Sarah wanders through the freezing night, down the empty streets. She is nervous. She bites her bottom lip, smudging her top teeth with her poppy red lipstick. She takes a deep breath, composes herself then enters the village hall. The place throbs with music, the sounds of swing. Numb with cold, she removes her woolly beret, her knitted gloves and winter coat, and dashes to the powder room. Fortunately for her there is an empty cubicle. Sarah lifts her lime-green polka-dot dress, pulls down her pants, and rubs the circulation back into her legs. Luxuriating on the warm wooden seat, she feels her charm. She breathes a long sigh of relief.
The woman walks out into the bright lights. Thirty-four and fading fast, will love pass her by? He watches her from the edge of the dancefloor. She looks sad, lonely, different from the other girls. He strolls up to her, and says hi. Her heart butterflies. She goes all pins and needles.
‘Come on, babe. How about you and me stepping out, huh? Gee you’re cute, no kidding.’
This man can shoot a line, Sarah admits, admiring his rugged looks, the clean cut of his uniform.
‘Thank you, I’d love to.’
He smooths on, ‘Can you dance jitterbug, babe?’
‘Might be able to, if you show me,’ she teases.
Sarah’s playing stupid. She knows how to jitterbug. She’s practiced the moves all day long. Pulse-step, step-drop, one-two, rock-step, up-down, lifting her knees. She can’t help herself. Hopelessly in love for the first time, she feels dizzy, light-headed. Her heart thumps like a child’s drum. Her mouth is moist, ready for his kiss. She swipes on more rouge. He can smudge it off her if he likes. Sarah has fallen head-over-heels in love with the most handsome man in her isolated little world.
He takes her by both hands. Pulls her sharply to her feet. She lets herself fall into his muscly arms. Savours the clean scent of his skin. His smoky breath. Her soft hands press hard against his chest, rubbing the shiny breast buttons on his airman’s jacket.
‘Come on then!’ he barks. He’s firm with her. She likes that: the manly protective type. ‘Let’s hit the floor. What’s your name?’
She struggles to make herself heard over all the noise. ‘Sarah! Yours?’
He tells her his name. Her face glows. He is her wildest dream come true. Tall, dark, handsome, and strong. They join the swirl of the dancefloor. He is a masterful jitterbugger. Sarah takes to the dance like a bee lapping nectar out of a flower. She holds his hand. Her arm falls limp. He’s gentle with her. He doesn’t pull her arm off. No more quick-quick-slow. She feels so alive.
The dancefloor heaves with servicemen and women swinging to the big band beat. This could be their last night. Tomorrow they might go missing, killed in action. As if sensing all their fears, the band steps up the tempo. Music fills the air: blaring trumpets, raucous trombones, a sexy sax, thrumming bass, beating drums. So loud, the dancers can hardly hear themselves shout.
Sarah closes in on her man, wrapping her slender arm around his broad shoulder. He puts his arm round her waist. Step-pulse, turn-out-a-little, face each other, step-pulse, rock-step, step-pulse. The dance finishes. They pant like lions after a heavy lunch. Their hearts full of love, lungs full of smoke.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks her, ‘There’s Coca Cola or Coca Cola?
‘I’d love one,’ she gasps.
Soft drinks flow like champagne. There is plenty to eat. Sarah feels as if she’s discovered an oasis after a long trek through the desert. The lights go down. The band plays a slow romantic number. Sarah’s in the mood for love, sex if she can. Her housemate flashes her a nervy smile as she leaves the hall on the arm of a young GI. Ravishing blonde Daisy’s a hell of a fuck. She won’t be home until morning. Sarah winks at her slyly. They burst out laughing. The dancers smooch. She slides her hand down his back, encouraging him a little, feeling his arm tighten around her hips as he draws her close. She feels wonderful.
‘I’d like to go home now,’ she says, all of a sudden, ‘Walk me home, won’t you?’
‘Course, I will,’ the young airman can barely conceal his surprise, fate, or fortune, ‘Take my arm.’
They step out into the starry night, the frost’s chill on their faces, gazing at the full moon as they walk arm-in-arm down the deserted street. Lights shine out of every window. The endless nights of curfew, constant blackouts, wailing sirens, screams of the injured and dying, will soon be over. Soon there’ll be celebrations, street parties, congas. Huge crowds waving Union Jacks in the Mall. The band will strike up ‘Moonlight Serenade’ for the young airmen and their forces sweethearts.
They stop and bask under the lamplight on a street corner.
He produces a packet of Camels. ‘Cigarette?’
‘That would be nice, thank you.’
Sarah slips his fag between her lips, imagining it’s his cock, cupping her hands around his hands to keep him warm. Their embers glow. They blow halos in each other’s faces. He reaches inside his greatcoat, pulls out some crinkly packets and stuffs them in her coat pocket. Sarah is delighted. She always wears anklet socks. There haven’t been nylons in the shops since war broke out.
‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ he says, sounding choked.
She’s puzzled. Valentine’s isn’t until next month.
He looks down at his feet. ‘Think of me, won’t you, while I’m away.’
Realising he’s flying bombing raids over enemy territory, she throws her arms round his neck and kisses him. To her surprise, he pushes her away.
‘Sorry I led you on. I should go. Be seeing you.’
She calls after him as he crosses the street. ‘Please, don’t go. I love you.’
Sarah stands alone, staring up at the clear night sky, wishing on a star: come back safely to me, darling, you’re all I have left in the world.
Her lip quivers. Her nose runs. She starts to cry. Crying never failed to break a man’s heart.
He appears at her side, ‘Hey, don’t cry.’
She tells him it’s the war.
She says the war has been hard for her.
This war is so hard.
He brushes the tears from her cheeks with the back of his hand.
‘Come on, let’s get you home? How far is home?’
‘I share a house with two other victory girls,’ she sniffs, ‘I have my own room. It’s a short walk away.’
So, she is a victory girl, a patriotic woman who offers sex to servicemen. He’s in for quite a night.
They arrive at her bleak terraced house with its windows blacked out. Daisy and Vera are busy upstairs, loving the night away with their young GI dates. They won’t be disturbed tonight. Sarah turns the key stiffly in its lock.
She turns to face her man and asks, ‘Would you like to fuck me?’
He sees her shadow in the gloom of the porch. Sarah’s changed. She seems different. He is scared, yet compelled by a stronger force. His dick feels stiff. He desires her, finds her irresistible. He might get shot down and killed in the dawn raid. Other than his admiration and respect, he doesn’t really have any feelings for the woman: he just wants to fuck her. Reading his mind, she rubs his bulging crotch brazenly, his intimate slut, his fuck-doll, then lets him inside, shutting out the starry night. It feels cold in the hallway: dank, musty smells. Sarah switches off the light. She takes his hand in hers then leads him up the dingy staircase. A cobweb brushes his cheek.
‘What kinda place is this?, he wonders, ‘You live in this dump?’
‘What choice do I have?’ she replies, solemnly, ‘What choice do any of us have in this war? I manage. I get by. I have my little room. A roof over my head. Enough to eat. Which is more than most can say after the bombing. Some of my closest friends have lost everything: their families, homes, possessions.’
‘I’ll take you away from this, take you home,’ he promises, falsely, ‘When this crazy war ends.’
‘That’s what all the airmen say,’ she looks at him straight in the face. ‘Will you, John, really?’
He looks away from her, remembering Oklahoma, golden fields swaying in the summer breeze. Josie’s soft, round, brown, sweating face crying him a sad goodbye behind their kitchen window.
Sarah squeezes his ball sac thru his slacks, teasing him taut. They reach the landing. She switches on the light. The modern house has three bedrooms, a bathroom and a separate toilet. The door facing them is Sarah’s private brothel.
He feels awkward about being disloyal to Josie, ‘I’m sorry, I think I should go.’
She grips his hand, holding him, treating him like her naughty schoolboy refusing to go to school.
‘Don’t go,’ she starts to cry, ‘I want you to love me. I’m lonely. Stay here with me, won’t you?’
He brushes the tear-damp hair off her face. ‘Okay, don’t cry. I’ll love you.’
Sarah lets him inside, locks the door, and switches on the light. They slip off their winter coats, their shoes. She removes her mauve beret, shaking out her wavy blonde hair. He gawps at her smooth bare legs, the flimsy dress, her radiant face. He wants to strip off her dress; pull off her panties then hump her missionary with her legs held wide apart as he plunges his rigid tarse deep inside her lubricious cleft.
To his surprise, her little room is cosy and warm. A coal fire is smouldering in an open fireplace. Heavy curtains add to the snug feel of the place, her warm snug. He feels himself relax. Her room is sparse, if adequately furnished with a single bed, tallboy, mirrored dressing table and chair. He notices the faded photographs on the mantelpiece over the fireplace: a young mother holding her baby, a blonde athletic youth, a pair of identical twins in a cot, a couple holding hands. He studies the photographs more closely. Their faces are indistinct.
Sarah distracts him, ‘I have a surprise for you.’
He feels energised by her, but remains suspicious. ‘What kinda surprise?’
‘Stand still. I’ll show you.’
He smiles contentedly as she undresses him, removing the airman’s jacket, hanging it on the back of her chair. She unknots his tie and unbuttons his shirt, easing it off over his shoulders, exposing his solid, hairy, well-muscled chest, his flat stomach. She kneels to untie his shoe laces, edging off his shoes, pulls off his socks, unbuckles his belt, and pulls down his trousers. His colossal tool is tenting, soiling his pants with semen. She pulls them down, kneels between his tensed thighs, and takes his cock into her warm mouth, sucking him stiff, licking him, slathering her langue over his glistening, slick nub, teasing his slit, tenderly, with the tip of her tongue. He groans, bursting to come in her throat. When his cockerel is crowing for her, she releases him from her grasp, her mouth dribbling with his jus, his runny mess trickling down her chin. She wipes her lips clean. She stands. Carefully, she folds his clothes, placing them in a neatly folded pile. He reaches for her. She’s cheesecake, his golden nugget, his gorgeous girl. He badly wants to fuck her. She resists. She stays his selfish advances.
‘Not yet!’ she runs her finger down his chest, counting every rib, ‘Valentine’s Day isn’t until next month, is it?’
He explains his outburst of craven lust for her, ‘I wanted you to remember me while I was away.’
She feels the surprise bloom inside her like a white rabbit hiding inside a magician’s hat.
‘How can I ever forget you, darling?’ she murmurs, grinning appreciatively.
Seeing the passion burning in her sapphire eyes, he falls back on the soft bed, forcing himself up on his elbows. She leans forward kissing him, tasting his smoke on the tip of her tongue. His hand wanders up the soft insides of her thighs.
‘Stop it!’ she shouts.
He baulks at the shock of her, as, for a moment, Sarah stands perfectly still at the foot of the bed. She reaches behind her back, unzips and takes off her dress. He stares up at her in disbelief. Other than her bullet bra and her red anklet socks, Sarah is naked. Her stomach is daubed with a living painting, a shimmering, undulating tattoo of a magnificent scarlet rose in full bloom, its red petals dripping with dew.
At the rose’s heart lies a solid diamond charm, sparkling with violets, indigos, ambers, emerald shards of light. Her beautiful phenomenon takes his breath away. He lies on the bed transfixed, numbed by her allure.
Slowly, her petals unfurl. Her intimate charm protrudes. Prising her treasure out of her navel, she lays her iridescent gem in the palm of her hand and holds it up for him to see.
He sees his fate clearly at that moment.
He sees his fate shaped entirely within her charm.
Valentine’s Day, 1945:
Sarah wanders through the freezing night, down the empty streets. She is nervous. She bites her bottom lip, smudging her top teeth with her poppy red lipstick. She takes a deep breath, composes herself, then, she enters the village hall.
*****
Amazon.com: SEX: Daring Sexually Explicit Stories: 9798174465022: Jacqui, Harriet, Furl, HJ: Books
Sarah, one of 19 daring sexually explicit stories about ripe young or mature sexually promiscuous women indulging in intimate acts of SEX with sensual liberated women, and their desperate, depraved, SEX-starved, men.
If you are offended by explicit acts of SEX, intense intimacy, or crude, sexual language avoid this read.
SEX is for consenting adults over the age of 18 like all of the women and men having SEX in this book.
MEET THE WOMEN
Sarah, Trixie, Gail, Babs, Jane, Josie, Kate, Beth, Jess, Nikki, Georgie, Stella, Amanda, Amber, Lilian, Jules, Rhea, Fran, Mary, Di, Meg, Olivia, Joely, Suzie, and ‘Jacqui’,
wet dreams,
Harriet-Jacqui xx
