|A Yank in the Outhouse
by David Shaw ©
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 favour 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. They 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 rumours 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 labourer's daughter knocking on their 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 realised 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 curious 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 bars of chocolate, there were jars of coffee, there were 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
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 Yanks, 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 washhouse 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 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 washouse 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, if 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 curiousity about what was going on in the place. So I walked around the small building until I found a small 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 hedgerow 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. 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, a married woman indecently dressed was putting her hands on another man! Yet if I was shocked I was fascinated by the scene, scarcely daring to breathe. Even better was to come though, because Mrs Walsh came 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 Yank 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 he was 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 Yank 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 tit 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 Yank 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 any 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 my 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 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 Yank'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, bellies down over a Yank soldier doing things I'd heard of but hardly believed possible. Both of them playing the same pink piccolo at the same time and to the same tune! But who would ever believe me if I told them? Oh, this was going to be good!
It was. 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 rearing flesh, 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 he urgently needed to relieve.
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 rushed 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, through her nose and sounding just like a frightened 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 friends 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 realised 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 Yank 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 Yank. 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 Vandell - 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
|Another top quality story by David Shaw.|
contents © Copyright 1999 by literotica.com.