Playing with Dolly - Ch. 01

Frank returned to active service a month later. He was stationed outside London, so I had to travel to see him, which was difficult given the air raids and our respective duties. However, we continued to fuck whenever we could. He showed me different positions - I particularly enjoyed doggy and cowgirl, especially when he was working my clitoris and nipples as I bounced on his cock and took him as deep as I could. But weeks would go by when we had no opportunity to see each other.

Then, one day, I was again typing up some telegrams to inform relatives of the loss of aircrew, and I was stopped in my tracks. The name on the telegram was Frank Owens. He'd been shot down over Germany, and was officially 'missing, presumed dead.' My whole body gave a lurch. And the telegram was addressed to a Mrs Owens, who I at first thought must be his mother, until I re-read the message. It began "We regret to inform you that your husband, Flight Sergeant Frank Owens..."

I left my desk and went to the ladies, where I sobbed my heart out. Not only was Frank apparently dead, all the while we'd been seeing each other, all the times we'd fucked, he'd been married to someone else. It took me a good half-hour to regain my composure. But Frank had been right about something - love was a luxury we couldn't afford. He'd transformed my life, and then in an instant, he was gone. Despite the fact that he'd clearly lied to me - or at least, not seen fit to inform me - about his marriage, I was still very fond of him. It took me weeks to get over his loss.

Oddly, I did hear from him again, about a year later. He wrote from a PoW camp in Germany. The letter was dated 1941, but I didn't get it until early 1942, by which time I'd mentally buried Frank and moved on. The letter was clearly coded, and referred to the time we'd spent together, and how he'd enjoyed 'redecorating the bedroom' with me. I replied, saying that I remembered those days fondly, but that I'd had to send the telegram to his wife, and that he should inform her that he was still alive. I never got a reply.

(The recording picked up Dolly lighting another cigarette and taking a long slow drag on it.)

So there you have it, my dear. My most vivid memories of the Blitz and the early War years in general almost always involve me wrapping my legs around Frank Owens and getting joyfully fucked. Before I met him, I'd been a shy little virgin whose biggest thrill was seeing how men reacted when I flaunted my breasts in a tight sweater. By the time I lost him, I'd transformed into a sexually-experienced and adventurous young woman who then decided that she would fuck as many handsome men as she could get her legs around, and have as many orgasms as she could before she died - something which, of course, could have happened any day. Did I shock you?

At that point, I stopped the recording.

"Dolly, that was remarkable. I'm astonished that you remember so much detail, and that you're willing to share it."

"My girl, the War was a bit like a searchlight. It made everything starker, more vivid, more brilliant and more horrific. I think that if you're suddenly thrown into the position where every day could be your last, where friends are getting killed all around you, every little nuance of your life is burned into your memory. It was all so intense, so immediate. As Frank had said, we had to live for and in the moment, and we did. He and I lived it to the full. I'm glad he wasn't killed when his plane went down. I was obviously upset to think that the man who I'd become so fond of, whose body I longed for, whose cock I needed inside me, was married to someone else all the time he was fucking me. And then I suppose I thought 'well, if he hadn't been married and learned about sex with his wife, would he have been such a great fuck? Would he have been able to give me so many orgasms? Would he have taught me about my body and my needs so skilfully?' And so I moved on."

"So - so is that it? What about all the rest of it? You mentioned a lot of things..."

"Hah," she replied, "so I've piqued your interest, have I? Well, if you come back tomorrow, with the whisky and the cigarettes - they'll get confiscated if they're found in my bag - then I can tell you some more. That is, assuming I haven't shocked you too much."

*****

I played the recording back in the car on the drive home. Greg was in his study, on a business phone call. I waved from the doorway. He pressed the mute button. "Good day?" he asked.

"Tell you later," I replied. I waited until he'd finished the call before I walked into his study. I'd put on the basque, choker, stockings and heels that he'd bought me from a kinky clothing store when we were in Amsterdam. His eyes were like saucers when I sashayed in, knelt down and unzipped him. Two minutes of diligent sucking between my lipsticked lips and he was sufficiently hard. I stood up, sat up on his desk and just said "Fuck me, Greg. Right now. Just fuck me, will you?"

Greg can't always make me come just from fucking me, but in this position, legs spread wide on his desk, him standing and thrusting into me quite hard, the angle meant that his cock rubbed on my clit as it went in and out. I pulled off his t-shirt as we fucked, and admired his fit body. I was already wet before I got home, listening to Dolly, and I kept thinking about her gleefully talking about opening wide for Frank, relishing being fucked for the first, the second, the twentieth time, by a man who knew what he was doing. I think Greg was as surprised as I was when I started coming after just a couple of minutes of energetic fucking. And then, when I'd taken as much as I could, I leaned close and whispered in his ear. "Come for me. Come in my cunt. Come in my hot, wet, tight little cunt."

That did it. And yes, like Dolly had said, I could feel his cock throb deep inside me as he spurted his semen. Fortunately, advances in birth-control since the 1940s meant that I didn't have to put up with the feel of rubber, and I rather relished the sticky trickle of spunk down my thighs as I went to clean up.

But before we separated, with our arms around each other and kissing in a soft, romantic way, he asked "What just happened? It's been a while since we did anything like that."

"We had sex at the weekend," I replied.

"I meant the spontaneity, the outfit, the - the language. I don't think I've ever heard you say the word 'cunt' before. What brought that on?"

"Just a really intriguing story I heard today, from an old lady who's a lot more interesting than you might think. I hope you enjoyed that; I certainly did."

Later that night, we made love in our bed. It was gentle, romantic, very pleasant. Greg licked my pussy until I came. I sucked him until he was begging me to stop, and then we fucked, slowly and with feeling, until he came. But, no, I didn't get a second orgasm. It was all very lovely and loving, but it lacked the intensity of our earlier, spontaneous and earthy fuck.

As I lay there, Greg lovingly stroking my hair and kissing the back of my neck before we both fell asleep, I wondered whether Dolly's reminiscences might trigger anything else in me. I certainly hoped they would.