Blitzed

Author's note:-

This tale begins in World War Two England, and spans several years. It starts inside a cupboard under the stairs, and ends on top of a cupboard in the kitchen. It contains certain expressions which have different meanings on each side of the Atlantic Ocean, or which some readers may not be familiar with, so an explanation may be in order.

Many houses in the Great Britain of that era, at least in the north west of England where this author was born and raised, had an almost sacred room known almost reverently as the 'front parlour', which was customarily reserved for 'special' occasions, such as entertaining visitors, and for the occasional chastisement of wayward offspring. At all other times the parlour was strictly out of bounds to children, except under the supervision of an adult.

Then there was the 'living room' which was where we relaxed, and which to all practical purposes doubled as a dining room. Just to add to the confusion, our midday meal was called 'dinner', the main evening meal was 'tea', whilst about an hour before retiring we sometimes had a light snack called 'supper'.

Now to the 'naughty' bits, which of course must be included, or you wouldn't be reading this in a section allocated to taboo sex and incest. Although there are many such events, to keep them in context it must be pointed out that they occurred over a period from the beginning of the war to several years after.

To the British an ass is a stubborn long eared quadruped, or an idiot, and sometimes both. If you will excuse a friendly dig, I would point out that this story is written in the English of the time, before our allied American soldiers and airmen influenced our youth to adopt some of their expressions, and since the English invented the language, the correct word for the buttocks is arse, (not fanny, because in England fanny refers to the vagina, twat, cunt etc.)

Similarly spunk was not pluck or courage. It was what came out of a man's dick at the end of a good fuck. Which of course was called a shag.

Now that I have light heartedly enlightened our transatlantic cousins I further hope you, and they, will read on, and enjoy :----

Blitzed

"Wid ye like tae dance lassie?"

I looked up at the stocky figure in air force blue into even bluer eyes. His accent was so thick that it took a moment for my mind to process what he had said, then with a rueful glance at my best friend Doris, I accepted the extended hand.

It was early spring in 1941, and at first I hadn't been keen on coming to the servicemen's club. Then six weeks ago Doris had pointed out that our brave boys were in France and other places, laying their lives on the line fighting the jerries for King and Country, so it was only right that when they could get home they should see friendly faces for a few hours.

As it turned out she was perfectly right. After hearing some of the horrific stories from those lucky enough to get home alive, although often irreparably scarred both outside and in, I realised just how fortunate we were back home. True, we had to queue for hours - often fruitlessly - for whatever meagre rations were available in the shops, but at least we were reasonably safe. Admittedly there were frequent air raids, but terrifying though they were, realistically the risk of a bomb striking one particular house among thousands was minimal compared with the greater risks our boys in the front lines took.

Even though the servicemen attending the club were on home soil, most were still a long way from their homes and families, so the girls and women like Doris and myself, who paid our ninepence admittance were more than willing to do whatever necessary to make them feel appreciated. Within the bounds of decency of course, although some of the women, mostly the older ones, undoubtedly had a somewhat flexible interpretation of decent. Especially in early 1942, when it came to the more affluent American troops who had lately begun filtering into the club since the attack on Pearl Harbour.

Understandably this led to friction between the Americans and 'our' boys, who accused the free spending 'Yanks' of stealing 'their' girls. Men being men, it was inevitable that this resentment occasionally erupted into violence, but this was quickly jumped on, both figuratively and sometimes literally, by the ever vigilant Military Police of both nations. An uneasy truce developed between the opposing factions, with each keeping to their chosen end of the club, whilst the metaphoric 'meat in the sandwich' -- the unattached ladies -- formed a reluctant buffer zone. For the most part, we took the view that both sides were defending us against a common foe, so we girls were happy to share our time with either.

"You made me love you...."

The small band on the stage, made up of service personnel, launched into a rather off key rendition of the popular Harry James song, and the young airman guided me onto the dance floor in a rather awkward waltz. Neither of us was a particularly proficient dancer, so to save bruised toes we settled for a slow shuffle. I was impressed that he held me at a reasonably respectable distance, rather than trying to mash his body against mine the way so many of the yanks did. Not all of them of course, but enough to make me wary. His arm remained at my waist the whole time, and I relaxed when I realised that I was not going to have to contend with the usual clumsy attempts to 'accidentally' stroke or squeeze my bottom.

I studied him as we moved around the floor. He was about the same height as my own five foot six, maybe a little taller, and above his Royal Air Force short back and sides, his hair was an unruly tangle of tight crinkly curls. Too rugged to be called handsome, yet his clear blue eyes gave his face a sort of beauty, which really handsome men could never match. Somehow it seemed appropriate that an airman should have eyes the colour of the sky.

"You know you made meee loooove youuuu!"

We clapped politely as the song ended, then made our way back to where Doris was sitting at the table sipping a drink. "I hope I didna hurrt yer toes lass?" The impish grin and the odd accent belied the stated concern. "I'm Hamish. Hamish Browning." At least I guessed he said 'Browning' but it sounded more like 'Brooning.' He looked offended when I was unable to stifle a giggle, but he laughed heartily when I explained between giggles that my name was Thelma Greening. After I introduced Doris he pulled up a chair. "Thelma? A bonnie name fer a bonnie lass."

I pulled a face. One word that definitely did not describe my name was 'bonnie' but I was stuck with it. He seemed sincere enough though, so I grudgingly accepted it as a compliment. Just because I disliked my name it didn't mean he had to. We danced again to two songs in succession, and returned to the table to find Doris deep in conversation with an American lieutenant she had danced with a few times in recent weeks. He invited her to take a turn around the floor, and when they returned she picked up her purse.

"Wilbur's walking me home Thel. I'll see you at work on Monday."

I wasn't particularly concerned at her abrupt departure, because we had an unspoken agreement that if either of us met someone we liked we could split up. Besides, I had the blue eyed airman to keep me company. As we chatted and danced I learned that he was four years older than me, and had been raised in a succession of foster homes in Glasgow. By his own admission he had been a troublesome child, often unwise in his choice of friends, and then at age fifteen he had been taken on as an apprentice mechanic with a bus company who had steered him in the right direction. When war broke out he had joined the RAF and progressed from road transport to aircraft.

For my part, I told him about how Doris and I worked in a factory office helping the war effort, although mindful of the posters proclaiming that "Loose lips sink ships" I was careful not to tell this comparative stranger what the factory produced. Not that I could have anyway, because all I knew was that it was some sort of components maker. I did tell him that Mum and Dad worked there too, Mum as a nurse, mostly on afternoon and early evening shift, whilst my Dad, who had been gassed during the so called "War to end all wars" was a foreman in a different section. There didn't seem to be any real point in mentioning that he had lied about his age, and was only sixteen when he was gassed, but to me that made my Dad an even bigger hero, so I added it anyway with more than a little touch of pride.

Hamish was a perfect gentleman all evening, so when he asked to walk me home I didn't hesitate. It was the first time I had ever been alone with a member of the opposite sex, and I wasn't sure what to do or what to expect. My over protective parents never let me have boyfriends at school, and when war broke out my school had been bombed during one of the first air raids. I wasn't exactly upset because I wasn't all that keen on school anyway, and had only stayed on until my eighteenth birthday to please Dad, who had more faith in my academic ability than I would ever have. Instead of travelling the extra distance to another school, after more than a little pleading on my part, Dad found me a job in the factory office where I met Doris, who was three years older than me and we became firm friends.

Originally from Leeds in Yorkshire, she lived with her cousin not far from the factory, and although she was reluctant to go into detail, I eventually wormed it out of her that she had left home at age eighteen after a huge row with her puritanical parents. Her father had seen a boy kiss her, and even though it had been perfectly innocent, he had flown into a pious rage, calling her a Jezebel and threatening to turn her out on the street.

Stung by the injustice she had written to her cousin Hannah who was married to a seaman, and lived on the other side of England from her home town. Days later she left home, Leeds and Yorkshire for ever, vowing never to return. Within a week she found work in the factory, and on her second day she accepted an invitation to go out with a boy who worked on the shop floor. That evening, in the dark of a cinema she had completed her rebellion by letting him be the first of a small number of men to feel her tits and fanny. For her part she willingly used her hands to return the favours, telling herself that she was not being promiscuous, provided she didn't allow any of them to actually shag her.

On the way home from the club Hamish maintained a respectful distance between us as he walked beside me through the unlit streets, and when we were arrived I was pleasantly surprised, and I must admit a little disappointed that, instead of trying to kiss me he shook my hand solemnly, and thanked me for a nice evening. Dad chose that moment to open the front door, and he immediately pulled Hamish into the front parlour, for what I suspected would be the usual "You hurt my daughter and you'll wish you were dead" talk that doting fathers everywhere deliver. He must have been impressed, because after Hamish had left, looking a little intimidated, Dad nodded, maybe not with approval, but at least with understanding as I described my evening -- careful to say nothing about Doris being 'picked up' by a 'Yank' - and admitted that I wouldn't mind seeing the well mannered Scotsman again.

On the next three Saturdays Hamish's eyes lit up when Doris and I turned up at the club. As usual it wasn't long before Wilbur joined us, and although they weren't exactly best of friends, the two men from opposite sides of the Atlantic tolerated each other for the sake of harmony.

When I arrived at work on Monday morning my friend was wearing a strange look on her face. She kept giving me secretive looks throughout the morning, and by lunch time I had all I could take.

"OK Doris," I demanded, "What's got into you?"

She looked away for a moment, then met my eyes again. "Promise me you won't tell anyone?"

I snorted in exasperation. "OK, OK - I promise. Tell anyone what?"

"Wilbur shagged me!"

"Omigod! You're kidding? How did that happen?"

"Well I didn't exactly do it on purpose. I just couldn't stop him."

I went cold all over. "You mean he forced himself on you?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No! Wilbur would never do anything like that! I couldn't stop him because I didn't want to. I mean I've always liked boys feeling my titties and fanny when we kissed, but I always stopped before it went too far. Somehow Saturday was different. After we left the club he was rubbing my clitoris and I got carried away and let him put his dick in and shag me."

In a way I could understand what she was saying. Wilbur was one of those rare men who made even the most mundane topic sound fascinating. Even in a crowded room, when he spoke to a woman he had an unconscious ability to make her feel that she was the only person in the world that mattered to him.

I tried to feel outraged, but curiosity took over. "What was it like?"

"It was a bit painful going in the first time, but then it was lovely."

"What do you mean 'the first time'? How many times did you do it?"

"Only twice. Saturday and last night. Last night was the best."

"Oh. I hope he didn't give you a baby."

Doris shook her head again. "No, he put a rubber thingamabob on his dick."

The bell sounded for the end of lunch, so we left it there and returned to work. Although I really had no wish to emulate my friend, I could not shake what she had told me from my mind, nor could I help feeling a little envious that she knew how it felt to have a hard dick inside her fanny.

That night, and another four nights after that was spent cowering in the cramped cupboard under the stairs with Mum and Dad, as wave after wave of German bombers dropped their deadly cargo on the city and surrounding countryside. On Saturday evening my parents went out to visit friends, but I was too afraid the bombers would come again, so I stayed home to listen to the wireless. As darkness approached I answered a knock at the door, and gasped with shock to see Hamish standing there with a large Elastoplast dressing covering most of his forehead.

Seizing his hand, I dragged him into the parlour. "Oh god Hamish. What on earth happened?"

"Dinna worry Lassie," he said, far too nonchalantly for my liking. "It's only a wee scratch. I stood too close to a wee piece of shrapnel the other night and forgot to duck."

This brought it home to me that it wasn't only our front line boys that were placing themselves in peril. Those like Hamish, who worked ceaselessly to keep our planes flying were placed in equal danger, because they were targets for the enemy, whilst being helpless to fight back. Overcome with relief that he wasn't more seriously hurt, I placed my hands on each side of his face and kissed him spontaneously.

He grinned bashfully as he took a seat beside me on the couch and held my hand. "Och, If I get that for a wee nick, what would I get for worse?"

I punched his arm in exasperation. "Oh you... you... " I tailed off, then looked at him. "Weren't you scared?"

"I suppose I should have been, but it all happened too fast." He was silent for a few seconds, and then he slipped an arm around my shoulders. "You know, I'm no afraid to die for my country," - he pronounced 'die' as 'dee' - "but what I am afraid of is dying wi'out ever knowing what it's like to lay wi' a lassie."

It was a line Doris and I had heard countless times from men in the club who only had one thing in mind, but there was something in Hamish's tone that made me wonder if it was a genuine concern for him. When he kissed me ever so gently, I didn't have the heart to protest when he cupped my breast. Nor could I find it in me to object when his hand found its way under my blouse and inside my brassiere. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the instant stiffening of my nipples, or the the warmth that spread from his hand throughout my whole body as I returned his kiss. The sudden wetness between my legs came as a shock, and the intense tingling in my fanny seemed almost physical.

I was beginning to understand what Doris had meant when she said she couldn't stop Wilbur, because neither could I stop Hamish when he pushed his hand under my skirt and inside the leg of my knickers. "Please Lassie," he whispered, urgently stroking my overheated slit. "Dinna stop me noo. I have tae." As his fingertips discovered that little oh so sensitive spot, I asked myself was this really too much for him to ask, given that every day he laid his life on the line to protect me and millions of others. I responded the way my heart told me, and parted my legs.

He moved hastily between my open thighs, as though he was afraid I would change my mind, and I felt the hard-soft tip of his dick nudge the lips of my fanny. Praying that it wouldn't hurt too much, I took a nervous breath in anticipation of the fateful thrust, and we were startled by the slamming of the front door.

I pushed him away in a panic. "Oh god, they're back!"

We barely had time to straighten our disarrayed clothing before Dad glanced in. "What have you been up to?" I was sure that guilt was written all over our faces, and I tried to think of an explanation, although I knew that nothing I said would be believed, then I realised that he was staring at Hamish's bandaged head. As Hamish explained his injury, I thought of how close I had come to being shagged, and struggled to make up my mind whether to be glad or sorry that it hadn't happened. Remembering how good his fingers and then his dick had felt on my wet fanny, I settled for sorry, and told myself that I, that we would put matters right next Saturday.

The bombers came again during the following week, and I spent every night sandwiched between Mum and Dad under the stairs. The cramped space was hot and uncomfortable, but it was the safest place in the house, because the staircase was sturdy enough to protect us from anything other than a direct hit. I managed to relieve the boredom by thinking of Hamish, picturing his strong hands roaming over my breasts and delving between my thighs, readying me for the consummation that had been denied us. I wasn't sure whether or not I loved him, because I had never been in love, so I didn't know how it felt, but he definitely excited and aroused me. For now that was enough for me to want him put his dick in my fanny and shag me. Maybe love would grow from that.

By the time Saturday arrived I was well and truly in the mood, and when I hurried into the club with Doris my soaked knickers were clinging to me. Wilbur was sitting at a table waiting, but there was no sign of Hamish, so I sat with my eyes glued to the door. My spirits sank as the minutes ticked past, and even though I had several requests to dance, I had no interest. After about ninety minutes I had just about given up hope, so when Doris whispered that she and Wilbur were going for a shag I went home and cried myself to sleep.

When he didn't show up the following Saturday, I spent a week torturing myself with visions of his broken body lying bloodied and lifeless after an air raid, sure that only death could have kept him from me. I went to the club again, more from habit than anything, but sitting at our usual table I could still feel his strong hand on my waist as we had danced. As kindly as he could, Wilbur tried to ease my pain by suggesting that sometimes a boy simply lost interest, and the easy way out was to stay away. I glared at him angrily, but deep down I knew he was right. Such things could happen, even if I didn't want to believe it could happen to me. Almost imperceptibly my anger turned against Hamish, I think perhaps because anger was transient and easier to deal with than the searing agony of rejection.