Blitzed

At long last my time came, and at three in the morning Dad ran to the public phone to call an ambulance. The next thirty six hours were horrendous, as my labour pains racked my agonised body unceasingly. Eventually I was so exhausted that I barely noticed when my new son was laid on my breast. My tribulations were not over yet though, because I continued to bleed heavily, and the decision was taken to operate. It was more than a week before I was cognisant enough to take note of my surroundings, and the first thing I saw was my husband's strained face.

His stiff self control broke as I put out a weak hand to grasp his, and he laid his head on my breast, sobbing unashamedly. "Och lassie, I thought I was losin' ye. Dinna ye ever do that tae me again, ye hear? I couldna bear it if ye left me."

I ruffled his hair. "Daft bugger. Why ever would I do that? You couldn't survive without me to nag you." I looked around me in a sudden panic. "Where is my baby? How is he?"

His face lit up, and he seemed to swell with pride. "Dinna worry lassie. Wee Angus is fine. He's bein' fed the noo, but ye'll see him in a wee while. Och, he's the bonniest bairn ye ever did see. Not nearly as bonnie as his Ma though." I was a little put out that my baby had been named without consulting me, but not too much. Angus was a good choice. A strong name, just like his Daddy's.

A passing nurse saw that I was awake, and left the ward, returning moments later with a doctor. He checked my pulse and heart, then looked at Hamish and I seriously, and when he spoke my heart shattered. I don't remember his exact words, because to me it was a whole pile of unintelligible medical terms, but the real bombshell was that the operation that had saved my life had destroyed any chance of ever becoming a mother again. I wept inconsolably for what seemed like hours, telling myself that if I was unable to provide my son with siblings, or my husband with more children, I was a failure as a woman.

In my distress, I voiced this thought without realising, and Hamish exploded. "Dinna ever say that!" he snapped. "D'ye no have a bairn?" I nodded, shocked and intimidated by his rage. "And can ye no feed the bairn?" I nodded again, and in a calmer voice he asked, "Then how can ye say ye're a failure? A grander wife nae man can wish for, and a grander mother nae bairn can wish for, so let's have no such nonsense."

A short time later as I watched little Angus sucking hungrily at my nipple, I knew that Hamish had been right. There was far more happiness to be gained by cherishing what I could have, than by wishing in vain for things that I could never have. I remained in hospital for another week, and after cautioning Hamish and me against intimacy for a further eight weeks, the doctor signed my discharge.

Mum and Dad spoiled me rotten until Hamish had his next weekend pass, and although I thoroughly enjoyed the attention, I was relieved to have some private time with my husband and baby. On my second weekend home, we were lying in bed as Angus slept peacefully in the now repaired cot. I had my head on Hamish's chest, listening to his heartbeat with my arm across his waist, when I felt his erection stirring against my breast. With a pang of guilt at having neglected him for so long, I grasped his shaft and began to stroke gently, rubbing the smooth rounded tip across my sensitive nipple. His breathing grew laboured, and tightening my grip I moved my hand faster and faster, until a sticky stream of his thick white come coated my nipple and the greater part of my tit.

He appeared a little embarrassed but just then the baby stirred, and I lightened the mood by looking down at my glistening breast and saying flippantly "I can hardly feed that to our son can I?" He hastened to pull on his trousers and fetch a wash cloth from the bathroom. After I had cleaned myself, it took more than an hour to feed and change Angus, by which time Hamish was clearly aroused again. He looked hungrily at my dangling breasts as I leaned over to settle the contentedly sleeping child in the cot.

"Will ye mind if I put it between them lassie?"

I smiled, understanding his need, and lay back on the bed.. "Of course not, if it will please the man I love."

Careful not to rest his weight on me, he knelt astride my torso, and pressed my milk laden breasts together, imprisoning his rigid shaft. I placed my hands on his and guided his fingers to my nipples, as his cock slid up and down the warm soft valley. Any lingering fear that being unable to conceive made me less of a woman, vanished when I found that I was becoming aroused by his fluttering fingertips, for the first time since the birth. The gentlest of climaxes wafted through me as my wonderful man fucked my tits, and then his warm come bathed my upper chest.

The next weekend was the fifth since my discharge from hospital, but although I was no longer in any discomfort and more than willing to shag, Hamish did not want to take any risks, so instead I crouched over him and offered my breasts again. Pushing them together around his cock, he teased my nipples as he thrust, and I bent my head to watch the smoothly rounded tip emerge and disappear with each push. In the next instant I surprised both myself and him, by impulsively dipping my head further and taking him into my mouth. He gasped with pleasure as my lips and tongue commenced a sensuous dance up and down the length of his tool, and after a few minutes he squeezed my shoulder.

"Careful lassie." he warned. I knew what he meant, but I was too excited to care, so I carried on until he erupted in my mouth, and not knowing what else to do, I swallowed his come. "Ye didna have tae do that." His whisper was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.

I let his spent cock slip from between my lips and smiled. "I know, that's why I did it. Doris told me how much Wilbur likes her to suck him, and I wanted to please you just as much. Besides, I rather enjoyed it. I like how you taste." This wasn't quite true, because I hadn't made my mind up about that, but at least it hadn't been unpleasant, so I was more than willing to give it another try, which I did as soon as we woke up in the morning. And again at the bus stop later in the evening, just to satisfy myself that I did like it.

I was getting frustrated at being a 'weekend wife', and on his next weekend home I pointed out that it had been eight weeks since my operation. Hopefully he would take the hint and shag me, but he was adamant that that the doctor had said eight weeks from my discharge. I knew dad was ready to stick his dick in me the first chance he got, and I was just as keen, but I wanted Hamish first. No amount of cajoling would sway him though, but he finally compromised by spreading my legs and licking my love starved twat, until my creamy come was oozing down between the cheeks of my bottom. I couldn't count how many times I peaked, because they came so close together that it was like one continuous climax.

Eventually he raised his head, and whispered "Would ye mind sucking me again lassie?"

"Of course I wouldn't mind." I responded quickly. "You know I'll do anything if it will make you happy. I only wish I could do more."

He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Maybe ye can." His hand slipped between my legs, but instead of stroking my fanny, he pushed further down and touched a fingertip against my back passage. "Will ye let me shag ye here?"

It was so unexpected that I was too stunned to speak. Just the thought of what he was asking made me cringe, but there was also something else. Curiosity. Perhaps if I hadn't already been aroused I may never have considered it, but I had told him I would do anything to please him. I just hadn't thought it would be that. Besides I wanted to feel him inside me again, so maybe this would be better than nothing.

Not trusting myself to speak I turned on to my tummy and drew my knees up under me, lifting my bum in the air. Moving behind me he rubbed his cock up and down my dripping twat, coating his shaft with my slippery come, and for a brief moment I thought -- no, I hoped -- he had changed his mind and decided to shag me the way I wanted. Instead he repositioned his cock and pushed. I buried my face in the pillow, not wanting to spoil it for him by letting him see my face twist with pain as he thrust through the tight ring of muscle, then he was inside me, gliding, sliding, and I reached underneath, stroking my clitoris to help ease the discomfort of my stuffed arsehole.

Moments later he was pouring his seed into me, and withdrew with a satisfied sigh. "I didna hurt ye did I lassie?"

I shook my head. "Not at all," I lied, "It was fine. Just different." Actually it was only half a lie, because after the initial pain it hadn't been exactly unpleasant. I had doubts that I would ever really grow to like it, but I resolved that if it was what he wanted I would let him fuck my arse when my fanny was unavailable each month, and take my pleasure from knowing how much I was pleasing him.

We reached a compromise the following weekend, over whether the doctor had meant eight weeks from my operation, or from my discharge from hospital, and I lay with my legs around him, crying out in ecstasy as he finally pumped his long awaited come into my satisfied twat. Three evenings later I allowed Dad to fuck me again, and we fell back into our familiar routine, with Dad shagging me on weekdays, and my newly promoted husband keeping me more than satisfied at weekends.

When Angus was four months old we went to the church to arrange his christening, and before evening service a week later, we stood around the font with Doris, Wilbur, and Sam and May Harper as godparents, smiling as with tongue in cheek the vicar announced that in theory he had now chased out any evil spirits from our son. Returning home to celebrate the occasion, Sam produced a bottle of home made wine, which the four of us women shared whilst the men finished off the last of Dad's whiskey.

The weeks passed into months, and just after Angus had his first birthday Hamish came home with a badge sewn above the three stripes on his sleeve. It looked to me like a steering wheel until he told me it was a four bladed propeller inside a circle, and it signified that he had been promoted to chief technician. Living with Mum and Dad had the added benefit of being able to save most of Hamish's service pay, so by the time Germany finally surrendered we had a modest nest egg.

Immediately after the surrender Hamish applied for his discharge, and within weeks he was a civilian. A couple of weekends later we went to the newly reopened cinema to see an old Boris Karloff film with Doris and Wilbur, who was by now a major and second in command at the base. I didn't find the film particularly scary, but Doris kept gasping and squealing the whole time. It took me a while to realise that the sounds she was making didn't always coincide with the action on the screen, and in a moment I understood why. From the way she was slumped in her seat with her eyes closed, it was clear she wasn't watching the film. It was hard to see much in the dark cinema, but from the way he was sitting I could tell that Wilbur had his hand under her skirt, and she gave a little squeal each time he pushed his finger into her fanny.

I was a little shocked at first that she would let him feel her with me sitting next to her, but I also found it arousing, and by the time they played 'God Save The King' I couldn't wait to get Hamish home and inside me. We were hurrying along the main road past where Turnbull's had been, and I glanced towards Simmond's garage. Despite the late hour the main door to the workshop was half open, and somebody was leaning over tinkering with a car engine by the light of a hand held lamp. Hamish immediately became suspicious and challenged the figure, who mumbled something and straightened, pointing a screwdriver defensively.

As the light fell on his face I recognised him instantly, and placed a restraining hand on Hamish's arm. "It's OK. It's Mr. Simmond." I assured him, and raising my voice, "Sorry Mr. Simmond, we thought it was someone trying to steal something. You know, with not having any lights on or anything."

He lowered the screwdriver and held up the lamp. "I've seen you around haven't I? You're Fred Greening's girl."

"Yes, but I'm married now. We have a baby. Hamish just got out of the Air Force. He was a senior technician fixing Spitfires." I added proudly. As we moved closer I could see he was swaying on his feet, and there was a stale smell of alcohol. I tried to pull Hamish away, so we could get home and shag, but he started talking about engines with the garage owner. Seething with frustration I stood ignored for almost twenty minutes, then I seized his arm to drag my husband to one side and whisper menacingly. "Listen mister, if you want a shag tonight - or any other night in the foreseeable future - you'd better get moving!"

"Och, I'm sorry lassie. I was a wee bit tied up."

He turned to say goodbye, and as we left, Mr. Simmon called out. "Thanks for checking up Jock." He gestured to the car he had been working on. "If you want to come back on Monday you can have a job if you can get this going."

It sounded strange to hear Hamish addressed as 'Jock', although Dad had explained long before that it was a common name in the armed forces for all Scotsmen. Just as anyone from Northumberland or Durham was a 'Geordie'.

Hamish worked on the car all day Monday, before finally admitting that the engine would cost more to repair than the whole car was worth. Nonetheless, Percy Simmond was sufficiently impressed with his efforts to take him on anyway. That night we celebrated, little suspecting that the day was approaching when we would once again benefit from the misfortune of someone else.

Each day at midday when I took Hamish some sandwiches, I was annoyed to see his boss slumped in a chair staring numbly into a glass, and when I voiced my disgust to Hamish he took me outside.

"Ye cannae judge a man when ye dinna have a' the facts lassie." he said gently. "The poor wee man lost his wife and bairns in the blitz, and drinkin's the only way he can forget."

My cheeks burned with shame as I made my way home. I had unfairly poured scorn on a man who deserved only compassion. When I had everything, I had shown nothing but contempt for someone who had lost everything. Material possessions meant nothing without that special somebody to share them with.

Arriving home, I took Angus on to my knee and hugged him, as I wept for a man who was going through such anguish as I could not even begin to imagine. How selfish I had been in taking for granted the very pleasures he had lost.

When Dad came home, I didn't wait for Mum to leave for work at the factory which was now engaged in more peaceful pursuits. Knowing Hamish would not return before eight o'clock, I took Dad upstairs on the pretext of rearranging Angus' room, and taking off my knickers I begged him to shag me, treasuring every thrust of his hard dick, every caress of his hands on my tits, every drop of precious come he pumped into my fanny. I was even more demonstrative with Hamish that night, performing every act as though I would never have another opportunity, and joyously accepting his seed in all available openings, before falling into an exhausted slumber.

The days passed into weeks, and Hamish shouldered more and more of the responsibility for running the garage, whilst his employer continued to seek solace from a bottle. Our boys began to return from the war to be reunited with their friends and loved ones, which only made Percy more despondent.

In August 1945, five days after the Japanese surrender, Hamish left for work as usual, and returned half an hour later, ashen faced and trembling. Unable to speak he showed me a sealed envelope addressed to a firm of solicitors, and handed me a folded sheet of oil stained paper with 'JOCK' scrawled across. I opened it and an icy hand gripped my innards as I read the brief note in horror.

'Jock, I have endured three long years because I needed to see that murdering swine Hitler get what he deserved.

Now that I know he is burning in a Hell of his own making, I no longer have to bear the pain, so I am going to be with my Mary and my boys.

Thank you most sincerely for your help and understanding.

Percy Simmond.

PS Please deliver this letter to the address shown, and you will learn something to your advantage'.

After we recovered from our shock, Hamish took the note to the police station, and around mid morning a cemetery worker discovered Percy lying atop his wife's grave. He was wearing a neat blue suit, with a wildflower pinned to his lapel, as though he was prepared for a wedding. His stiffened fingers were clutching a photograph of himself with a pleasant looking woman in her mid thirties, and two boys of around eight and ten. On the ground beside the grave were an empty rum bottle, and two small jars that had contained sleeping pills.

I don't know if it was my conscience at first having judged him so harshly, but I insisted that we use part of our savings, and four days later we stood at the graveside as Percy was reunited with his family. Although it was a solemn occasion I could not in all honesty mourn, because I knew that he had chosen to seek the peace that had eluded him for more than three years.

It may seem inappropriate to some people, coming within hours of laying someone to rest, but that night Hamish and I fucked frantically in a desperate affirmation that despite its tribulations, life went on. After he had emptied his seed into my clutching twat, I clung to him and wept again for all who had needlessly perished as a result of a war that few had really understood.

At nine fifteen on the morning after the funeral, we presented the letter to the solicitor. In the oak panelled office lined with law books and files, we listened incredulously as Mr. Maurice Stein read the last will and testament of the late Percival Henry Simmond. Without going into the long winded legal terms, it transpired that in short, Percy had died with no known family, and had chosen to bequeath his entire estate to his 'valued friend and employee' Hamish "Jock" Browning. It was strange hearing my husband described as a valued friend by someone he had known for no more than three months, but given the impression he had made on me the first time we met, perhaps that was understandable. Few people were inclined to socialise with such a heavy drinker.

The extent of Percy's estate shocked us to the core. In addition to the garage, Mr. Stein declared, Mr. Hamish Browning was now the legal owner of the house situated on the street parallel to the main road, directly adjacent to the rear of the garage. Furthermore, the double site which had been the location of the now destroyed Turnbull's furniture store, also passed to Hamish. There were, of course, legal formalities involved in the official transfers of titles, which would incur further fees and charges, which Mr. Stein would endeavour to minimise, although if Hamish chose to do so, he was free to seek alternative legal representation. In the matter of accessing any monetary funds, Hamish need only present a copy of the will to the bank, along with adequate identification, and all available funds would be transferred to an account of his choosing.

Since there was apparently no escaping the claws of the legal world, it was decided to leave the transfers in Mr. Stein's hands, trusting that he wouldn't take too large a slice of the pie, and collecting the keys to the house and a copy of the will, we headed to the bank. Considering the value of the properties there was far less cash than we would have thought, but at a little under fourteen thousand pounds it was certainly nothing to be sneezed at. Hamish had the funds transferred into a joint account in both of our names, and remembering that the solicitor intended to transfer the properties into Hamish's name only, we hurried back to correct the oversight. Not surprisingly, it being the nature of the legal fraternity, since this was our second visit we were blithely informed that there would be a second consultation fee.