There is Another Way

Author's note: Firstly thanks to Scotsman69 and Thomas Drablézien for their absolutely invaluable feedback on my first version of this story. As a result of their comments, I've corrected some of the more obvious historical and linguistic errors in my story. I hope that the result is now better and more credible.

This is a bit of a departure for me -- a proper story, mostly about love and the tragedy of war and containing sex scenes, rather than my usual tales of sex with a bit of story wrapped around them. It's set in Malaysia and Thailand (then Malaya and Siam) in the 1940s, and is told by an educated and successful businessman of the time. Given my obsession with context, this should explain why the language is a bit 'flowery'.

It arose from a thought I had; can you write a romantic story about anal sex? Only you can be the judge of whether this is successful -- please do let me know what you think.

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I sat in the offices of the Australian Rubber Corporation in Sydney, looking at the rather shabby surroundings and thinking how things had changed. Six years of war, and the loss of so much, so many, had made us all weary and jaded. I was here to try to negotiate contracts, to find new outlets for what was left of my remaining plantations. The Japs had done a lot of damage in their retreat through Malaya, and barely two of my smaller holdings had escaped serious damage. Now, five years after the war had finally ended, and things were at last beginning to pick up, or so I hoped.

I'd found myself a workforce -- not easy, given how many of the native people had been killed or taken away as slaves by the invaders. The few Europeans who had still been there at the time the place was overrun were either scarred by their experiences, dead or vanished. Mervyn Jones, one of my estate managers, had returned but still woke up screaming, and had almost killed a girl who had brought him coffee one morning and inadvertently awoken him from one of these nightmares. Four more of my managers were gone. I know two of them died at the hands of the Japs in the internment camps -- the civilians fared little better than the POWs. The others, including Jim Jenkins, my right hand man before the War, had just disappeared, perhaps also dead, perhaps returned to Britain or Australia to lick their wounds. Most of the Dutch had left, and the French were finding themselves less than welcome across Indo-China. And worst of all, there was no news of the one I most wanted to hear from.

As I sat, waiting to be ushered in to talk through my proposals, volumes, prices and all that, the door opened and a young man in a rather shabby suit appeared. He smiled and said "Mr Campbell? Our General Manager for Supplies has considered your proposal, and you won't be required to present it, thank you."

"So does that mean he accepts it, or rejects it?"

"I'm unable to tell you that. My General Manager has simply asked me to convey this message to you. Just these words. 'George -- there is another way'."

I sat bolt upright in my chair. Who -- who would know to speak those specific words to me? Only one -- perhaps two people. Could it be?

"Thank you -- thank you for the message. Please -- could you tell me the name of your General Manager?"

"A French lady -- very good at her job, seems to know the trade very well. Madame Cecile de Perigny."

My heart skipped. Cecile! It couldn't be -- oh God, I prayed it was!

I first saw Cecile in spring 1940. By that time, I'd left Dunlop and sunk the small inheritance my father had left me into two small rubber plantations of my own. The World had been gearing up for war for several years, and now the British Empire was mobilising in earnest. Rubber was in strong demand, and I was selling everything I could tap, at good prices. I was trying to find new, perhaps under-utilised sources to help with the war effort -- and of course make me wealthier.

By this time, the Germans were pretty well finished with Poland and were about to turn their attentions on France. The French must have known this, but I'd had word that their few concessions in Siam and across French Indo-China were not producing or shipping as much as they could. I travelled north of the border to a small cluster of French-owned concerns I'd had dealings with, to see if I could persuade them to increase production and perhaps ship through me.

I found Monsieur Emilion, a slight gentleman in his fifties, courteous and welcoming. We had met a few times before, and whilst not exactly friends, we were well-enough acquainted that he would listen to my proposals. I showed him how he could increase his income substantially and cut his shipping costs if her would be prepared to allow me to buy the latex direct from him at source and ship it home myself. I'd heard rumours that he was in debt, and he certainly listened attentively to the plans I outlined in my reasonably-fluent French. Madame Emilion, a stout woman in her mid-forties, seemed pleasant and hospitable enough, and invited me to stay for a few nights so I could inspect their plantations and production facilities. I was also hoping to win Monsieur Emilion over sufficiently to intercede on my behalf with the other planters, especially the influential Comte de Perigny, who I knew by reputation and who owned several large estates in southern Siam.

It was at dinner that night in late April that I saw Cecile for the first time. I was immediately entranced. The girl -- just seventeen at the time -- was slim and willowy, with a thick mane of dark curly hair, eyes that were a deep chestnut brown, and a lovely pale olive complexion. She seemed a little tall to be her parents' child, but I could see that she did indeed have her mother's eyes. She was at first a little coy, but once the conversation began to flow, she showed herself to be both witty and intelligent, with an endearing, sweet giggle that made me feel tenderly towards her -- and made parts of me very firm. For my part, I was captivated.

The next morning I rose early, intending to leave with Monsieur Emilion to view his plantations, but just as we finished breakfast, a heavy tropical downpour delayed our departure. I sat in their library, reading a newspaper, waiting for the rain to abate. I was startled by her voice behind me. "So Monsieur, what is the news from Europe?"

I looked up into those deep brown eyes and it was probably at that moment I actually fell in love. I just adored the delicacy of her features, the grace of her movements. She was a sweet angel, and I wanted her to be mine. As I tried to make small talk about the war that was tearing Europe apart, trying to suppress what I had just gleaned of the stories of Japanese atrocities coming out of China and my terrible fears of what might happen next, I was melting under her gaze.

The rain stopped abruptly, as it does in the Tropics. To change the subject, and to gain a little more time with this beautiful creature, I asked her to take me on a tour of their lovely garden, which was fresh and full of rich tropical aromas. Away from the cares of the world outside, she became more animated and vivacious, excitedly talking about the plants here that she had personally planted and nurtured. By the time her father found us in the garden and summoned me for our little excursion, we were becoming friends.

On my return that evening, I met her again on the terrace. We sat, with her father and mother close by, making small talk. I told her about my plantations, which were being very productive, although I tried to dwell more on the 'man of means' angle than any detail of the rubber trade, which I thought would bore her. I asked about her and her schooling, and what she planned to do next.

Here I got my first shock. "Oh, Monsieur, I am to be married before the end of the year to the Comte de Perigny. Did you not know? We agreed the engagement perhaps six months ago. So you see, I shall become a Comtesse and a wealthy woman in my own right. The Comte has some large estates further north. He has several close friends in the Siamese Royal Family, and a lovely home near Hua Hin. He also has a chateau back in France. We hope to arrange the wedding at his own private chapel at the chateau, and then return to Siam next spring. Maman has ordered the dress, which will be in while silk with a long train and peach trim and..."

Her enthusiasm for her planned wedding was reflected in the benign smiles of her parents. She was a typical young girl, in love with the dream of a fairytale wedding in a fairytale castle. I, meanwhile, was trying to keep the feeling of devastation from my face. In barely 24 hours I had fallen madly in love with this beautiful creature, only to discover she could not be mine.

Although I was nearly ten years her senior, the Comte was even older; at nearly 35, old enough to be her father, I thought. True, he was fabulously rich, so it was said, deemed good-looking and well-respected. I could see why the girl might fall for him, despite the age gap, but suspected this was more her parents' wish than hers.

So I decided not to be deterred. I would woo her, gently, subtly. I would make her fall in love and shun the match her parents had chosen for her. Her wedding would instead be to me, in a nice British parish church, and her home that of a wealthy plantation owner in Malaya. The planned wedding to the Comte was not for perhaps six months. I still had time to change her mind.

I stayed with the Emilions initially for around a month -- and what a momentous month May 1940 turned out to be. Monsieur Emilion took me around his own estates and introduced me to his friends with plantations nearby. We were proceeding slowly but amicably, until on May 10th news came that Hitler had invaded France. Over the next three weeks, everything changed. Perhaps it was a surge of patriotism, or a need to make money while they could, but I found the businessmen now had a pressing need to sell their rubber to help the war effort. As news of Allied reverses came thick and fast, Emilion and his friends initially seemed to feel that their rubber needed to go to their native land to help France fight back. I could not persuade them to sell to the British via me, and with a heavy heart, set off home with a promise to return in a few weeks, once the situation in Europe was clearer.

In truth, I felt I'd had more success with Cecile than I had with the plantation owners. We talked often, and she would increasingly switch to English to improve her facility with the language. She talked of her fears for her native land and her worries about the impending wedding. I tried to sound positive about her plans, whilst also seeding our conversation with little hints about the difficulties that a young woman may encounter marrying a much older man. Just before I left for Malaya, I stole a kiss from her, expecting it to be my last. To my surprise and delight, she responded.

When I returned at the end of June, everything was in turmoil. France had fallen -- something the planters seemed to find impossible to comprehend. Quite apart from the shock to their pride and patriotism, there was now no domestic market for their produce. Although the British army had been evacuated from Dunkirk, prompting some of the French to suggest that soon there would be no Britain to receive their exports, I countered by saying that with her huge empire, the British would continue to fight on from all the corners of the globe. If Britain were to fall, I would switch the export route to Australia, which would be much harder for the Germans to conquer.

So the planters agreed in principle to sell to the 'Rosbifs', as perhaps the best way to strike back at the 'Bosche' for overrunning their native land. I was tempted to press the planters harder, to make them settle for worse terms than I had previously offered, but partly persuaded by Cecile to be more generous, I kept my original deal on the table. I suspect that Emilion may have asked Cecile to intercede for them, knowing of our friendship. However, they little guessed where that might lead.

For on my return, I found Cecile changed. Even her eighteenth birthday, celebrated while I was away, had done little to lighten her mood. The fairytale chateau wedding was now not to be, as the chateau in question was in a country overrun with foreign troops. Since the loss of his estates at home, I found that the Comte, in my dealings with him, had become more morose and moody, and Cecile was also perhaps less enchanted with him than before. However, I would like to believe that my own charms had something to do with the change, for she seemed to seek out my company, and on the few occasions we were able to be alone together, she kissed me, spontaneously, often reaching an intensity I'd never experienced with another woman.

I was no virgin, or course. I'd first enjoyed the delights of sexual congress with some of the native girls in Malaya. At first these were prostitutes, but later I encountered first some of the estate girls -- slim, pretty and, shall we say, vivacious -- and then later, on a return to England, one or two delightful young women in London who were prepared to share my bed. I don't flatter myself; the aroma of money and success, some silk stockings and raw silk scarves lubricated my path to -- well, the lubricated path. By now, my conquests had reached a sufficient number that I could provide pleasure as well as taking it, and experience with some fiery little Siamese women had taught me much about interesting and arcane ways of making love.

But, unsurprisingly, Cecile still was a virgin. And there lay a problem. As my negotiations with the prevaricating planters dragged on through June and July of 1940 and into August, Cecile and I became more passionate. Perhaps persuaded by my hints about the future of the World and by the Comte's increasingly morose manner that her wedding would never come, she had fallen into my arms with increasing passion. We would meet in a small outbuilding, where we would both arrive by circuitous routes, and there I discovered the exquisite nature of her body at very close quarters.

The first time I prevailed upon her to remove her dress, I thought my heart would burst from beating so hard. After only the tiniest reluctance and hesitation, she agreed. Her body was so beautifully slender, her skin pale but with a slight olive tint that made her appear a little like some of the palest oriental girls I have enjoyed. She insisted in removing my shirt and singlet, covering my chest with kisses, before returning to devour my mouth. Whilst I had experienced such eagerness among some of my oriental women, and once or twice in England when the presents were flowing as much as the juices, I hardly expected it from this innocent young girl. Yet, when her kisses had seared my lips, she returned to unbutton my fly and extract my manhood, and I watched dumbstruck as she withdrew the hard and throbbing organ from my trousers and caressed it, as if it were some precious treasure.

We lay naked for a while, revelling in the feel of each other's skin. I loved the way she delighted in the way I licked and nibbled at her neck and throat, and how she sighed as I teased the sensitive skin of her arms and thighs with my fingernails. My caresses, kisses and gentle sucking on her exquisite breasts and sweet, dark nipples made her moan out loud. When my fingers finally probed into her sweet slit, and felt the ample wetness under the soft downy fur, she gasped and, in very little time, mewed-out her climax, as her body twisting and bucking under my touch.

She clung tightly to me, smothering me in yet more kisses, and used her delicate fingers to tease my rampant rod. It seemed that mine was not the first she had touched, and I finally prised out of her the truth, both of some adolescent fumblings at home in France -- no more than a simple 'show and touch' session with a cousin of the same age -- and also of a clandestine encounter with the Comte. It seemed that the latter was as much to satisfy himself that she was still a virgin as anything, and had concluded with her using her hands to bring him to ejaculation. However, it appears that my gentle coaxing today was the first time any man had taken her to her own climax.

I tried to persuade the girl to offer me her treasure, to open those long, coltish thighs for me, to welcome me home into the place I most craved. I told her the truth -- that I loved her more than anything in the world, that I wanted and desired her, that she was irresistibly beautiful and that I would take her away from here and marry her.

Her response surprised me. She giggled a little at my compliments, but became grave when I spoke of marriage. "Alas, Monsieur Georges" -- she always pronounced it the French way -- "I fear this cannot be. I'm engaged to the Comte. If I break off this engagement, my parents will disown me. If I surrender myself to you, as my body desires too, the Comte will know and we will have no wedding. You are not yet so rich that you can provide me with a fine life and relieve my parents of the crippling debt they are under, but the Comte is. So it is my duty, as a fond daughter, to follow my destiny and save my family. I will do this, even though my heart says otherwise. But Georges -- I do love you, believe me."

I was disconsolate. Although Cecile teased me and brought me to juddering climax with her clever little hands, I wanted more than an illicit fumble in our private hideaway. I wanted this beautiful young woman on my arm at social gatherings, in my house to return to every evening, in my bed to make love with each night.

We met twice more in the outhouse. On one occasion, I kissed, licked and devoured her sweet quim, and her climax was so powerful that I was afraid her cries would arouse suspicions. As if determined to show herself to be the equal of me as her lover, she fell upon my hard and throbbing prick with her delicious soft lips and wicked tongue, exploring me up, down and around before opening her mouth and sucking me in. I have had girls in the East and the West perform this delightful service before. The Orientals seem to have smaller mouths and can swallow only a little of my shaft, though what they do is delicious. Western girls seem to be reluctant at first, then to lose interest too quickly and prefer to transfer you to their twats after a few minutes.

Cecile was wonderful. Initially she grazed me a little with her teeth, but took guidance without protest, and continued until I warned her I could hold back no longer. Then the little minx simply slipped as far down my shaft as her sweet mouth would permit, swirled with her tongue and looked up at me with those soulful, sparkling eyes as I helplessly unloaded my seed into her mouth. When I apologised, she said she had enjoyed the taste - a little spicy and salty, like the Siamese food she had grown to love.

And I had grown to love her so much that I stepped into folly. Two days after my rapturous oral encounter with Cecile, I concluded my deal with the planters. I then went back to the Emilions' house, and after dinner asked Monsieur Emilion for his daughter's hand in marriage. At first he was kind and consoling -- he had thought I had understood that Cecile was engaged to marry the Comte, and therefore any alternative was out of the question. I tried, as patiently and diplomatically as I could, to explain that Cecile and I loved each other, and that while I hadn't the same fortune as the Comte, I could care for her just as well. Met for the second time with a blank refusal, this time a little more forceful, I played my trump card. I said I knew of his debts and I would be prepared to help him to the best of my ability -- something perhaps the Comte would struggle with, now that his home was occupied by the Bosche.