Room 2 felt like a small corner of Dixie dropped into the Rhineland mist. Lace doilies covered every surface, heavy and drooping like Spanish moss. A Confederate-flag patch had been sewn, Becky insisted it was pure irony, onto a throw pillow that read “Bless Your Heart.” A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label stood on the dresser next to a stack of country cassettes mailed from home: Waylon Jennings, Dolly Parton, and George Strait. Above the bed hung a crooked frame of white magnolia blossoms. The air held the sweet, sticky smell of peach body spray, cigarette smoke, and that faint bleach undertone that never quite left any room in the house.
Becky Johnson greeted every client with a slow, honeyed “Hey there, sugar” that could melt steel. Her Georgia drawl went full throttle for the homesick GIs who made up most of her regulars.
At twenty-five, she was all soft curves and quick wit: sun-kissed freckles scattered across her nose, auburn hair teased high in an old Atlanta pageant style, full, heavy breasts, and rounded hips that filled out her lace lingerie like it had been poured on. She’d landed in Germany on a post-breakup whim. “I’m gonna see Europe, y’all, and let Uncle Sam’s boys foot the bill.” The brothel was meant to be a six-month adventure. Enough cash for a Eurail pass, a week in Paris, maybe a fling with a dark-eyed Italian. Then she’d go home with stories no Savannah debutante could match. Two years later, the money stayed too good, the routine too hard to kick, and the Old World too damn entertaining to leave.
Most clients loved the fantasy: a genuine Southern belle who called them “darlin’,” fluttered her lashes, and let them play Rhett Butler for an hour. Becky leaned into it. Slow smiles, breathy gasps, accent dialed up to eleven. Her heart stayed locked tighter than her mama’s silver chest.
The night Travis Lee swaggered in, the bar downstairs pounded to Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.” The song was still fresh off Thriller and living in every barracks tape deck. Protests against the new Pershing II missiles filled the newspapers, but inside the brothel, it was payday weekend. Cold Bitburger flowed freely. Homesick boys hunted for a taste of home.
Frau Metzger rapped once on the door. “American kid. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Paid for the full hour and specifically asked for ‘the Georgia peach.’ Cocky as hell. Brace yourself.”
Becky grinned wide. “Bless his little heart.”
Specialist Fourth Class Travis Lee was pure Texas bravado packed into a too-new uniform: buzz-cut blond hair, gym-built chest, dog tags shining like decorations. He strode in, quoting American Gigolo from memory, badly. “I don’t do emotions, ma’am. Just pleasure. Pure, professional pleasure.”
Becky nearly choked on her own laughter but kept her face sweet as pie. “Well now, Mr. Richard Gere, you just sit yourself down and let Miss Becky see what you’ve brought me.”
He launched into the movie’s famous slow undressing. Jacket shrugged off with a practiced roll of the shoulders, shirt unbuttoned one-handed while staring deep into her eyes. The jacket snagged on his watch. The third button fought back. When he went for the dramatic boot-pull, he nearly toppled sideways. Becky bit the inside of her cheek until it ached.
“Easy there, cowboy,” she purred, stepping close to help. Her fingers brushed his as she freed the stubborn button, then trailed down to his belt. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
Travis recovered with a grin and pulled her hard against him for what he clearly thought was a cinematic kiss. It landed like a washing machine on spin: lips mashed too hard, tongue thrusting aggressively, teeth clacking. Becky let him flail for a few seconds, then took over. She softened her mouth, slowed the rhythm, and coaxed his tongue into a dance instead of a duel. When she finally pulled back, his pupils were huge.
She pushed him gently onto the bed and straddled his lap in her peach lace teddy. His cock already strained against his jeans, young and insistent, almost painfully hard. Becky ground down slowly and deliberately, feeling the thick ridge press against her through the fabric. “Mmm, somebody’s real happy to see me.”
Travis groaned. His hands shot to her ass, squeezing the plump flesh like he was testing fruit. She reached between them, unzipped him with teasing slowness, and freed his erection. It sprang out heavy and flushed dark red, thick enough that her fingers barely met around the shaft, a fat bead of pre-come already pearling at the slit. Veins stood out along the length. The head was swollen and slick.
Becky wrapped her hand around him and stroked from root to crown with a firm, twisting grip, thumb swirling over the sensitive head until his hips jerked. “Look at you, all ready to go,” she murmured.
She leaned down and took him into her mouth, lips sealing just under the crown, tongue flicking the frenulum while her hand pumped the shaft in long, wet strokes. Travis gasped, fingers tangling in her teased hair. She sank deeper, relaxing her throat until her nose brushed the trimmed hair at his base, then pulled back with strong suction that made his thighs tremble. She set a relentless rhythm: deep-throating on the downstroke, hollowing her cheeks on the upstroke, saliva coating him until he glistened. His cock throbbed hot and heavy against her tongue. She could taste the salt of his pre-come with every pass.
Becky pulled off with a lewd pop and grinned up at him. “Not yet, sugar. We’ve got a whole hour.”
Travis looked wrecked: face flushed crimson, chest heaving. “I’m good, I swear,” he insisted, voice cracking like a fourteen-year-old’s.
She peeled off the teddy slowly, letting her heavy breasts spill free. Full D-cups with pale pink nipples already tight and begging. Travis stared as if he’d never seen tits before. Becky guided his hands to them, showing him how to cup the weight, how to roll the nipples between thumb and forefinger until she gave a genuine throaty moan. Then she pushed him flat, swung a leg over, and lowered her bare pussy onto his waiting mouth in a slow, deliberate sixty-nine. He attacked with enthusiasm but zero finesse, licking too hard, too fast, nose bumping her clit painfully. Becky rocked her hips gently, guiding him. “Soft now, darlin’. Like you’re tasting peach ice cream on a hot day.” She took his cock back into her mouth to encourage him, sucking lazily while he experimented. After a minute, he found the spot: tongue flat and broad against her clit, then lighter flicks, then gentle suction, while two fingers slid inside her, curling upward. Her pussy was soaked now, lips swollen and slick. She ground down harder, riding his face while she deep-throated him again.
When her thighs started to quive,r she pulled away, turned around, and straddled his hips. She reached down, notched his thick cock at her entrance, and sank slowly, inch by inch, letting him feel every wet, clutching inch of her body. The stretch was delicious. He filled her completely, the head nudging deep inside. Travis groaned loud enough to rattle the magnolia picture. “Jesus fuck, you’re so goddamn tight.” Becky laughed breathlessly and bottomed out with a roll of her hips. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere, handsome.”
She started riding slow: long, deliberate strokes that pulled almost all the way off before slamming back down, her inner walls gripping him on every upstroke. His hands dug into her hips hard enough to leave marks. She leaned forward, breasts swaying over his face. He latched onto one nipple, sucking greedily, teeth grazing just right. The room filled with wet sounds: skin slapping, her pussy squelching around his cock, their mingled moans.
The pace quickened. Becky bounced harder, ass slapping against his thighs, grinding her clit against his pubic bone on every downstroke. Travis thrust up to meet her, hitting deep. The fat head of his cock dragged against her front wall until sparks exploded behind her eyes. She reached down, fingers rubbing tight circles over her swollen clit, chasing release.
Thirty seconds. Maybe forty.
Travis’s eyes went wide, body tensing like a bowstring. “Oh shit—wait—I’m—”
He came with a strangled yell, hips jerking erratically as he pumped thick, hot spurts deep inside her. Becky felt every pulse, the warmth flooding her, his cock throbbing wildly. She kept riding through it, milking him with deliberate squeezes until he whimpered, oversensitive, and went limp.
Silence crashed in, broken only by his ragged breathing and the faint thump of music downstairs.
“I—uh—normally I last way longer,” he mumbled, face scarlet. “Like, minutes.”
Becky collapsed beside him, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “Bless your heart, Travis Lee. You thought you were Richard Gere, but you just set a new land-speed record.”
He covered his face with one arm, groaning into the pillow. “Just shoot me now.”
She rolled onto her side and traced lazy circles on his sweaty chest. “Hey now, sugar. Everybody’s got an off night. Let Miss Becky give you a proper education.”
What followed was the most affectionate, ridiculous master class the brothel had ever seen.
She started with kissing: slow, filthy, open-mouthed lessons until he could match her rhythm without devouring her face. Then hands: how to trace feather-light down her sides, how to pinch and roll her nipples until she arched and moaned for real. She spread her thighs wide and guided his head back between them, patient as a saint. “Soft circles first… now suck gentle… yes, right there.” He learned fast this round. Long licks from her dripping entrance to her clit, then focused flicks while two fingers crooked inside her, stroking that spot that made her gasp and flood his mouth. Becky came hard, thighs clamping around his ears, pussy pulsing around his fingers, a low, drawn-out “Fuuuck, yes” echoing off the walls.
Then she returned the favor: slow, worshipful head that had him begging in seconds. She edged him mercilessly. Deep-throating until his balls drew tight, then pulling off to lick lazy stripes up his shaft, sucking his balls into her mouth one at a time until he was shaking. When tears of frustration pricked his eyes, she finally climbed back on top, sank down on his aching cock, and rode him with absolute control: long, slow grinds that dragged her clit against him, then faster bounces that slapped wetly. She coached breathing, focus, and rhythm. “Feel how I squeeze you? Do that with your hips, yes, like that.”
The second time he lasted nearly twelve glorious minutes. When he finally came, buried deep, her pussy clenching around him in her own rolling orgasm, he shouted her name like a prayer, filling her again with hot pulses that seemed to go on forever.
They lay tangled and sweaty afterward, sharing the Jack Daniel’s straight from the bottle, laughing like old friends over his terrible Gere impression.
“You’re a quick study, Mr. Lee,” Becky drawled, lighting two cigarettes and passing him one.
He took it with trembling fingers. “I’m burnin’ my VHS copy soon as I get back to barracks. Start fresh, with you as the teacher.”
She told the story downstairs for weeks. “Boy thought he was Julian Kaye, left here knowin’ he was barely Pee-wee Herman.” The girls howled every retelling. Even Hanno cracked the faintest smile while polishing glasses, his eyes lingering on Becky with quiet approval.
Travis came back twice more before his unit rotated stateside. Each visit was better, more confident, always bringing a small gift: a cassette of George Strait’s new album, a bag of pecan pralines from the commissary, once a tiny silver peach charm for her bracelet. On his final night, he left a note tucked under the tip: “Thanks for the master class, Miss Becky. You’re the real American gigolo. If you ever make it to Austin, first beer’s on me. T.”
She kept the note in her Jack Daniel’s box with the unused train tickets and unsent postcards. The European adventure stretched on, one ironic, laughter-filled lesson at a time.
Outside, the jets kept practicing their runs, the missiles kept arriving in crates, and the world stayed balanced on a knife’s edge. Inside Room 2, Becky poured another finger of bourbon, smiled at the magnolia blossoms, and waited for the next knock. Ready to teach, or be taught, whichever came with the bigger, sweeter laugh.
