Most 18-year-olds mark their birthday with a family meal out, their first legal drink at a bar, or a night out with friends at a local club. Not me. No, I marked my 18th birthday with a six-mile fighting patrol in the Scottish Highlands, followed by a gruelling night of tactical manoeuvres to take control of and secure a village from an "enemy" force that refused to follow the script—this, to mark the halfway point of a 20-day field exercise.

Happy Birthday to Me.

Nine days later, we rolled back into camp 24 hours earlier than planned due to extreme weather conditions, feeling rather beaten, sunburnt, and generally dead. But it was almost the weekend, which meant heading home for some belated birthday celebrations—and hopefully rekindling a friendship with someone squirming with excitement to have me back at her disposal.

How wrong I was.

The following morning, after some much-needed sleep in a bed that wasn’t on the ground and experiencing the sensory overload that is hot running water, we boarded the wagons and began the drive south. Eight miserable hours later, we pulled through the gates at Risborough Barracks in Folkestone, feeling confused and begrudged.

After debussing and filing into a classroom, we were quickly brought up to speed on why we’d been detoured this far south. A brief tasking outline was given with the understanding that the situation was fluid and more details would follow. We were informed of the basic camp rules and told to stay out of people’s way—and most importantly, out of the mess, as this was a dry tasking.

It was at that moment that I gave up on celebrating my birthday. It was as good as dead and buried to me.
Roll on my 19th, I thought.

--------

Our time at Risborough went by relatively quickly, with no real dramas. We filled our days with briefings, studying maps and satellite imagery, and running through possible scenarios. Whatever time was left, we used to hit the gym or chuck a rugby ball around. It was far from glamorous, but it was what we’d become accustomed to. The regular bods around camp had clearly been told to leave us alone—nobody disturbed us, which was both nice and mildly depressing.

The most excitement came that Thursday morning when the light flicked on and the boss stormed up the block shouting something about it being go-time. Autopilot kicked in. We grabbed our gear and switched into work mode like it was just another day in the office. After a quick briefing—featuring the real rockstars via video link—we jumped onto a minibus that took us to the helipads. We boarded two Wildcat helicopters and flew out over the Channel before turning left along the Thames Estuary. But after circling for a while, we turned back and landed without a word, like nothing had even happened.

The debrief was short and sweet. We were thanked for our cooperation and assistance in this “multi-agency” operation and told we were stood down with immediate effect. However, we were asked to stay local to Folkestone just in case we were needed for more debriefs. We all knew the likelihood of that was zero—we hadn’t even stepped off the helicopters—but naturally, we nodded and smiled.

When the lights came on, the mood shifted. The smiles and nods gave way to disgruntled voices, and I voiced my displeasure at being locked up yet again when all I wanted was to go home.

“What the f#ck are we supposed to do for the next couple of days until we can go home?” said Ozz, in his gravelly Scottish accent, taking another swig of his coffee.

“Well,” said the Major, beaming from ear to ear and locking his icy cold eyes on me, “it was the kid’s 18th birthday while you lot were on exercise—maybe it’s about time you celebrated!”

The room erupted with cheers and applause as multiple thick, muscular hands grabbed me and tore me from my seat.

------

From the moment we left that briefing room, everything was a blur. That Thursday afternoon went by in the blink of an eye. Before I’d even comprehended what was going on, I had returned my rifle to the armoury, showered and shaved, been dragged down to the mess to get a couple of drinks in—and the next thing I knew, I was in Folkestone Marina having a curry with the lads, bouncing from pub to pub.

I woke up the next morning on Puff’s bunk, fully dressed, with the world’s worst headache starting to entrench itself. Someone had kindly left two buckets of water on the bedside table, so I necked them, along with the aspirin that had also been left, before dragging myself to the bathroom, carefully avoiding the bucket placed beside the bed in anticipation of a vomit-fueled night.

While I was stripping off, waiting for the shower to heat up, I noticed a number scrawled on my arm and what looked like smudged lipstick. I paused, pulling down my boxers, trying to reconnect my brain and put a name or face to the number, but I couldn’t.

Then, against my better judgment, I strolled back into the dorm, grabbed my phone from beside Puff’s bed, and texted the number:

"Good morning," I typed nervously. "I’ve just found your number on my arm and I apologise, but I can’t recall who it belongs to."

I hit send and stepped into the shower, washing away the remnants of last night—and the mystery girl’s number.

The morning came and went. I ventured as far as the cookhouse for breakfast, then spent the rest of the time feeling sorry for myself, drinking coffee and eating junk I’d bought from the NAAFI. Slowly, others began to rejoin the land of the living. As their brains kicked in, I questioned them about the random number, but nobody had any answers.

Around midday, Puff, Charlie, and Gavin strolled into the block with their chests puffed out, looking smug and self-satisfied. They launched into stories about how the three of them had met two little things in a bar and been invited back to one of their places, where they’d spent the night taking turns on the girls until, as they put it, they were “completely spent and couldn’t take or swallow another load.” Then, they’d calmly left in the morning and went to the café.

They couldn’t have been prouder of themselves. And when they returned from the showers not long after, they were already declaring it was round two tonight.

----

By 16:00, we were in the Wetherspoons in the heart of Folkestone, draining drinks and talking crap, trying to come up with some sort of plan for the night’s festivities. It was widely agreed that we wouldn’t be going as hard as we had the night before, so most of the guys were starting at a steadier pace.

Then my phone buzzed—and in that instant, the world shrank to just me and the device in my hand. I smiled as I read:

“I’ll let you off for forgetting my name—you had drunk a bit—but my face… that’s a little rude, as it’s a rather pretty face, I think.”

I replied instantly, apologising for my terrible memory. She seemed warm and friendly over text. She explained that she’d seen three of my group trying to pressure me into going somewhere with two girls, and, on seeing the discomfort on my face, she’d rescued me. She told me to buy her a drink. We got talking, and when it was time to leave and I couldn’t find my phone, she scribbled her number on my arm and signed it with a kiss.

As the messages flowed back and forth, I started to feel more at ease—and a little bolder. With slightly jittery hands, I typed:

“How about you let me take you out to dinner to make up for my serious lack of memory—and to give me a chance to refresh my memory of your beautiful face?”

I hit send, feeling like Casanova.

“You said last night you're going home soon,” came her reply. “Or was that a lie, hoping to bed a local girl?”

“It isn’t a lie,” I replied quickly. “We finish work here in a day or two, but I’d still like to see you again.”

“That doesn’t leave much time for that now, does it—if you’re leaving so soon?”

“I’m currently in town with my coworkers. Name the time and place tonight, and I’ll be there.”

“The confidence of youth,” she replied.

I felt shot down. I hadn’t thought I was being overly confident—and hadn’t, for a moment, considered how old this mystery woman might be. But just then, my name was called. Reality snapped back into focus as Wez reminded me it was my round. Begrudgingly, I scooped up the empties from the table and made my way to the bar.

Returning with a slightly emptier wallet and a tray stacked with beers, I zigzagged across the bar and set the drinks down. Then I picked up my phone.

“The Cove at 7 pm. Be sober.”

That was all the message said.

Lost for words, I simply sent back a heart emoji and sat back in my seat, smiling like a fool.

-------

I arrived at The Cove fifteen minutes early. Nervous energy had me walking the length of the place twice before finally taking a seat at the bar. It was one of those modern spots—dim lighting, polished concrete floors, candlelight flickering off glassware. Classy, without being uptight. I ordered a whiskey and stared into it like it held answers.

She hadn’t sent another message since her last one:
“The Cove at 7 pm. Be sober.”

I checked the time again—6:49 pm. My leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, and my palms were sweating. For a guy used to sleeping in mud and crawling through bramble, it was ridiculous how on edge I felt waiting for one woman in a warm, clean bar.

Then it hit me.
I didn’t know what she looked like.

My heart started pounding all over again. My memory of the night before was a foggy, booze-smeared blur. A voice? Maybe. A laugh? Possibly. A scent, even. But no face. Nothing clear enough to pick her out of a crowd. I took a breath and typed:

“You’re going to have to help me out. I don’t know what you look like.”

A second later, my phone buzzed.

Attachment: 1 image

The photo loaded slowly, like my phone knew I needed the suspense. And then there it was.

A red dress.
Form-fitting. Elegant. Dangerous.

The photo cut off just above the collarbone, but it didn’t need a face to make an impression. Her body was… stunning. Curves in all the right places. Full, perfect breasts framed in that plunging neckline. Hips that knew how to command attention without even trying. Her hand rested on her waist with a confidence that sent my imagination racing and cock twitching.

I swallowed hard, feeling my collar suddenly get tighter.

A second message followed:

“Look up.”

I looked up, and there she was—walking toward me with that same confidence from the photo, wrapped in red and smiling like she knew exactly the effect she was having on me.

“Hi,” she said, sliding onto the stool next to me.

I stood, probably too quickly, and offered a hand. She ignored it and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. Her perfume hit me first—soft, floral, hypnotic. Then her eyes—sharp, playful, and knowing.

“You clean up alright,” she teased.

“You’re… breathtaking,” I said, and meant it.

We were shown to a table tucked into a quiet corner. The lighting was low and golden, the kind that made everything feel a little more intimate. We ordered—she picked something exotic and pronounced it like a native; I stuck to a steak and hoped that didn’t make me look boring.

Conversation flowed more easily than I expected. We traded stories between bites, laughter weaving through each course. She was smart, sharp, and knew how to push my buttons in the best kind of way.

“You’re surprisingly charming for someone who forgot my face,” she said, twirling the stem of her wine glass.

“Yeah, well, I have a head injury and multiple years of questionable life choices as an excuse,” I replied with a chuckle.

She smirked, biting her bottom lip for just a second before her eyes drifted down, as if debating something.

Then she looked back at me. “Come on,” she said, standing suddenly.

“What, dessert already?” I asked.

“I want to meet your friends,” she said, brushing imaginary crumbs off her dress. “The ones who thought dragging you toward random girls was a good idea. Let’s see if they can handle someone who has taste.”

I laughed, tossing some cash onto the table. “You sure? They’re a little rough around the edges.”

“So am I,” she said, taking my hand. “Now let’s go make them jealous.”

------
We walked through the narrow backstreets of Folkestone, the kind with cobbled lanes and salt-drenched air that clung to your skin. The night was cool but not cold, the distant thrum of the sea mixing with muffled music from nearby pubs. She didn’t say much—just held my hand like it belonged there.

As we neared the pub, a crumbling old thing nestled by the waterfront, she tugged me to a stop just before the door. The wooden sign above us creaked in the wind, the windows glowing amber through layers of grime. I turned to speak, but she stepped into me, hands on my chest, eyes locked onto mine.

Then she kissed me.

Not a gentle, testing kiss. This one was all in—mouth hungry, fingers fisting the front of my shirt, body pressed tight to mine. My heart stuttered and then raced like it was trying to keep up. For a second, the world didn’t matter—only her lips, the taste of wine on her tongue, the feel of her firm breasts and hard nipples against my chest and the heat that shot straight through my core.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, “Now I’m ready to meet your friends.”

Inside, the pub was exactly what you’d expect: thick with cigarette smoke despite the laws, yellowing wallpaper, warped wooden floors, and a jukebox that hadn’t been updated since the '90s. The place reeked of spilt ale and fried food, and the locals barely glanced up as we walked in.

My lot was near the back, crowded around a battered table, pints in hand, loud as ever. Puff spotted me first and grinned.

“Oi oi! Lover boy returns!”

The others turned, hooting and jeering in good fun—until she stepped out from behind me.

Silence. Just for a beat.

Then Charlie whistled low. “Bloody hell…”

She smiled at them, not a shy one, not forced. Confident. Dangerous. Like she knew exactly what she was walking into and didn’t give a single damn.

“This is her, then?” Gavin asked, eyebrows raised.

“She’s got a name,” she said coolly, sliding in beside me at the table. “But you can call me the girl who’s too good for any of you.”

The lads roared with laughter, raising glasses in mock surrender. But their eyes lingered, clearly sizing her up—not disrespectfully, just curiously. She met every glance without flinching.

While the boys chatted on—banter flying back and forth—she leaned in close to me, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“You taste better than you looked last night,” she murmured. “And you looked very good.”

A chill ran down my spine. I swallowed hard and sipped my beer, trying to play it cool, but then I felt her hand slide under the table, fingertips trailing across my thigh.

Higher.

My breath hitched. Her nails grazed just inside the edge of my jeans, playful, teasing my now stiffening cock. I coughed and shifted in my seat.

“You alright, mate?” Wez asked, smirking.

“Yeah, yeah. Just... wrong pipe.”

“Uh-huh.”

She sipped her drink calmly, as if she wasn’t currently sending my blood pressure through the roof. Then she turned to Puff and asked about being in “Risk Management”, slipping easily into the lingo, the rhythm. She wasn’t playing dumb or trying to impress. She was just in it, present, sharp.

But under the table, her fingers kept moving. A silent promise—or maybe a threat.

Whatever it was, I knew one thing: I was in deep.

And loving every second of it.

------

The lads were getting louder, a few more pints in now, and Puff had launched into one of his “professional” explanations of our so-called job in Risk Management. It was our usual cover — vague enough to shut down questions but serious-sounding enough to avoid suspicion.

“We assess and mitigate dynamic threats in active environments,” Puff said, gesturing like a man who’d read a corporate brochure once and decided he was an expert.

“Oh?” she replied, clearly amused, her fingers still drawing invisible lines just below the waistband of my jeans. “That sounds intense.”

“It is,” Puff said with a nod, deadpan. “Mostly involves spreadsheets. Very aggressive spreadsheets.”

The table broke into laughter, but I barely heard it. Her hand had stopped teasing and now rested firmly on my eight-inch-long rod positioned down my inner thigh. Warm. Possessive. Confident.

She leaned into me, hair brushing my neck, and whispered with a sly grin, “You’re doing very well pretending I’m not driving you crazy right now.”

I turned my head slightly, eyes locking with hers, and something in me snapped — the last bit of composure crumbling. I reached for her under the table, fingers brushed up her soft, cool skin and under the fabric of her dress. A soft moan escaped her lips as I squeezed her thigh dangerously high, matching pressure with pressure.

She smiled.

Then, just as Wez launched into a story about a “classified” incident involving a photocopier and a stolen pie, she turned to me again — but this time, she didn’t whisper.

She kissed me.

Right there at the table.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t tentative. It was bold and unapologetic. Her lips were soft but commanding, and for a moment, the entire pub ceased to exist. I turned to her, my right hand gripped the back of her neck, pulling her in deeper, whilst my left remained nestled between her now clenched thighs as the heat crackling between us.

Someone — probably Charlie — let out a whoop.

“Get in there, lad!”

We broke apart slowly. Her lipstick was slightly smudged now, eyes dark with mischief. I sat back, breathless, heart thudding against my ribs like a warning.

She glanced at her watch.

“Time?” I asked, half-dazed.

“Just a feeling,” she said, standing. “Come.”

I blinked. “Where?”

She smiled, leaned close, and whispered against my ear:
“Bathroom. Now.”

Then she walked off, hips swaying under that red dress like she knew she was being watched.

The lads didn’t even try to hide their stares.

Puff raised his pint in salute. “Risk management, eh?”

I stood up, wiped my palms on my jeans, and followed her, passed the bar, past the gawking old locals, past any sense of restraint I had left.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

------

The heavy bathroom door clicked shut behind me, and before I could even turn the lock, she was already on me — hands in my hair, mouth crashing into mine with a hunger that made the air crackle. I fumbled for the bolt and slammed it home just as she shoved me hard against the tiled wall, lips tugging at mine like she’d been waiting all night.

We were all hands — urgent, rough, breathless. Her body pressed into mine, dress hiking up beneath my fingertips as as I grasped her warm bare ass in my hands inciting a soft moan into my mouth. Her hand slid between my legs, firmly stroking my now painfully hard erection through my dangerously tight jeans. I pulled her closer, dizzy with want, the echo of our breathing loud in the small, dimly lit space.

She broke the kiss and frantically and rather cumbrously undid my belt and button. She dropped to her knees and, in one strong tug, had my boxers and jeans around my ankles. Before I could register what was happening my head dropped back in pure bliss as I felt my swollen head enter her warm, wet mouth as she expertly began sucking my engorged pole like a pro.

A few moments later, she stopped and stood looking me straight in the eyes with a devilish grin, but only long enough to mutter, “Sit,” and pushed me down onto the closed toilet lid, not waiting for an answer. I barely had time to catch my breath before she straddled me, her dress bunched around her hips, lips finding mine again as her hands tugged at the now drenched fabric of her thong as she moved it aside to allow herself to sink onto my cock like a seasoned pro.

Time blurred.

Everything was heat and movement and whispered profanity between gasps, until suddenly a sharp vibration buzzed against her leg. She froze. Rolled her eyes. Reached into her clutch and checked her phone mid-kiss.

I blinked, dazed. “Seriously?”

“My um taxi,” she said, breathless but amused. “It’s outside. You'd better get a move on.”

I laughed — more a groan — but whatever words I had left dissolved as she leaned back, driving her pelvis into me and grinding on me with all her might. Her left hand grasped the mobility pole behind the toilet for balance and her right strummed her clit to orgasmic bliss.

 Her climax tore through her like a lightning strike. Her pussy tried to both suck me in and push me out at the same time as the velvety muscles spasmed with each orgasmic wave. It was too much and I moaned incoherently “I'm cumming.”

She jumped off with acrobatic grace and dropped to her knees again taking my cock to the back of her throat just as the first rope of cum shot from me. She swallowed it all and smiled up at me.

When it was over, she stood gracefully, like nothing had happened, smoothing her dress back down over her thighs, fingers running through her hair. She didn’t speak again — just gave me a wink, unlocked the door, and stepped back out into the night.

I sat there alone, flushed, half-naked and still catching my breath. The cool air hit me like a slap.

The door creaked open, and laughter spilt in from the pub.

And just like that, she was gone.