The uniform simply intrigues him; it's not a woman's cut, but he is absolutely certain, thanks to his experienced eye, that the body within dips and curves in all the interesting places. Oh, it's certainly not as if the male form doesn't spark his curiosity as well-why, he'd file a suit of libel against the soul who'd dare to claim that-but he finds that the idea of hips and waist and rounded breasts within that starkly professional outfit rouses him greatly.

This leads him to walk over to her, casually, as he senses already that whoever she is, she is shy: he is a gentleman, and won't tolerate frightening a lady.

"Excuse me," he offers with all his delicacy. She turns and inclines her head curiously, quietly, speaking not a word. He is more than willing to make up for her. "That is, hello-I'd like to make your acquaintance, my sweet. My name is Francis."

"Um."

"Please, please! Don't be frightened so. What is yours?"

"Ada," she lies.

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It is almost enough, if he clears his mind and memory of the events of the past hour, to trick his senses into believing he is about to bed a frail and soft-spoken boy. To the untrained eye there is nothing to communicate femininity. The dark green fabric is of a military origin; the image of her trying to hold a rifle floats unbidden to his mind, and it takes everything he is not to chuckle.

His fingers flutter to the buttons of the jacket. He lets a thumbpad brush across the metal circle. Though he was expecting some sort of imprinted design, perhaps an eagle or some whorled pattern, he was surprised to find the button entirely flat and smooth. Utilitarian. How utterly boring. Francis promptly loses interest and rededicates his time and energy to a preferable endeavor-opening the buttons.

Her chest lightly heaves as he threads each button through its respective loop of thread, with each step loosening the jacket. Once all are undone, the two front sides of the thing slip away from each other, and he takes it upon himself to brush them the rest of the way.

He is greeted with the porcelain unblemished skin of innocent youth. Silent but measured breaths contribute to the soft rise and fall of her chest, upon which rests an unexpectedly lacy brassiere. The surprise leads him to pause. It is only after a few seconds' consideration that he is able to prompt, "miss-could you perhaps, ah, sit up?"

She is most thankfully acquiescent and, without comment, rises to a sitting position. "Shall I-?"

Francis is briefly unsure as to what her question refers. Realizing, he shakes his head and reaches around her delicate frame. With a moment's effort, he moves his hands back, either end of her undergarment coming with him, peeling away and revealing the skin which had been hidden underneath. It is, of course, as he imagined; he has gained rather a sense for this sort of thing, but that in no way reduces his pleasure at being permitted to enjoy the real thing.

Thus he gratefully declines his head and allows his lips to press gently to the protruding jut of her nipple. Her responding moan, which he hears despite her attempt to suck on her lower lip to muffle it, is motivation enough for him briefly to suck the bud into his mouth. He playfully teases it for a time, his tongue swirling and flicking, then stops with a final kiss pressed to her breast, as if in thanks.

Looking up presents him with the knowledge that her cheeks are flushed. It's absolutely darling. He would kiss her, but suspects it would not be appreciated.

"Ah, um..."

He raises an eyebrow in questioning. Had she spoken? "Yes, my sweet?"

"Sir, please-" and she shifts all the closer to him, slightly lifting her hips skywards, before continuing, "please don't tease."

It is then that he realizes two things.

The first is that she is nude only on the top; her entire lower body remains encased in that enchanting uniform, and if her body revealed from the top proved such beauty, what promises does the imminent removal of those soldier-issue pants suggest? The second-and oh, but it's related all too well to the first-is that he is unbelievably, stupendously hard.

xxxxxxxxxx

She is, roughly, about as tight as he expected; from her mannerisms he had assumed a virgin, and despite the surprising lack of effort he had to expend to bed her, her body seemed to attest to that hypothesis. Pressing in initially was bliss; continuing to rock into her was bringing him closer to orgasm far faster than he cared to admit.

He somewhat regrets that he can no longer hear her soft and high-pitched keens. After only a half-minute or so she had turned her head to the side and intently bit down on a pillow. It is a sad loss, but he will not press the issue-if that brought her more comfort, then so be it; he is certainly more committed to sexual than to aural pleasure.

Francis feels that he is on the way to fulfillment when her leg suddenly lifts and hooks around his waist. Her ankle presses insistently into the small of his back, holding him there, forcing him to remain deep within her. He is about to inquire as to why his motion has been restricted when he hears her little moaning gasps. The pillowcase has fallen out of her mouth. She is coming.

And he has had his opportunity for orgasm pulled out from under him, but that's no matter; he simply pulls out, when she is satisfied, and brings himself to completion.

"O-oh. I apologize!"

"Don't," he admonishes. "I had a lovely time, Ada."

She briefly opens her mouth, then closes it. She nods and smiles, and he smiles back.