorraine’s own arousal was building, fueled by Sylvia’s reactions and the heady rush of their drunken abandon. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you?” she teased, her voice low and commanding. Sylvia could only nod, her breath hitching as Lorraine’s fingers found her clit, working in tandem with her movements.

The night was spiraling out of control on both sides of the world. Henry and Leslie’s kisses grew more desperate, hands fumbling with buttons and belts, the rye stripping away the last of their inhibitions. Lorraine and Sylvia, lost in their own world, pushed each other to new heights, oblivious to the consequences waiting in the wings.