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From: David Shaw <david@f-e-mail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "A YANK IN THE OUTHOUSE" (M/FFF; F/voyeur: reluc.)
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Date: Wed,  3 Aug 2005 15:10:02 -0400
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"A YANK IN THE OUTHOUSE" (M/FFF; F/voyeur: reluc.)

By

David Shaw
david@f-e-mail.com

www.f-e-mail.com

THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY

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Strange things happen in wartime. Even delivering a bottle of home made 
dandelion wine can become an adventure for a village girl. Sarah Vandell 
didn't really want to do any favors for the two society wives renting a 
cottage to escape the bombs on London. But she wanted to satisfy her 
curiosity. An emotion redoubled when she found the joop (or was it a jeep) 
parked around the back of the cottage and sounds of male laughter coming 
from the steam filled wash house.
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It's odd to be sitting here in the Florida sunshine as a great grandmother 
and to remember that I never even met my first American until I was almost 
eighteen. That was when the big war was being fought in Europe. I'm an old, 
old lady now but I still remember that windy April afternoon when I ran an 
errand to Mill Cottage and everything that happened to me there.

My home was in a small rural village in England and I was waiting to be 
drafted by the government for work in a munitions factory. It was something 
I was looking forward to because most of the factories were in the cities, 
and I'd never been to a city. My father was a farm laborer who'd spent his 
entire life in our village. The only break in his dawn to dusk chores was 
when he acted as warden in the village church every Sunday. Perhaps it was 
because he was such a well respected member of the Vicar's flock that I 
became a Sunday School teacher. Not that I minded, as there was very little 
else to do while I waited to be sent away. There were no more dances, no 
more church socials, not with all the young men away fighting Hitler and 
all the older people having to work twice as hard to keep things going. The 
village had become a stagnant little backwater and now even my girl friends 
were leaving to help make tanks and shells.

I sometimes wonder how long it would have taken me to wake up to real life 
if I hadn't run that errand for the Vicar. Anyway, I did, and Mill Cottage 
turned out to be an instant education by courtesy of our American allies 
and a pair of English courtesans. And all because the Vicar wanted to 
ingratiate himself with Mrs Harrington by sending her a bottle of  home 
made dandelion wine!

Mrs Harrington wasn't a villager at all, nor her friend who lived with her, 
Mrs Walsh. They were a couple of snobby upper class London wives who'd only 
moved to the countryside  to escape the blitz. They were far richer and 
more sophisticated than any of us, they wore fancy clothes, their children 
were in private boarding schools and their husbands were stockbrokers or 
something. Whatever they did for a living, Mr Harrington and Mr Walsh only 
came down about once a month to visit their wives. I think perhaps they 
were quite enjoying the war as temporary bachelors. Mrs Harrington and Mrs 
Walsh, on the other hand, were clearly pining for London and were only kept 
away by fear of the bombing. Which all seemed like good reasons to me why 
they didn't deserve anything as a gift, not even a bottle of dandelion 
wine. Another good reason was that I was the one who was going to have to 
pedal out with it to their home at Mill Cottage, three miles away from the 
village.

Transport was always a problem in the war. Very few people owned cars, and 
in any case civilian fuel supplies were so tightly rationed there was none 
to spare except for the most necessary journeys, so anybody with a bicycle 
and a pair of strong young legs was always being asked to run errands. 
Mostly I didn't mind, but I knew just as well as the Vicar that the only 
reason he was asking me to run this errand was to curry favor with our 
local ladies of substance. Perhaps he was hoping there might be a handsome 
subscription from them eventually for his church restoration fund. Yet, 
young and naive as I was, I didn't think he had much chance of getting any 
cash from either of those two, no matter how deep their purses. Not that I 
knew anymore about them than the local gossip, though there was plenty of that.

In a village as small as mine a couple of women living on their own caused 
a lot of loose talk, most of it nonsense, I thought. Mrs Harrington and Mrs 
Walsh were good looking women though, that was true enough. They were much 
of an age, in their early thirties I suppose. Mrs Harrington had brilliant 
red hair,  which she let grow in a long pony tail all the way down to her 
waist and always wore rather flamboyant earrings. She was tall and trim and 
apparently played tennis and golf very well. The dashing air of self 
confidence in the way she walked around the village always had the men 
looking after her swishing skirt and the long legs underneath it. As for 
Mrs Walsh, she was a little shorter and full figured who wore her blonde 
hair in a high combed style. Both of them dressed like models, even in 
wartime, right down to nylon stockings, an almost unheard of luxury 
then.  Perhaps there was some truth in those rumors about fancy cars 
belonging to black market crooks being seen parked near the cottage.

Which was really why I decided to deliver that lousy bottle of wine. 
Because I was curious about whether anything out of the ordinary did go on 
at Mill Cottage. Not that I was likely to be any the wiser after I'd been 
there of course, but at least it was an excuse to go and knock on the door. 
The back door, of course. I knew the ladies wouldn't want a farm worker's 
daughter coming to the front door as if I was their social equal.

Having decided to do the job, I found myself heading out of the village on 
a blowy April afternoon with tree branches flouncing around in a cold wind 
which was blowing straight into my face.  By the time I got to Mill Cottage 
I was so fed up with the whole stupid business that I just wanted to turn 
around and get an easy ride home before the wind changed direction. I 
wheeled my bike down the small gravel drive at the side of the cottage and 
then stopped in surprise at what I saw.

Parked up behind the cottage, completely out of sight of the road, was a 
small car quite unlike anything I'd ever seen before. It was square at the 
front and back,  painted olive green, with a raised canvas hood and a long 
radio aerial sticking up at the back. Obviously it was a military vehicle 
of some kind. There were white stars on the sides and I realised it must 
belong to the American army. Apart from anything else the steering wheel 
was on the wrong side. Then I remembered a picture I'd seen in the 
newspaper, with General Montgomery riding in a car that looked like this. A 
joop, or a jeep, or something like that was what it had been called. I 
didn't know anything about American cars. In fact I didn't know anything at 
all about Americans, except from what I'd seen on the films and newsreels 
at the cinema. All I'd ever seen of them in real life were a few  big 
planes flying overhead with these same white star badges on the wings.

Of course I was very curious about what the joop was doing at Mill Cottage. 
A large metal box with yellow lettering and numbers on it was wedged in 
between the two front seats. I thought perhaps it might contain bullets, 
which seemed even more likely when I saw that the lid was closed with a 
padlock. Then I took a second look and realized that the hasp was hanging 
free. Anybody who wanted to could lift up the lid and look inside the box.

There was nobody in the back yard, nobody at the closed back door, no 
flutter of movement at any of the cottage's curtains. All that was needed 
was for me to lean inside and flick open the top of the box, and if anybody 
came out I could say I was just wanted to see the inside of the joop. So I 
leaned in and opened the lid, to find that what I was prying into was a 
treasure chest of off-the-ration luxuries.There were packets and packets of 
cigarettes in strange soft packets which had a picture of a camel on them. 
I wondered why, because I didn't think there were any camels in America -- 
I'd never seen any on the films, anyway. There were also bars of chocolate, 
jars of coffee, the protruding necks of four bottles.

I  lifted one of them out far enough to read the label -- genuine Haig 
whiskey! So much for the Vicar's dandelion wine as a home front comfort. 
Yet the most impressive thing of all to me were the cellophane wrappings 
with nylon stockings in them. Now I knew how Mrs Harrington and Mrs Walsh 
were able to wear real nylons whilst the rest of us had to make do with 
seams painted on the backs of our legs! And perhaps the three boxes of 
contraceptive sheaths mixed in amongst all these luxury goods supplied a 
clue as to why they were getting such treats.

Of course, even in my remote little village, we'd heard stories about how 
US serviceman were incredibly rich, with access to all kinds of fancy 
supplies, and how successful they'd been in spreading them out amongst the 
lower sort of girls in return for . . . well, in return. But this was the 
home of two respectable married women. It couldn't be that they were 
playing fast and loose with the Americans, surely?

And just as I was turning that question over in my mind I heard a woman 
laugh from somewhere nearby. Bewildered, I looked around and realised that 
the sound  come from the wash house on the other side of the small yard. 
Smoke was rising out of the chimney, which suddenly seemed very odd, 
because I knew that Mrs Harrington and Mrs Walsh had a woman from the 
village come in on every Monday to do their washing and that day wasn't a 
Monday.

This is were I have to give everybody a little bit of an history lesson in 
how domestic chores were done in the old days. Before electricity and 
washing machines came along the usual thing in most English houses was to 
do the laundry in a 'copper'. A copper was a very large circular sink - 
made of copper coated metal - big enough to hold a week's houshold laundry 
together with several gallons of water. Coppers were usually built into the 
top of a large square brick fireplace about waist height. Except in the 
larger houses it was always put into an outside building, with a hand 
operated water pump next to it. The housewife's job was to keep working the 
handle on the pump to fill the copper up with water, with occasional breaks 
to tend to the fire underneath it, until the copper was half full and the 
water as hot as possible. Then the dirty laundry went in and the whole lot 
was stirred around many times until it was considered washed. Afterwards it 
was taken out and everything rinsed in a wooden cask. And after that -- 
well, I'll tell you about those arrangements by and by. Anyway, the one 
thing you didn't usually hear in a wash house was anybody laughing -- there 
was too much hard work done in them for that. So I found it hard to believe 
our two high society ladies could be doing their own laundry, and even 
harder to believe they could be enjoying it.

The wash house door was closed. Of course, normally, I'd have just opened 
it and walked in because it wasn't like going into a house uninvited. Most 
wash houses were usually shared by several houses anyway. This time though 
I could justify it to myself to be rather cautious, as Mill Cottage already 
seemed to have a guest, or guests. I was therefore perfectly entitled to 
take a cautious peek through one of the wash house windows before I 
disturbed anybody. At least that was what I told myself as I sought a way 
to satisfy my burning interest about what was going on in the place.  So I 
walked around the small building until I found a window misted up on the 
inside. So misted up that it was impossible to see through.

It was an infuriating situation because it was clearly the only window in 
the wash house and it was ideally situated, on the far side from the 
cottage and facing a high hedge row at the back of the cottage garden. 
Nobody could see me standing there, but I couldn't see anything either. If 
it had been an ordinary sort of window the situation would have stayed like 
that. Only it wasn't an ordinary sort of window, it was one of the old 
fashioned type made of lots of small diamond shaped panes of glass set in 
lead strips. Old fashioned and flimsy, and one of the panes near the top of 
the window had been knocked out. If only I could just lift myself up a foot 
or so . . .

Looking around, I saw several old bricks at the bottom of the wall, stacked 
together and almost completely hidden from sight by overgrowing grass and 
nettles. I plucked out three of the bricks, carefully, but still got stung 
on the wrist by a nettle in my hurry. With the bricks put back on top of 
each other and with my right foot resting on the top one I was able to lift 
myself up high enough to put my eye to the gap in the window.

The copper was set in the very middle of the wash house. A steady fire was 
burning in the grate underneath the copper, with a gently rising cloud of 
steam above it, and a considerable pile of firewood still waiting to be 
used. There was a table, a plain old wooden table, near to the fireplace. 
And on the table was a naked man.

Well, naked except for a green towel draped over his bottom as he lay on 
his stomach on top of the table. On top of the table and on top of some 
more towels which had been spread across it like table clothes. His hands 
were resting near his head, the bent arms showing  great bulges of muscle 
on the upper biceps.  His face was turned away from me but it was easy to 
see that he was in the prime of life and physical condition, at least six 
feet tall, and heavily tanned from the sun in a very un-English way. 
Another alien thing was the way his black hair had been cut right down 
almost to his skull, top and sides.

If I was astonished by the sight of the American, as I supposed he must be, 
I was even more astonished at seeing a woman leaning over him, rubbing her 
palms over his shoulders and neck muscles. It was Mrs Harrington, smiling 
as I'd never seen her smile before, Mrs Harrington wearing a white bed 
sheet wrapped around her like a Dorothy Lamour sarong, and the sheet so 
damp it seemed to be sticking to her like a second skin. In fact it was 
obvious she had nothing on underneath the sheet at all!

This was like something the Vicar often preached about in church, about 
Soddom and Gomorah and all the world's wickedness. And here in his own 
parish, an indecently dressed married woman was putting her hands on 
another man! Yet I was fascinated as well as shocked by the scene, scarcely 
daring to breathe. Even better was to come though, because Mrs Walsh walked 
around the copper carrying a tray in her hands, a rectangular wooden tray 
with one small drinking glass on it. Incredibly, she was wearing nothing 
but a sheet as well, a blue one this time. The only thing which seemed to 
be holding it up over her breasts was a clothes peg visible in the 
quivering cleavage between them.

The next thing that happened, astonishingly, was the sight of Mrs Walsh 
getting down on both her knees at the head of the table and holding the 
tray up to the man as if she was acting the role of a slave girl! He 
laughed and said something to Mrs Walsh I couldn't catch, but she stood up 
again. In response he raised his other hand and my eyes bulged when I saw 
the huge shiny pistol in it. I'd never seen one before in my life except in 
gangster films. The Yank pointed the pistol at Mrs Walsh and she stood 
still. Then he said something else and Mrs Harrington took her hands off 
his shoulders and walked around behind Mrs Walsh. Then, and not believing 
it possible, I saw her reach up in front of her her friend and pull the 
clothes peg free, letting the sheet slide down over Mrs Walsh until she was 
standing in front of the man completely naked from the waist up!

Mrs Walsh held the tray underneath her well shaped breasts and gently 
lifted them up on it with the glass carefully balanced between the pale 
skinned mounds.  She was watching the American as if unsure of his 
reactions. In the meantime Mrs Harrington stood there grinning, holding the 
blue sheet around the other woman's waist. Then she let it fall down to the 
floor and Mrs Walsh was standing there without a stitch on. If somebody had 
fired off a shot gun directly behind me at that moment I don't think I 
would even have turned my head. Yet this was still only the beginning.

Mrs Walsh slowly knelt down in front of the American again, being very 
careful not to spill the glass. Without any hurry at all he put down the 
gun on the table, reached out with his thumbs and forefingers and brazenly 
tweaked both of Mrs Walsh's bared nipples jutting out over the edge of the 
tray!

Her hands were trembling.  I knew they were because the tray was, and I 
knew the tray was trembling because both of the breasts piled up on top of 
it were quivering like newly set jellies. Mrs Walsh was staring down at her 
own vibrations and at the fingers playing on her with a kind of pursed 
mouthed concentration, apparently determined on keeping the glass from 
spilling over. As for Mrs Harrington she leaned forward over her friend and 
squeezed the Yank's biceps as if to encourage him. Then I saw her bend 
forward a little closer as though listening to the American telling her to 
do something. She nodded, smiled again, reached down with an extended 
finger between her companion's breasts and apparently dipped it into the 
glass. Then the man released his grip on Mrs Walsh and Mrs Harrington 
immediately applied her long fingernail to the very same places, apparently 
smearing each of her friend's nipples with a drop of liquid from the glass.

Talk about exciting! I was watching all this in complete disbelief. I saw 
Mrs Walsh wriggle further forward on her knees and lift the tray higher 
towards the Yank's face. He had the pistol in his hand again and pointed it 
down towards her legs. Then he leaned forward and started to lick on each 
of the nipples in turn as Mrs Walsh apparently struggled to keep the tray 
level, struggling even more as the man slid further forward yet on the 
table and took a mouthful of her right breast into his opened mouth. The 
tray began quivering again and Mrs Walsh surprised me by suddenly laughing 
out aloud in the same way as I had first heard outside.

My impression was that the pistol wasn't a real threat, more a kind of 
symbol of power. Neither of the women seemed to be in real fear, I was sure 
of that. They were playing out roles which they were willing to do and the 
gun was there as a kind of  stage prop.  Whatever was going on there was no 
doubt that both of them seemed totally unabashed in doing whatever the 
American wanted them to. It also seemed just as certain that one or both of 
them were soon going to get treated in the same way as married women were 
treated all the time. I certainly hoped so because I really wanted to watch 
that! I was also hoping that it wouldn't be long before it happened because 
my eye was watering already with squinting through the small hole and my 
right ankle was aching from balancing awkwardly on the bricks. Still, it 
was well worth it because now Mrs Walsh had put down the tray and was 
holding each of her nipples in turn up to the Yank's mouth, dribbling a few 
drops from the glass onto herself each time, apparently as a way of 
encouraging him to keep on sucking both of the jutting tips.

It was simply so obvious how excited she was, obvious not only because her 
teats were sticking out so much, but by the way she was offering them to 
him with an almost abject eagerness to please, as if she was a puppy lying 
on her back surrendering to the authority of the pack leader. When I 
remembered how the pair of them strutted around the village with their 
noses in the air -- well, I would have given a fortune to have some kind 
of  a magic crystal ball or television set at home which would show this 
scene over and over again. Not that I'd ever seen a television set, of 
course, but I had once met a man who said he'd watched one in London before 
the war.

Soon there was something better to see than anything on television.  Mrs 
Harrington went back to the side of the table, where she had been before, 
on the opposite side of it to the window I was looking through. She calmly 
reached down and pulled the towel off the man's bottom. As she was neatly 
folding it I stared at the sight, the paler rounds of flesh in the middle 
of the long stretches of well tanned skin. Then she put her hands on each 
of the taut buttocks and stroked them with her palms, just as she had done 
to his shoulders. The Yank stirred and moved around, then apparently lost 
interest in Mrs Walsh's bosom, glancing back and lifting his bottom up an 
inch or so off the table. The reason why was probably because Mrs 
Harrington's right hand had slid out of sight, down between the top of the 
legs, and the only place those long fingernails could be now was around his 
balls. It was like getting a bull aroused for a tupping session with a cow.

Mrs Walsh got up and walked around the table on my side, still stark naked 
and blocking my view of what was happening but apparently helping her 
friend in her work. Mrs Harrington stepped back and pulled down the top of 
her white sheet, revealing exactly what I expected to see: nothing but bare 
skin. Her breasts were a lot smaller than Mrs Walsh's were, and she winked 
and smiled at her friend and ran her hands over herself before she stepped 
up to the table again. Her nipples were browner and larger in proportion to 
the other woman's but just as taut.

Then I saw the American's face for the clearly for the first time as he 
rolled over on his back. He was very good looking, with a strong chin and a 
straight nose, like the cowboys we saw in Hollywood films at the 
cinema.  Or perhaps I was put in that way of mind by the pistol he was 
still holding. Mrs Harrington looked at his face, down at what was in front 
of her and then back at the man as if she had some great satisfaction in 
what she was seeing. I couldn't see much myself because Mrs Walsh was in 
the way, but it seemed as if  they were both playing with him together, 
which surely, I thought, there couldn't be room for. Mrs Harrington moved 
sideways a step or so, leaned forward over the American, rested her hands 
on the other side of the table and began rubbing herself over him with her 
breasts dragging to and fro against the mat of curly black hair on the 
man's powerful chest. She seemed to be enjoying the feeling. He laughed and 
put his free hand round behind her. Mrs Harrington moaned loud enough for 
me to hear as she wriggled her bottom around under the man's touch. His 
other hand and the pistol in it was still pointing towards Mrs Walsh.

She moved around to the end of the table and I gaped at what I could see 
now, the jutting length of maleness that stood up proudly from the 
American's loins. Without the slightest hesitation Mrs Harrington reached 
out to her side and stroked his length from top to bottom, from tip to 
balls, as calmly as if  she was polishing a church candlestick -- which was 
about the length and size of  it as well.  It didn't seem necessary to 
threaten the women with a pistol when he could point something like that at 
them. Mrs Harrington certainly seemed to be fascinated by it and just as 
fascinated in watching her companion lean forward between his legs, further 
and further forward until her face was between his thighs. And then Mrs 
Walsh put out her tongue and lapped at the side of the rampant horn nearest 
to her.

Mrs Harrington giggled at the sight, still clutching the top of the 
American's cock. Then she slid further up his body and lowered her head to 
kiss him full on the lips as he kept on fondling her amongst the folds of 
the rucked up sheet. After that she moved back again in the other 
direction, her tongue running over his body hair, until she was face to 
face with her friend. Mrs Walsh was still licking the Yank's cock and both 
of their tongues met as if by appointment on the very tip of his straining 
flesh.

As for me, by this stage I wouldn't have blinked if Adolf Hitler had goose 
stepped in singing 'There'll Always Be An England'  -- I was past being 
surprised by anything. Our two most stuck up ladies, our local snobs, both 
belly down over an American soldier doing things I'd heard of but hardly 
believed possible. Both of them licking a soldier's cock together! Oh, this 
could only get better!

It did. First of all Mrs Harrington went to the side of the copper and 
picked up a small packet she tore open with her teeth. As she came back she 
took out what was inside it and put on the tip of his policeman's helmet. 
With a lot of laughing the two respectable married ladies helped each other 
unroll the rubber sheath down over the American's hard on, stretching the 
rubber so tightly it glinted in the flickering light from the open 
fireplace. It was obvious from the way that the man  was rubbing himself up 
and down against their hands that there was a pressure bursting up inside 
him which needed urgent relief.

The Yank suddenly jumped up, grabbed Mrs Harrington's sheet and pulled it 
off her body with one hand, to show she was wearing no more underneath it 
than her friend had been. Then he grabbed her by her ponytail and bent her 
forward over the table, still holding her hair and pressing the pistol 
against the side of her head.

Mrs Walsh leaned forward and reached down between the two of them, 
apparently positioning his cock for the first lunge forward into Mrs 
Harrington. When he moved his prisoner screeched like a scalded cat and 
then much louder again as the Yank jerked against her, wedging Mrs 
Harrington on that massive piston and beginning to pound it into her like 
the driving rod on a steam locomotive. Now he was on his feet I could see 
he was a giant of a man, as wide across the shoulder as the village well, 
with cords of muscle on him like a blacksmith. Mrs Harrington seemed like a 
puppet against him as he jerked her backwards one handed, then rammed her 
foward again with his hips. Not that she wasn't helping as much as she 
could in sliding up and down his long inches, her hands gripping the 
table's edge with whitened knuckles as she squealed like a slaughtered pig.

I wondered what each of them was feeling. The man was enjoying himself 
tremendously, proud of showing what he could do and obviously enjoying 
every movement. I thought he looked like a footballer scoring a goal with 
every stroke. Mrs Harrington -- well, she making so much noise it seemed it 
might be more of a pain than a pleasure for her, until I saw her face and 
knew she was getting something out of the act that she had to have. Not 
just pleasure but a necessary  fulfilment -- like a moth fluttering above a 
candle that's scorching its wings yet desperate to get even closer. It was 
fascinating.

Meanwhile Mrs Walsh was stepping off a chair onto the table. She stepped 
over the top of her friend then knelt down on top of her. Mrs Walsh's 
bottom pinned Mrs Harrington to the table top, her hands resting on the 
other woman's shoulders as if to make sure she couldn't move.

The American put down the pistol, reached around Mrs Walsh with his huge 
hands and seized both of the plump breasts that hung down as if they were 
ripe fruit ready for picking. She seemed to enjoy that well enough, but I 
could see what she couldn't, Mrs Harrington's petulant expression at being 
held still and suddenly deprived of the Yank's full attention. She twisted 
her head around to the left and then to her right, calling him to keep on 
fucking her. Yes, that was the word she actually used, loud enough for me 
to hear her, and with her supposed to be so middle class and posh. The Yank 
grinned in great good humour, suddenly looking like a schoolboy stealing a 
slice of cake, and then answered her begging  with several thrusting 
strokes so powerful that I was sure the table was shoved forward an inch or 
so, even with all the weight that was on it. Mrs Harrington beat her palms 
flat on the table and honked -- it's the only word I can use, honking 
through her nose and sounding just like a angry goose as her earrings jangled.

The man's right hand dropped down onto Mrs Harrington's spine in front of 
Mrs Walsh, then slid back to the bush of hair that was the same colour as 
Mrs Walsh's hair. The fingers moved between the two women, underneath Mrs 
Walsh and up into her. Her thigh muscles tensed and her fingernails 
clutched at her friend's shoulders as if she was riding her like a jockey, 
though it was clear that the only riding Mrs Harrington was concerned with 
was the one she was getting from the Yank. And it was then, at that moment, 
that Mrs Walsh lifted up her head, looked at me and shouted out in anger.

It was one of these times that you can see what's going on in somebody's 
mind without any need for words or even signs. She was already gasping for 
breath, her face screwed up and ruddy cheeked as she concentrated on her 
pleasures, and then she was suddenly staring at me and trying to warn the 
other two. The problem for her was that neither of them were interested 
right then in anything she had to say. As for me, I couldn't believe she'd 
been able to spot my eye with everything else that had been taking her 
attention. Only when I looked down at the window did I realise what had 
happened. The fire had burnt down, the water in the copper wasn't quite so 
hot now and some of the mist on the window had disappeared. Not much, but 
enough for me to see the firelight through it -- which must mean, I 
supposed, that the upper part of my body was silhouetted against the 
daylight. Which was how Mrs Walsh must have seen that somebody was watching 
them. The question now was what to do next?

There was total confusion in my mind about whether to run away or apologise 
for being there. Then I decided that I was being a fool for thinking that 
any sort of an apology would get me out of this situation. The only thing 
to do was to get away as soon as possible. But Mrs Walsh was a lot more 
quick witted than I was. She forced herself up and back and looked down to 
where the Yank had put his pistol on top of the table. She reached for it, 
picked it up and aimed it directly at the window I was looking through.

"Stay there!" I heard her shout.

The pistol was waving around a lot but her finger was on the trigger and 
the barrel looked as big as a milk churn as it was aimed straight at my 
eye. Until then I hadn't had the faintest idea of how frightening it can be 
to have a gun aimed at you, especially when you don't know if it's loaded 
or not. And even more especially when the person holding the gun might 
really be angry enough to use it. So I did something I never thought I'd 
have to do in my life. I held my hands up over my head like a surrendering 
soldier. But in my shock at what was happening I'd stepped down off the 
bricks and lost my viewpoint through the latched window. I could hear 
through it though, a mingled bellow of male triumph and a higher pitched 
shriek of absolute pleasure. It seemed that Mrs Harrington had finally 
touched the flame with her wings and the soldier was also very happy about 
his own situation.

I was much less happy about mine. Staring at the window pane a few inches 
in front of my face I wondered whether I was still visible through the 
misty glass from the other side. Perhaps I could  run off now, get on my 
bike and pedal like mad for home. On the other hand maybe Mrs Walsh could 
see my outline against the daylight outside and if she saw it moving she 
might pull that trigger. I was pretty certain that the pistol wasn't 
loaded, and I was almost sure that she couldn't be crazy enough to try to 
kill me even if it was, but somehow those two facts seemed to weigh very 
lightly against the memory of that big gun aimed straight at me.

There was more to it though. If I stayed there it was certain that I was 
going to meet the American. And even if I wasn't as smart or as well to do 
as Mrs Walsh and Mrs Harrington, I was younger than they were and I didn't 
think I was so bad looking. And to be honest, I couldn't see that what they 
were doing for their luxuries was so bad, especially not with a man who 
looked like that. I suppose I was getting bored with being a dutiful bible 
imbiber and bored with living within the rules of village life. Truth to 
tell I'd just seen two women being treated like Chicago gangster's molls 
and I envied them because it was the sort of mad moment which could never 
have happened in my life. Or at least I thought it couldn't.

What did happen was that I suddenly found myself staring down the barrel of 
the pistol again, only without a window between me and it this time. And 
the reason for that was because the window had been pushed open and the man 
was standing in the frame, aiming the pistol straight at me.

"Who are you then, honey?" he asked me. He spoke very slowly, dragging the 
words out of his mouth as if he was pulling them out like strips of toffee. 
There was a deeper tone in that huge chest than I'd ever heard in anybody's 
voice.

"Sarah -- Sarah Vandell. I just came to deliver some wine, that's all!"

"Oh God. It's that bloody Sunday School teacher," I heard Mrs Harrington 
say sharply. I couldn't see her though, the Yank was completely filling the 
window space with his body.

"Wine?" He looked down at the bricks I'd piled up against the wall 
underneath the window. "You sure seem to go to a lot of trouble making your 
housecalls. Tell you what, young lady, why don't you just step back up here 
where you where and tell us about yourself?"

"Please stop pointing that gun at me," I protested. "It looks dangerous."

He grinned, again looking for a second like a small boy: "Lady, in the army 
they always tell us that it's the unloaded gun which kills people. This one 
is loaded and cocked and the safety catch is off, so it can't possibly hurt 
you. Now just kindly come back where you where and then I'll put the gun down."

The wind seemed to be blowing even more strongly as I took a pace forward 
and put my weight on the brick pile again. Now I was looking directly into 
the Yank's face. Dark skin, hooded eyes, high forehead, that convict style 
haircut, a glimpse of white teeth in sardonically smiling lips, a strange 
smell of sweat and -- perfume? From Mrs Harrington or Mrs Walsh, or was it 
true what I'd heard, that American men splashed scent on their face after 
they'd shaved?

It wasn't something I had time to think about. He did get rid of the 
pistol: he passed it to one of the women inside the wash house and 
immediately afterwards he put his hands underneath my armpits and lifted me 
off my feet as if I was a little girl. It was a tremendous surprise to be 
just hoisted and virtually dragged through the window -- if it hadn't been 
for the fact that I was wearing my long cycling skirt my knees would have 
been badly grazed on the window sill.

"Hi, honey, my name's Reuben. I guess you know Harriet and Susan."

Well, I didn't, not by their Christian names, and I still didn't know which 
one was which, nor did I care too much right then, because I was still 
being held up in his remarkably powerful hands with my toes just barely 
touching the paving stones. Above everything else I was acutely aware of 
the fact that I was about as close as I could be to a completely naked man

"Ladies, I think it's time we turned the handle here".

I didn't have a clue as to what he was talking about though it was obvious 
from the smile on Mrs Harrington's face that she did. As for Mrs Walsh, she 
moved as quickly as she could to the mangle standing near to the copper.

You remember I promised to explain about the washing after it had been 
rinsed? Well, a mangle was a heavy cast iron upright frame, and in the top 
of the frame were two wooden rollers, with the wet laundry squeezed item by 
item between the rollers to get rid of the excess water as the rollers were 
turned by a handle on a big wheel. I guessed that was the handle the Yank 
was talking about.

Yes, Mrs Walsh already had her hands on the crank handle of the mangle. I 
saw that before the American spun me round so the mangle was behind me. 
Then I felt the back of my skirt being plucked up. Straining my neck 
around, I saw that Mrs Harrington had lifted up the hem and was feeding it 
between the rollers as her friend cranked the handle around. The American 
laughed, let go of me and as more and more of the skirt was drawn up 
between the rollers and I was pulled backwards, uselessly trying to hold 
down the hemline as it was pulled up my legs. I suppose I must have 
protested, but nobody took any notice of whatever I said, not until I was 
pinned back against the mangle with most of my skirt hanging out the other 
side of it. What was left to me was rucked up around my waist, so high up 
that I knew the bottoms of my old fashioned bicycling briefs with the 
elasticated leg pieces must be showing. The sneer on Mrs Harrington's still 
flushed face was proof enough of that, let alone the Yank's grin.

"Honey, you sure do have one nice pair of legs, especially for a Sunday 
School teacher."

"Let me go, please."

He picked up one of the towels off the table and tied it around his waist, 
sat down on the top of the table and reached out his hand to Mrs 
Harrington. She gave him the gun and he put it down next to himself.

"And you sure haven't been short changed in the upper works either, 
Sarah.  A nice little double handful there for any guy to play with."

I felt my face burning and my tongue completely tied. I'd never even heard 
of any man daring to talk like this to a respectable girl. Mrs Harrington 
just laughed, picked up the tray and walked off towards another table with 
clothing thrown on top of it.

"Susan, why don't you put some more wood on the fire? This is the only 
place I can get warm in a goddam country that's never heard of central 
heating. Don't worry about our unexpected guest, she's going noplace soon."

A couple of his fingers tapped lightly against the pistol and Mrs Walsh -- 
Susan? -- walked towards the fire. As she walked past the Yank he caught 
her right breast in his outstretched hand and pulled her onto his lap. Mrs 
Walsh grunted, hoisted the sheet around her above her hips and pressed 
herself against him in shameless response, grabbing his hand and holding it 
between her legs as she kept on making noises like a pig rooting through 
kitchen scraps.  The Yank was watching my face as he put his fingers into 
Mrs Walsh, apparently far more interested in my response than in that of 
the woman he was playing with.

"See, I told you she wasn't going anyplace soon. She's too interested in 
watching what I'm doing to you girls to want to leave."

"I'm not interested in what you're doing" I said as confidently as I could. 
"I do want to leave, so you'd better let me go. And you can't get away with 
threatening people with guns in this country. This isn't Chicago."

"Honey, I would never have guessed that," he said sarcastically.

Mrs Harrington came back with her sheet neatly wrapped around her again and 
carrying the tray. On it were three glasses and a very expensive looking 
gold cigarette case. She took two cigarettes out of it, put them in her 
mouth and lit both with a lighter built into the case. I'd never seen such 
a fancy thing before. She passed one of the cigarettes to the Yank who 
released Mrs Walsh as casually as he'd grabbed her to take it. Susan seemed 
unhappy about being discarded and knelt down to begin shoving sticks into 
the laundry fire with unnecessary force. The man and the woman still at the 
table drank and smoked and stared at me, Reuben with lazy interest, Mrs 
Harrison with sharp eyed annoyance.

"What are you doing here, Sarah?" she asked.

"I don't have to answer your questions!" I answered with defiance.

She smiled coldly: "How would you like us to feed you through that mangle 
the other way around -- tits first?"

"I was just delivering a bottle of wine for the Vicar." I answered quickly, 
my stomach feeling as if the wind had just been knocked out of it.  Mrs 
Harrington snorted in disbelief, her eyes sharp and bright.

"It's true -- the bottle is in the saddlebag of my bike outside. But when I 
got here I heard some noise from inside the wash house and I just wondered, 
well, what was going on. . ."

"So you decided to spy on us and now you're going to go back to the village 
with a lot of gossip which everybody in the county will hear about in a day 
or two -- or at least you think that's what you're going to do."

"I won't tell anybody anything." I told her, trying to damp down her rising 
anger.

"No you won't, not if you know what's good for you. Reuben is a Major in 
the American military police and very rich as well, so you'd better not say 
anything or you'll be in real trouble."

"Gals, gals, quieten down will you, I'm getting a head ache," the Yank 
rumbled. "This is no problem. There's twenty pounds in the jeep that I'll 
give to Sarah here in return for keeping quiet about our little get together.'

Twenty pounds -- it was a fortune, as much as a skilled man could earn in a 
month. "And seeing as how she's here and paid for, I guess she may as well 
join in the fun as well. It sure would be a waste of a good Sunday school 
teacher otherwise, for Jacob can see there is corn in Egypt."

I was almost as startled by the quotation from the old testament as I was 
by his implied threat of what he was going to make me do.

"Now you needn't look so surprised, honey. We've got bibles back home as 
well and my folks were kinda strict about bringing me up on it. Anyway, I 
guess we need to make a sinner out of you so there'll be no temptation for 
you to go throwing any stones. Now if only I'd have known that I was going 
to have to lead a pretty young lady like you into temptation this 
afternoon, why I guess I'd have preserved my strength a little instead of 
sinning straight off with Harriet." He spread his arms out to encompass all 
three of us, then reached down and stroked his groin underneath the towel, 
still looking around and leering. "The harvest truly is plenteous, but the 
laborers are few."

Next his eyes turned directly towards me: "Never mind, Sarah, ye shall eat 
of the fat of the land."

It took me a moment or two to understand what he meant and why the women 
were laughing at me. Imaging myself sprawled over the top of a man's naked 
body with my mouth full of him was as inconceivable as doing it with two 
other women watching me. Yet there was a kind of poetic justice about it 
that I knew would appeal to Susan and Harriet.  I felt like I did whenever 
I'd fallen off my bicycle -- with no time to think about anything except 
how hard the ground was going to feel when I finally hit it.

"How long do you think she was watching us?" Harriet said.

"Long enough to know exactly what's going to happen to her now," Susan snapped.

The other two each seemed to find the idea amusing. Reuben put his arms 
around the women, each of his hands cupping one of their breasts.

"Well, Sarah, you sure do seem a mite overdressed for the occasion. Maybe 
we can do something about that," he drawled. His cigarette was hanging from 
the corner of his mouth, an eyelid screwed up against the smoke. I'd never 
seen a man so self assured. He dropped his hands and slapped both of the 
women on their bottoms. "Fix her up, gals. I've got to make a call on the 
radio and find out how things are going back at HQ."

He got off the table, tied the towel around his waist, slipped his feet 
into a pair of unlaced shoes. "Have her ready for me when I come back." He 
left the wash house, apparently unconcerned by the cold wind blowing 
outside. The gun was still in his hand, as though he was determined never 
to be parted from it. I wondered why.

As Susan and Harriet moved towards me I reached round to the handle to try 
to release myself but my skirt was bunched up in the rollers too tightly 
for me to be able to turn it from that difficult angle. And anyway, it was 
two against one, two who would have grabbed my arm before I could have 
turned the wheel even once. There was no way out.

Harriet Harrington stood and watched me, her arms crossed, the same cold 
smile on her face; her companion touched her elbow and whispered in her 
ear. Whatever she said seemed to suit Harriet.

"Well, Miss School Teacher, you might have thought that you've had an 
interesting afternoon so far, but it's soon going to get a lot more 
interesting. Now for starters, it must be getting awfully hot in here 
underneath that sweater you've got on."

Of course it was. In a situation like this I would have been hot and 
bothered enough anyway, let alone in a hot steamy room with a  sweater on. 
My skin was pricking underneath it and drops of sweat were rolling down my 
face.

"So why don't you let  us take it off you?"

I shook my head.

"Suit yourself," Harriet said briskly.  "It's just as easy for me to get 
Reuben to do it. He'd enjoy that, but you won't. Especially when he gives 
you a spanking for being a stubborn little bitch. He's  got a swagger stick 
that he's used on me once and I've never dared to argue with him since. But 
you're going to be stripped off in here, that's for certain. Your only 
choice is whether you want to be given a civilized shagging afterwards, or 
just plain raped. Whatever happens, Susan and I will be holding you down 
for Reuben if we have to, understand that. We need to make sure you won't 
talk and having you thoroughly fucked is our only guarantee of that. So is 
it going to be done easy or hard? And if it's to be made easy for you you'd 
better put your arms up without any further delay."

I didn't know what to do. Until Mrs Walsh showed me the long hat pin in her 
hand, then pressed the point of it through the wool of my sweater, through 
the fabric of my bra and into my left breast. It made me cry out with pain.

"Better make your mind up, Sarah -- quickly." She wasn't pretending

Once more in the same day I held my arms up over my head in surrender. 
Harriet and Susan put their hands underneath the sweater my mother had 
knitted for me and raised it up and up, over my bra cups and over my 
shoulders, over my face, my hair, along my arms, and then it was hanging 
from her hands and I was wearing nothing but my bra above the waist.  Susan 
nudged the left cup with her palm, her face close to mine.

"We'll have  that off you, and then you can do a performance for us to watch."

I could see the smudged mascara on her eyebrows, smell the tobacco on her 
breath. It was a different sort of tobacco smell to anything I'd ever smelt 
before, sweeter. My heart was was bouncing around in my chest like a canary 
frantic to get out of its cage. Susan asked me questions.

"I bet you've never done it before have you? Or did that Charlie Moore 
manage to get his wicked way with you before he finally got called up for 
the navy?"

I was surprised she knew about Charlie and me. Everybody else in the 
village probably knew we'd begun courting but I didn't think anybody in 
Mill Cottage would have cared.

"No, we didn't do anything," I protested.

Harriet touched me as well, stroking my cheek with the back of her fingers: 
"In that case I'll bet twenty to one that Charlie boy is going to get a 
lovely surprise on his next leave. By then you'll be grabbing hold of any 
cock you can get and riding point to point on them all like a good 'un. 
You're as sexy a girl as I've ever seen, Sarah, and your days as a Sunday 
School teacher are definitively over."

"No -- no," I protested, in vain. Susan unhooked the back of my bra and 
both of them took it off me. Both pairs of hands had long unchipped 
fingernails and soft skin which had never done any work. Harriet stood back 
and eyed me.

"Well, Sarah, you're a well developed young lady. If nobody has been 
getting his hands on those it's been a sad waste."

I tried to cover myself up with my hands, and that just made them laugh at 
me even more. Harriet said: "OK, let's take off her Maginot Line now."

"My what?"

"Your briefs," Susan explained. "Your last line of defense."

"Oh God!"

It only took a second or two, both of them kneeling down on either side of 
me and plucking the briefs down.

"Be careful, please. Don't break the elastic."

Maybe it was a silly thing to say under the circumstances, but maybe it 
wasn't.  Elastic was another clothing item which was hard to come by in 
wartime shops.

Anyway, they were reasonably careful, not wrenching them off me and helping 
me to step out of them. Harriet stood up, threw my briefs casually across 
the back of a chair and looked carefully at me again. Susan had picked up a 
cigarette from somewhere and swallowed a stream of smoke before passing it 
over to Harriet.

"Another turn of the handle?"

"Oh yes, I think so. Just to set the scene off nicely."

Susan caught hold of the mangle's handle and turned it again, pulling me 
yet closer to the rollers and the bottom of the skirt up higher until it 
was right up around the top of my legs and I was literally within a hair's 
breath of indecent exposure. One futile attempt trying to pull back some of 
the trapped cloth was enough to prove I was wasting my time. Susan giggled 
and patted the handle.

"One more turn, Sarah, one more turn of this and you'll be putting on a 
turn of your own. A strip show act with everything on show."

"What are you doing this for?" I asked. "Why are you doing everything that 
man wants you too?"

Harriet nodded her head, as if appreciating the question.

"It's suddenly become a whole new world, Sarah. A whole new country anyway. 
You know how it's always been in England, the aristocracy and the 
landowners have always had the real power -- and if you weren't born and 
bred in their own little circles you were always a second rater, no matter 
how hard you worked or how good you were. But now we're suddenly getting 
thousands of these American servicemen flooding in and you just can't 
believe how rich they are. Rich as a nation, rich as individuals, many of 
them. Not broad acres and rent book rich but cash rich. They've got bundles 
of money burning holes in their pockets because they know they're going to 
be in the fighting and maybe getting killed. All they want are good times 
and to hell with what it costs. So if you've ever wanted to make your pile 
while you're young, this is your chance. We'd be delighted to have you join 
us."

"Join you?"

"Sure, believe me, there's plenty for all and thanks to Reuben we're just 
starting to get organised in a big way. He wants to bring some of his 
friends along here for a party -- I think you'd be just right to come as 
the second story maid. I can even get you a specially low cut costume to wear."

She was laughing at me with her eyes but she was serious too. "Listen, 
Sarah, if you come to one of Reuben's parties dressed in the right way and 
carrying a collection plate you could end up buying your own house in that 
mouldy old village. You've got a lovely smile -- it could be a smile that 
sets you up for smiling yourself for the rest of your life."

That struck a chord. My family, like many others, lived in a tied cottage 
-- a cottage that belonged to the farm my dad worked for. If he lost his 
job he lost his home as well, a situation that always gave the farmers the 
whip hand when dealing with troublesome workers. Nobody could ever call my 
father a troublesome worker but it had always a sore point with me. 
Basically,  tithed workers were no better off than Negro cotton pickers 
living in plantation cabins in the days of slavery. The prospect of being 
able to buy a way out of that trap was enough to get my undivided 
attention. Or at least it would have been at almost any other time -- only 
Reuben walked back in just then.

As a natural reaction I covered my nipples up with my hands, something he 
hardly seemed to notice. A white belt was slung over one of his massive 
shoulders and around his chest like a bandoleer, a holster hanging off it 
and the butt of the pistol sticking out of the top of the holster.  It was 
just like the cinema again, like one of the Mexican bandits you saw in the 
cowboy films. I felt like Dorothy in reverse -- I'd somehow clicked my 
heels and ended up in Kansas. If there were Mexican bandits in Kansas.

"Goddamn those stupid bastards I have working for me!" Reuben's smile had 
faded into a look of anger which frightened me. He seemed to realise that 
and to reassure me.

"Sorry, Sarah, I didn't mean to bother you. I've been checking on things in 
London and I guess I've got a problem."

"What's wrong?" Susan asked him with concern in her voice.

"Two of my sergeants were doing street familiarization with a London bobby. 
They'd parked up near Claridge's while the limey cop went for one of his 
usual limey tea breaks. So my two guys were sitting in their jeep and 
there's a maroon Rolls-Royce parked outside the hotel across the road with 
an ATS officer inside it. Very young, not bad looking apparently. So she 
gets out of the Rolls and walks over to the jeep and asks my two half wits 
how they like England. OK, one half wit then, because one of the guys is 
very polite and says he likes it a lot. But sergeant Hermann Zeitler, he 
tells this female limey officer they should cut the cables on the barrage 
balloons and let the whole goddamned island sink into the sea. So she gives 
him a real long hard look and goes back to the Rolls. Just then the cop 
comes back and asks them if they knew who they'd been talking to."

"Some Duchess?" Susan guessed.

"Some Duchess! That fuckwit Zeitler, he's only gone and told off Princess 
Elizabeth of England!
If she complains the shit is really going to hit the fan. It wouldn't be 
such a big deal if Eisenhower was still around but now he's in North Africa 
and the senior American officer left in London is General John H. Lee. That 
strutting turkey will just love it if the US Ambassador to the Court of 
Saint James turns up in his office complaining that Major Reuben Steele's 
military police company have been insulting the British royal family."

"It's OK," Harriet said. "I bet the Princess won't say anything about it. 
She'll be like the rest of us, too glad to see you people here to help us 
to worry about a small thing like that. My advice would be to write to her, 
apologise, and say that your man only answered the way he did because he 
was feeling homesick. And maybe send her a gift of some kind as well."

"What the hell sort of present do you give a Princess?"

"Nothing for her, perhaps, but if she's in the army you could donate 
something to her unit. A film projector and some of the latest Hollywood 
films -- musicals would be good. Anything at all except war films -- we're 
all fed up with the war over here."

"Good thinking, Harriet. I'll do just that. As for Sergeant Zeitler, I've 
got an ideal transfer arranged for him. If he doesn't like this island 
we'll send him to one where he'll have real trouble finding any princesses 
to mouth off at."

"Where's that then, Reuben?"

"A nice little tropical resort in the South Pacific called Guadalcanal. 
I've a feeling that Zeitler won't be there too long before he's wishing 
like hell he was back pulling duty outside Claridge's."

"Never mind, we'll take your mind off your worries," Susan said brightly. 
"Won't we, Sarah?"

"What do you mean?" I asked her and she smiled.

"I think we can lift that skirt just a teensy weensy touch more, can't we, 
Susan?"

Susan put her hands on the handle and began singing like a seaman pulling 
on a rope as she turned the wheel: "Hey, hey and a up she rises, early in 
the morning".

Harriet's hand dropped to the front of Reuben's towel and stroked his 
swelling pizzle. "I think we might have something here that's rising as well."

The Yank grinned and  plucked the towel from his waist. His cock twitched 
as Harriet touched it, like the head of a sleeping python being roused. The 
length of flesh seemed almost independent of Reuben somehow -- he and 
Harriet were both looking down at it as if neither of them were quite sure 
of what it was going to do next. Then he carefully folded the towel in a 
long strip and gave me a smile which seemed to be growing like his appendage.

"Sarah, I guess you've heard about Sir Walter Raleigh spreading his cloak 
in front of Queen Elizabeth. Now you're going to have a man spread a towel 
for you. No need to get frightened, I'm not going to hurt you any."

I was so nervous I didn't know whether to scream or not as he laid the 
towel on the brick floor in front of my feet. I was puzzled as well, not 
knowing what he meant to do, even more so when he knelt down on the towel, 
his face only a few inches from the hem of my skirt. He swirled one of his 
fingers around as a signal to Sarah and she turned the handle as far as she 
could. I was pinned right gack against the mangle, up on the tips of my 
toes, with my own small patch of brown hair openly exposed and  Reuben's 
breath stirring them. I saw his tongue dart forward and press against the 
junction at the top of my legs. The wriggling length of hot skin went 
further underneath me as he tilted his head back, his eyes staring at my 
face as he lapped against most private places like a cow feeding off a salt 
lick. Both of the other women were watching me as though I was was some 
kind of a laboratory experiment, some kind of Frankenstein about to come to 
life.

Not that that was far from the truth, and it was Reuben who was whipping up 
the storm where the electricity was coming from.

I found myself wailing out his name as my clitoris began to swell like a 
spring bud. There was no way I could stop myself twitching and gasping in 
response, my bare bum rubbing up against the iron frame of the mangle. 
Looking down at the American's smiling eyes I knew I was seeing the man who 
was going to be my first lover, the one who was going to change me from a 
girl into a woman. My hands came down and rubbed his bristly scalp in 
encouragement as I literally melted on top of Reuben's face, my cunt as 
damp as the tongue rubbing against it. Henrietta and Susan grabbed at my 
exposed nipples, tweaking and plucking both of them with crazy smiles on 
their faces. It was just as crazy that they reminded me most of a film 
scene of the Marx brothers trying to tune a harp.

My head went back and I stared up wide eyed into the roof rafters, letting 
out a shriek which echoed amongst them. Although it must have been my 
imagination I thought I saw the clouds of steam underneath the tiles 
quivering as the echoes of my voice bounced around the wash house.

Harriet's face was close to mine, watching with amusement and interest: 
"How do you feel now, Miss Sunday School Teacher?"

I groaned. "Like a Guy Fawkes dummy on top of a burning bonfire!"

"Then it must be about time for the fireworks to start."

She began nibbling on one of my ears and then Susan did the same from the 
other side, just as Reuben's huge hands clasped my bottom. One of his 
fingers jabbed straight up between both of my buttocks and I wailed out 
again. Reuben leaned back, his hands still holding me in a crushing embrace.

"Noisy little bitch, isn't she? I wonder if she'll be able to keep it up 
when I introduce her to the rest of the guys."

"You think she'll be able to stand the strain?" Susan answered in a jokey 
kind of voice,

He stood up and  casually waggled the huge up roll of swollen skin curving 
up in front of his loins. "I guess we'll have to give her a stretch test to 
find out. Roll a sheath on for me, ladies."

They couldn't get down on their knees fast enough, as if they were 
worshipping his maleness, working hand over hand to stretch the sheath over 
the length of a cock that seemed more the right size for a bull than a man. 
I'd never been near so frightened of anything in my life -- being shagged 
for the first time was bad enough, being shagged for the first time in 
front of an audience was worse, but being shagged by a tool like that! I 
was going to die in agony impaled on an organ which was never meant to be 
used on a human woman . . .

The only slight consolation was that Harriet had already been used by it 
and survived: on the other hand, our respectable Mrs Harrington had 
probably had more men inside her already than the changing rooms at Wembley 
Stadium. Reuben had been following a well beaten path, not cutting a new 
one. It was no use, I was as dead as Lord Kitchener, and with the same fate 
-- torpedoed to death.

No sooner was the sheath on than Susan was checking the fit with her mouth, 
squatting on her haunches and snorting through her nose as she sucked on 
his cock, one hand cupping his balls.
Her other hand was up between Harriet's thighs as that 'lady' licked the 
matted hair on Reuben's chest.

"Yeah, maybe you girls would be interested in hearing that a bunch of my 
guys will be here soon for a few hours. I think what we'll do is to dump 
little Sarah here in the copper to steam for a while in a hot bath. When my 
guys arrive they can strip off at the door, collect a bar of soap each and 
gather around the copper to give her a real thorough washing. I guess we 
might get some fun out of watching that."

Harriet giggled and looked at me as if it was a great joke I should be 
sharing in while Susan sounded as if she was choking. She had to stop 
sucking on Reuben's cock before she could recover her breath.

"OK, ladies, one leg each,  high and wide, and let's see if the Sunday 
School teacher knows any good prayers.

The two ladies of Mill Cottage seemed quite calm as they prepared for my 
ravishment by lifting up my legs as I cried out and held onto the frame of 
the mangle underneath me. "Put her knee over your offside shoulder," 
Harriet said. "She's not very heavy but we might be here for a while and 
it's easier to support her weight like this"

It was madness, it was impossible, I was hanging in mid air with my legs 
splayed out against two naked womens' breasts, my calves pressing against 
their sweating skin as a nude man moved closer holding onto a bulging 
erection he was preparing to ram into me. Then I felt the tip of it 
stroking my cunt lips and went into a spasm of trembling. And then I 
screamed more loudly than I ever had in my life as I was joined to Reuben. 
Well, perched on Reuben's cock really, but certainly with his helmet inside 
me an inch or so and it felt more like God's work than anything I'd ever 
learned in church.

He leaned forward, put his mouth against mine and pushed his tongue through 
my lips. I gladly met him halfway, my tongue as active as his. He came 
closer and my own weight slid me further down his cock, setting me 
whinnying into his mouth like a hard ridden mare with a foam spattered 
bridle. I had to jerk my mouth back, suck in air and let it out in bubbling 
moans of despair, knowing that if there was no end to this invasion of my 
body soon I would be past help.

Harriet's sardonic voice was in my ear: "Any last words from the 
scriptures, Sarah?"

"Oh God! Oh God! He maketh my deep to boil like a pot!"

Reuben's hands were holding my waist, he was preparing to pull me down 
completely and utterly onto him, I was doomed . . .

Reuben barked with laughter: "I was a stranger, and yet ye took me in."

There was an explosion inside me, setting off yelps of forlorn despair 
which shot up high like skyrockets  to burst amongst the steam and the 
rafters and the tiles. A pair of yellow eyes were glittering down angrily, 
a small barn owl hunched up in its feathers, weary of trying to sleep above 
this human hullaboo. I found myself laughing uncontrollably that such a 
wise bird had picked this place above all to seek a peaceful day -- we'd 
both been so wrong about that.

THE END

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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