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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
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X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 10 Dec 2003 02:23:37 -0800
Subject: {ASSM} Housewife 1946 (Germany) - 1 of 8
Date: Wed, 10 Dec 2003 09:10:08 -0500
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The Housewife 1946 series:
In 1946, immediately after World War II, more people moved,
changed, adapted than in any period in history. All over the
world, women came to terms with peace, the new order, and the
men who did or did not come home.
I wrote a sad little story a while ago about a married woman
in Germany immediately post-World War II, and what she needed
to do to survive. It struck me later that women all over the
world faced unusual issues in that tumultuous period in
history, so I wrote another on the theme, then another.
I stopped at eight. I could have gone on to twenty-five or
thirty. But they were getting sadder and darker. The next in
the series was going to be set in Stalingrad. Oh no. Too
harrowing. I bailed out.
These are not the usual stories in the erotic fiction genre.
Thank you for reading them.
Neil Anthony
IMPORTANT NOTE: I am flattered that this series generated many
more Housewife 1946 stories from other authors. There are more
than a dozen of these excellent stories collected in the
Housewife 1946 archive at Ruthie's Club.
---------------------------------------------------------
* These stories are published here by kind permission of
Ruthie's Club, where they appeared stunningly illustrated by
Sergio Hugo Castro under an exclusivity period for six months.
Ruthie's Club (http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 90 more
of my new stories.
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and
is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au
* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to
it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here in
the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------
* * *
After the war comes the hard times. When you're young and
pretty in hard times, you have little to offer except
yourself. With a family to feed, you do what you must.
* * *
Housewife, 1946 (Germany)
by Neil Anthony/DrSpin
She was a walking Aryan cliche -- blonde, blue-eyed, athletic,
and as good on the eye as the early morning sun burning off
last night's dewdrops on rose petals. She bounce-walked
briskly along the old, narrow street on the heels of her two-
toned shoes, and her golden curls jiggled like wayward
springs. Her eyes were fixed on a destination still out of
sight, and her red-lipped mouth was set tight with her
purpose. She was heading for the special place where the men
came. It was time for an English officer.
Everything she was wearing was the best that was left,
carefully patched and preserved. The russet-brown wool dress
had been moderately expensive in the early, heady days of the
war. Now it was priceless. She did not know when she would
again come by something half as good. Maybe never. The shoes
had been carefully wrapped in newspaper, but still they needed
a spot of precious goose grease to bring to a shine. She wore
no stockings. There were none in 1946.
She wished she still had her long coat, but it had gone in
1944, snatched up in the collections for the final, frenzied
war effort. The heart-shaped leaves of the linden trees were
curled and withered on the ground beneath her feet. Lord, she
muttered, let it not be another bitter winter.
The war had been kind to the town. Fifteen miles away another
town, barely bigger, had been all but obliterated by bombing,
night and day. That's why the English officers had established
their administrative headquarters in her town, of course. It
was relatively undamaged. The English ruled this region of
northern Germany with benign but disinterested authority. It
might have been a lot worse. The town could have had the
Russians.
Many of the English officers wore khaki with red flashes at
the collar. They swaggered around the town with bored,
patronising and superior attitudes, but they were polite -- if
distant -- and they were disciplined. They didn't ogle the
women, or whistle, or toot the horns of their jeeps like the
Americans. They didn't grab or threaten like the Russians. But
they got their women just the same in the end.
The golden-curled woman had dressed with care. She was no
prostitute, and no prostitute would be allowed on the
premises, and no prostitute would collect an English officer.
Prostitutes were for the men of the ranks, who whistled and
shouted and tooted horns like the Americans, and who drank too
much and turned into menacing Russians in the blink of an eye
when they did.
She'd dressed with care, like a well-to-do housewife, and that
was an easy thing for her, because that's what she was. Well,
not quite. Not well-to-do. Not any more. Few housewives were
well-to-do in September, 1946. Defeat had its cost. You got by
as best you could.
She strode with purpose, head high, into the café and took a
seat at a small, empty table open to the street. The old
waiter shuffled out with a menu, looked at her for a moment,
then turned and went away. He knew why she was there. His eyes
reflected his disappointment. Before the war, he'd known her
father.
The waiter returned in a while and set down a small cup of
coffee without meeting her eyes. She sipped at it and looked
at nothing in particular. She had nothing to do but wait.
An English officer sauntered in unhurriedly, hands deep in
trouser pockets in the way of English officers. He turned his
head and saw her, but kept walking into the interior of the
cafe. Shortly he emerged and stood before her table. He was
tall, young, looked thin, and he had a
thin, carefully controlled moustache. He had a soft
appearance, and his face showed none of the battle blemishes
she'd come to know on the faces of men. A lieutenant, merely,
without red tabs on his collar. But it didn't matter. He was
an officer, and that's what counted.
"My German is poor," he said apologetically.
She shrugged. "My English is adequate. Sit, if you wish."
He sat opposite and studied her, smiling to himself as though
he was pleased. Head high, chin up, she met his dark eyes. He
thought her attractive, no doubt, and she knew she was. At 27,
she could pass for 19 when she put aside the worries of life,
and she'd been as pretty as anybody when she was 19.
"A drink?" he offered.
"Only if you want," she said.
He smiled again, she thought a little sadly. Perhaps he was
nostalgic for pre-war games of chase-and-catch. Perhaps she
was, too. But the war had put an end to such fripperies and
indulgences.
"I guess not," he said. "I have a vehicle."
She reached for her handbag and he rose smartly and held her
chair deferentially in the way of English officers.
"We can walk," she said. "It's not far."
She did not want a jeep parked outside her house. Perhaps the
neighbours would see and know anyway, but a jeep was just too
much of a symbol. This was her town. When the English went
away, as one day they would, she imagined she would still live
here.
He took her arm gently and escorted her in the way of English
officers. They walked in silence. Nothing needed to be said.
Arrangements would not be mentioned. It was the way.
The room was murky-dark. Steel-grey light from a gloomy
afternoon struggled through a high, narrow window. She checked
the door opposite the entrance to make sure it was locked
before moving beside the iron-framed bed.
The English officer looked around the room with ill-concealed
distaste. "You live here?"
"I rent from the family living above," she said. "Times are
not easy."
The officer nodded without caring beyond politeness. He
stepped across and picked up her hand, moving it so the
wedding ring caught the dull light from the window. "Your
husband?"
"He was in the U-boats," she said.
The officer nodded again but offered no sympathy. The war had
lasted six long years. Some had made it, many had not, and all
the words of condolence had lost the shine of currency.
He dropped her hand and, as if by pre-arranged signal, they
started to undress. The officer took his time, folding his
uniform trousers carefully across an arm and draping them
neatly over the back of a chair. He watched as her clothes
came off, his eyes taking in every detail of her body.
Methodically, item by item, she became naked. She felt no
obligation to put on a show, and she stood beside the bed and
waited for him.
He removed his regulation boxer shorts slowly, all his
concentration on her. He was semi-erect and rising, and she
noted with detachment he was longer than most, but not
equivalently thick. Long and thin, just like his body. She
judged he was younger than she was by three or four years. Not
that it mattered. Not that she cared one whit.
The room was not naturally warm and she slipped under the
blankets. Taking cue, he did likewise. Next to her, his hand
rested lightly on her hip. She could read the hesitation in
his eyes. What did he do next? Must he kiss her, fondle her?
She reached for his body with her arms. No, her hands said.
Just climb across between these spread legs. Just do it.
The English officer had been raised to be a gentleman. He was
not crude or rough. Some of the English officers had been
gentlemen in uniform but as coarse as any other man without.
Not this one. He was considerate. He didn't shove like a
grader or shunt like a locomotive. He was smooth, long-
stroking, easy, undemanding. Her body relaxed, and adjusted
and adapted to him quickly and comfortably.
By habit, she counted the thrusts. 22, 23. She'd always
counted and didn't know why. 34, 35. His face was calm,
unstressed. Some men puffed and panted, but the English
officer did not even have his lips parted. She found to her
surprise she'd slipped into the rhythm he was making with her.
46, 47.
He was quite handsome in a boyish way, his thin moustache
crisply delineated, and a stray lock of black hair falling
across his forehead. 58, 59. He was good. A natural. Seemed to
know instinctively what to do. Despite the clammy cold of the
room, a fine film of perspiration had grown on her body. 70,
71. She felt the excitement building from all the way down in
the arches of her feet.
She always tried her best, and threw in some understated
dramatics if it helped. The officers seemed to like it better
if the lady showed some spirit of participation. It was part
of the game. The officers didn't go to whores like the lower
ranks. They fucked nice ladies. The difference was as wide as
the way they pronounced words like "pound," or "exactly."
82,83. There would be no play-acting, she knew. It was coming
at her fast, rushing full-blooded, like the biggest wave on a
high tide. She clutched at him desperately with clawed hands,
eyes wide, hips bucking, pelvis thrusting, toes tingling. Good
heavens. It had been a long time, a very long time, since
something like that had happened.
"Eighty-seven and a half," she said, and then realised she had
said it aloud.
"Pardon?" The English officer hovered above her, unfinished,
and waiting courteously for her to relax before he continued.
"Nothing," she said hastily. It would not do to attempt to
explain. The happier he was, the more secure, the greater her
reward. She nodded to him to continue, and within a few fast
and furious strokes he was finished, shooting his English
genes inside her.
He rolled aside and turned away from her. She lay still,
looking at the pressed-iron ceiling, blood still racing from
the full-bodied orgasm she had not expected. Soon she slept
for a while.
The dark was gathering outside when she woke. The English
officer was sliding furtively out of the bed. Like all men,
and especially English officers, he wanted to be away and
gone. She feigned sleep but watched anxiously from under her
eyelids.
He dressed with quiet care, fixing his tie in the cloudy
mirror. Cap in hand, he turned to look at her, and she shut
her eyes tight. He stood silently for a minute or two, and she
could hear her mother's old clock ticking. Her mother had
loved England, had been part-educated there.
Perhaps she had known and loved Englishmen like this one.
Thank God she'd died before the war started.
The officer collected his belongings and left, clicking the
door carefully behind him. Instantly she rolled out of bed and
padded to the dressing table. There were the large banknotes,
folded over in a tight bundle, pinned by a hairbrush. She
counted quickly. It was about what she had hoped, although she
might have, in the end, hoped for a bit more.
She opened a cupboard and drew out a wrap, which she donned
and tied at the waist, thrust her feet into worn slippers, and
unlocked the door opposite the entrance. She opened it and
climbed the stairs, checking her watch. Nearly six. It was
time to prepare dinner.
In the upstairs apartment, four-year-old Hans-Peter rushed
forward and hugged her around her knees. She was aware of
traces of the Englishman's semen trapped between her thighs.
"Mutti," he shouted happily.
She picked him up and settled him on a hip. On the day bed,
her husband rolled over on his back and watched her.
"Not bad," she said, showing him the roll of banknotes. "But
the end of the month is coming up. I'll have to go out again,
tomorrow or the day after."
His eyes were bright with sickness. He'd been a prisoner of
war for two years in Scotland, pulled near death from the cold
waters of the North Atlantic. He would recover his health one
day, maybe. Maybe not. It had been a while now.
She put down the child and pushed him away. "Did he see you
fully naked?" her husband asked, eyes bright with sickness and
with a strange, guilty, feverish lust.
"Yes," she said. It was a game. Another game with another man.
All men played games. She knew the rules.
"Was he good-looking? Was he young and strong? Was it good?"
he asked hesitantly.
She slipped her hand under the blanket and found his hard
penis poking through the striped pyjama pants. She started to
stroke it mechanically.
"He was just ordinary," she said. "It was nothing. I've
already forgotten it."
She stroked him to a climax. 16, 17. She pulled a handkerchief
from her pocket and trapped his ejaculate, keeping the sheets
clean. Gerhard had a short, blunt penis. It had been a long
time since she'd had it inside her. He'd never lasted long.
32, 33 at most. She'd always counted and never known why.
She smiled at him, not unkindly. He looked away quickly, but
she saw the expression of shame and disgust on his face. Yes,
she thought, all men were alike, whether English officers or
U-boat engineers. Once they'd had you, they didn't much like
you any more. Until the next time, anyway.
She got up from the day bed and washed her hands in the sink.
It was time to prepare dinner.
ENDS
Edited by Nat and Ruthie
* Neil Anthony/DrSpin can be contacted at
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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