Out of Time (1940s-2040s)

"Nothing about you shocks me," she replied, looking her boss in the eye. "Ever since they transferred me to your hut, I've admired you. I think I'm a little bit in love with you."

She smiled shyly, and repeated Mrs. Anderson's words back to her.

"I hope that won't shock you too much?"

Before she could reply, there was a knock on the door, and Ethel came back into the room bearing a tray with a bottle of whiskey, two glasses and a jug of water on it. She set it down on the writing desk without a word.

There was a cigar and a small tin of pipe tobacco on the tray too.

"As you requested, madam," she said respectfully. "I hope you both have a good evening, and that there won't be any need to talk to the manager about our earlier misunderstanding?"

"We'll see about that," replied Mrs. Anderson coolly. "Shut the door on your way out," she continued as she broke the seal on the whiskey bottle and poured two generous measures.

When they were alone once more, Olwen took her pipe out of her handbag. It was a huge briar and she blushed as she saw Mrs. Anderson's lips curl in amusement at the incongruous sight of a young woman with such an object.

"It belonged to my father," she said defensively. "Mum used to smoke it to remind herself of him when he was away in France with the expeditionary force. He never came home, and when she was also killed, Gramps offered to teach me how to smoke it. Both he and Granny Martha smoke the pipe and when I do reminds me of my parents."

"As I said, Granny and Gramps both smoke a pipe, so they didn't see anything wrong with me learning to smoke. They'd taught my mother when she came of age, and it seems to be a bit of a tradition in our family. Everybody smokes a pipe, but if you don't like the smell, I won't light up. I know lots of people don't like pipe smoke."

Mrs. Anderson had taken a small penknife out of her own handbag. She was busy cutting her cigar, and she shook her head. She didn't let on to Olwen that she knew that the story Olwen had just told her was not the whole truth. Yes, Olwen's grandparents both smoked, and yes, her mother had been a pipe smoker too. But it had nothing to do with remembering Olwen's father. Mrs. Anderson decided now wasn't the time to inform Olwen how much she actually did know about the young woman. She'd keep her powder dry, because she had plans for Olwen Morgan.She passed her a glass of whiskey, and then lit up her cigar.

"Cheers, my dear," she smiled, sipping her own drink and savouring the combined taste of the spirit and the creamy cigar smoke.

Olwen was about to take a sip of her own drink when the air raid siren sounded. She looked at Mrs. Anderson in alarm.

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" growled her boss. "These bloody Nazis are starting to get on my tits with their bloody air raids!"

Olwen giggled and downed her drink in one. She said nothing, but secretly she wouldn't have minded getting on Mrs. Anderson's tits herself. They were much smaller than her own, but they looked soft and pliable and very suckable. Her thoughts were interrupted as Mrs. Anderson took her arm and together they walked quickly out of their room and made their way to the hotel basement, where they joined the rest of the guests and the hotel staff to wait out the air raid.

Some time later, Olwen woke up. She had fallen asleep with her head on Mrs. Anderson's shoulder. She smiled awkwardly at her companion.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "You must be terribly uncomfortable. You should have woken me."

"Don't fret," replied Mrs. Anderson. "I slept too. I think we might just be allowed to go back to our room soon. The All-clear has just sounded. I doubt that we'll get anything to eat now. Let's go up and have a drink. Then we'd better get some sleep. We both have work in the morning!"

Olwen got to her feet and staggered and almost fell. Mrs. Anderson put out a steadying arm and stopped her from tumbling.

"Take your time," she advised. "Your system has had a bit of a shock, but you'll soon be over it. Take my arm, and we'll go upstairs together. That's right. Good girl."

Olwen blushed at being called a good girl. Only Granny and Gramps called her that. And she certainly felt different. Her insides seemed not to belong to her and her body felt tight, as if her skin had shrunk. She shook her head and put it down to the air raid. She ignored the questioning voice in her head that told her she'd been through air raids before, but she'd never felt this strange.

Back in their room, the two women both took another tot of whiskey. Olwen sipped hers and yawned.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologised. "I've been asleep for hours it seems, but I'm still terribly tired."

Mrs. Anderson put down her glass and stroked Olwen's hair.

"Bed!" she said in a mock severe tone. "Your system needs to adjust. It will all be better in the morning."

Olwen was too tired to question what Mrs. Anderson meant. She began to unbutton her blouse, and she made no protest when her boss helped her to undress. Eventually, Olwen stood in her bra and panties. Her suspender belt held her stockings up and she sat on the bed and began to take her stockings off.

Mrs. Anderson went to the other side of the bed and began to undress. Olwen stood up and wriggled out of her panties. She unclipped her bra and took it off. Then she dived into bed without looking at Mrs. Anderson.

Eventually Olwen felt her boss pulling back the blankets and getting into bed herself. She wondered what was going to happen.

"Good night, my dear. Sleep well and pleasant dreams," murmured Mrs. Anderson, before she rolled over onto her side and settled down for the night.

Olwen was both relieved and disappointed. She still didn't feel one hundred per cent, so she too turned onto her side and closed her eyes. In a few moments, both women were fast asleep.

Olwen woke up and realised where she was. She opened her eyes to see Mrs. Anderson looking at her.

"Good morning," she said awkwardly, realising that her legs were touching her boss. "I must have slept really well. I feel like a new woman."

Mrs. Anderson smiled, but said nothing. She rolled onto her back.

"I usually do my morning calisthenics before I dress " she said, not looking at Olwen. "Will it bother you that I'm naked?"

"Um... no, of course not," replied Olwen. "What are calisthenics?"

"Exercises to keep this old body supple and vaguely presentable," explained Mrs. Anderson. "One never knows when one might meet Mr. Right. Or Miss Right come to that."

She got out of bed and Olwen blushed to see her boss absolutely naked. She noted Mts. Anderson's small tits with their thick chocolate brown nipples, and felt a tingle between her legs. To Olwen's surprise, she also noted that Mrs. Anderson was completely smooth between her legs.

Olwen touched her own cunt, with its thatch of thick, curly pubic hair, and realised that she was very wet indeed. She squeezed her thighs together and closed her eyes as Mrs. Anderson began a series of stretches which showed off her tight body. She didn't seem to care who saw her, but she did note with a tight smile that her young assistant appeared to be sufficiently embarrassed to have to close her eyes.

Her morning exercise over, Mrs. Anderson moved to the bathroom to pee and to wash her face. Hearing the bathroom door close, Olwen scooted out of bed and quickly dressed. She'd wash her own face in a minute, she thought.

Moving nervously around the bedroom, Olwen noticed a strange looking device on the bedside table next to the side where Mrs. Anderson had slept. At first she thought it was a gentleman's wrist watch, but on closer inspection, she saw that the device consisted of three separate dials. She'd never seen such a device before, and she hurriedly replaced it as she heard the bathroom door open.

"Gosh, that was quick," smiled a still naked Mrs. Anderson, sauntering unconcernedly into the bedroom. "Well, the bathroom's free now if you want to use it."

Olwen thanked her and went into the tiny bathroom, taking her handbag with her. and shutting the door behind her. She pulled her knickers down and sat on the toilet to pee. When she'd finished, she wiped and flushed and pulled her knickers up.

Standing at the tiny sink, she ran the hot water and quickly washed her hands and her face. Her comb was in her handbag, and she managed to get her hair into some sort of order. She thought she could hear Mrs. Anderson talking to someone, so she stayed in the bathroom until she heard the bedroom door close. Then she went back into the bedroom.

Mrs. Anderson, now fully dressed, was sitting on the bed. Her right foot was tapping in an irritated manner, and she looked cross.

"That was that bloody receptionist," she said to Olwen, assuming correctly that the young woman had heard her talking to someone. "I'm afraid we're going to have to go straight back to Bletchley Park, my dear. No breakfast for us! What a bloody nuisance."

She smiled at Olwen.

"You look as if you had a good night's sleep. How are you feeling this morning?"

Olwen returned her smile.

"Yes, I slept like a baby," she admitted. "I feel like a new woman after last night's funny turn. I do apologise for that again."

"No need to apologise, my dear." came the sincere reply. "I told you that you'd soon feel yourself again, didn't I? Now I have to make a telephone call. Will you go and see if our car has arrived yet? Tell the driver I won't be long. I have to speak to someone in the War Room again. I'll see you outside in a couple of minutes."

She picked up her handbag, shoved the almost full bottle of whiskey into it and winked at Olwen.

"Don't forget your tobacco," she smiled, nodding at the still unopened tin on the writing desk. She went out without another word.

Olwen slipped the tin into her own handbag, looked around the room to check that nothing had been left behind, and went out to wait for the official car and for her boss.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Anderson had sought out the hotel manager. She informed him of her needs and he immediately took her into his office. Mrs. Anderson noted with a smile of satisfaction the look of alarm on Ethel the receptionist's face.

"This conversation is classified. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Mrs. Anderson told the hotel manager.

"Begging your pardon, madam, but we have had instructions not to let guests use the telephone to make outside calls," replied the manager. "There are still third columnists about. Not that I suspect you of being one of those," he added hurriedly.

"If you allow me to ask the exchange for the telephone number you want, I'll leave you in peace once you are connected"

Mrs. Anderson nodded her approval.

"I'm glad to see that this establishment takes security seriously," she replied.

She watched as the manager picked up the telephone receiver.

"You need to ask for a Whitehall number," she said. "It's 126"

When someone at the telephone exchange answered, the manager asked importantly for Whitehall 126. His face folded into a frown.

"They want my security clearance before they connect me," he said, putting his hand over the receiver. Mrs. Anderson grinned.

"It's 'Empress' " she replied, and the manager repeated the code word down the line. He smiled as the connection was made.

"Hold the line, please. I have a Mrs. Anderson here for you."

He handed the telephone receiver over and whispered,

"I'll just be outside if you need me."

He crept out and shut the office door quietly.

When she'd had her instructions, Mrs. Anderson went out in search of the manager. She found him talking to Ethel at the front desk. As she approached them, Ethel wore her usual look of disapproval, and the manager appeared rather embarrassed.

"Thank you for the use of your office," Mrs. Anderson said sincerely, ignoring the still angry-looking receptionist. "Just a word of warning. Should you try to use that code word again, you'll find yourself in serious trouble. It is now redundant. And I'd forget that telephone number too, if you know what's good for you."

She looked at Ethel, who had tutted her disapproval of the way that her boss was being spoken to.

"Thank you for your room service last evening, Ethel," she said quietly. "My companion and I enjoyed our stay at your establishment."

The manager missed the suggestive wink that Mrs. Anderson gave the receptionist, who blushed deeply as she got the implication of what this disgusting perverted woman was getting at.

"Send our bill to the Cabinet Office," Mrs. Anderson instructed. "Thank you, and goodbye."

The manager insisted on accompanying her across the foyer. Mrs. Anderson couldn't resist it. When they were out of earshot of the reception desk, she turned to the manager.

"You won't make any headway with Ethel being so polite and attentive," she told him. "She's devoted to you, but she needs to be treated right. You need to be far more dominant with her. Put her over your knee and give her a damn good spanking. She'll drop her knickers for you, I promise."

The manager blushed and stammered,

"Um... th... thank you. I... I'll take your word for it. Are you sure?"

"Perfectly sure," replied Mrs. Anderson. "Give her a regular spanking and she'll be like putty in your hands. I have it on good authority that she's an excellent cock sucker, as well as being willing to take it up the bum when she's on her monthly."

Mrs. Anderson giggled to herself as she walked out into the street, leaving the manager with a red face and a very hard cock.

When Olwen had left the hotel, she stood on the pavement and looked out for the car that would take them back to Bletchley Park. It was nowhere in sight. She became aware of a portly man standing next to her. He raised his hat politely.

"Excuse me. It's Olwen, isn't it? Olwen Simpson?"

Olwen was immediately suspicious. She knew all about the home-grown enemies, who would be only too happy to see Hitler and his jack-booted Nazis marching down Whitehall.

"No, it isn't," she replied shortly. "My name is Morgan, not Simpson. You've mistaken me for someone else."

"Are you sure?" replied the man, looking Olwen straight in the face.

"Of course I'm sure," replied Olwen. "I've been Miss Morgan for all of the twenty five years of my life. Now please go away, or I'll call a policeman."

At the mention of the police, the man hesitated.

He took something out of his pocket, and Olwen, who was still keeping him under observation out of the corner of her eye, gave a start. The man had the same type of instrument as she had seen earlier on Mrs. Anderson's bedside table. Yes, it was exactly the same. It had three dials and the same sort of shiny metal strap.

As she continued to watch him surreptitiously, the man shook the instrument violently and then looked at it again.

"Nineteen forty one!" he exclaimed in disgust. "Bloody shoddy instruments! You wait till I get back to my own time! I'll give that bitch Hutchinson in Research and Development a piece of my mind!"

He replaced the instrument in his pocket, saw that Olwen was looking at him curiously, and he raised his hat again with a smile.

"My mistake," he said. "I'm so sorry to have bothered you." He hurried off in the direction of the underground railway station.

Two things happened at once. Olwen was suddenly aware of Mrs. Anderson standing next to her, and their car drew up outside the hotel steps. How had she missed seeing both the car and her boss approach?

"Who were you talking to?" Mrs. Anderson asked casually.

"I don't know," replied Olwen truthfully. "He mistook me for someone called Olwen Simpson."

Mrs. Anderson looked at her sharply, Olwen thought. Before she could stop herself, she added,

"He had a contraption like yours. The wristwatch thing. The one with three dials."

"Oh, you saw that, did you?" replied Mrs. Anderson. She looked sad, Olwen thought. As she sat next to her boss in the back seat of the small car, Olwen saw Mrs. Anderson take the instrument out of her handbag. She gave it to Olwen.

"That's my HIMFUCC," she told the young woman. "It stands for Historical Investigative Machine For Understanding Continuum Catastrophes. I used it last night to retard your metabolism. Don't worry your pretty little head about it now. You'll understand everything when I explain it to you in exactly twenty nine years."

Olwen looked confused, and was about to ask Mrs. Anderson what she meant, when the older woman pressed one of the dials a couple of times, and Olwen's eyes closed and she slumped against her boss.

"Sleep tight, darling," whispered Mrs. Anderson. "We've got hundreds of years to get to know one another much better. I saw the way you peeped at me when I was doing my exercises."

Part Three: Catch-up Time (1945 - 50)

"I think we can say that the tide has turned, thanks to the bravery of our fighting forces, the aid and support of our gallant American allies, and our determination that we would never surrender. Thank you gentlemen. It has been an honour and a privilege to have worked with you."

Olwen Morgan cleared her throat and looked accusingly at the fat, self-satisfied speaker, puffing away on his huge cigar. She thought he was drunk. Again.

"Oh, and we mustn't forget the vital part that the ladies of Bletchley Park have played in our magnificent victory," the Prime Minister continued unabashed. "Please convey our heartfelt thanks to your team and to all the ladies down there, Miss Morgan. Jolly good show."

The men sat around the table nodded their agreement, and some rapped on the table top with their knuckles to show their approval. Olwen smiled her acknowledgement and stood up.

"Thank you, Prime Minister. Gentlemen," she said, gathering her files and her handbag. "If you'll excuse me, I have another meeting to attend. Bletchley Park is due to be de-commissioned. We're moving to Eastcote in London next year. It's a very busy time."

She strode confidently out of the Cabinet Room in Downing Street. Before the door closed behind her, she heard someone say,

"Remarkable woman. She must be well in her forties, but she's got the figure of a much younger woman. Not married, I understand?"

Olwen smiled to herself at the implication. "Oh, if only you knew, you dirty-minded bugger" she thought as she made her way through the famous house, into the garden and thence back to Whitehall. Olwen didn't want to be seen exiting Number Ten. Her story about another meeting had been a little white lie.

Yes, she did have a meeting scheduled, but it was for Monday morning. Now, at almost four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, all she wanted to do was to get back home to Granny and Gramps and to enjoy the weekend in their company.

Olwen was by now sufficiently high on the ladder to have a car and a driver allocated to her. She was driven home and having thanked Simone and wished her a happy weekend, Olwen went up the gully at the side of the house and into the kitchen.

She smiled and took in the gorgeous smells of a combination of freshly baked bread and Granny Martha's rich pipe tobacco. The silver haired old woman was sat in her rocking chair at the side of the range, smoking peacefully. She jumped up as soon as she saw Olwen.

"Darling, you're early," she said, kissing her granddaughter full on the lips. "Gramps is still down the allotment. I've done a shepherd's pie for tea and Gramps has gone to pick some runner beans and some peas to go with it."

Olwen licked her lips. Granny was a marvelous cook and there was nothing to beat Gramps' vegetables, picked fresh from his allotment.

Granny took the kettle off the draining board and put it on the hob on the range.

"Go and put your slippers on. I'll make us a nice pot of tea."

When Olwen returned to the kitchen, the kettle was singing on the range and Granny was back in her rocking chair. Olwen sat down opposite her and began to pack her own pipe. She lit it will a spill and puffed it into life. The two women smoked in silence for a few minutes.