The German SubbyMissClearmont©
The German Sub.
Miss Irene Clearmont
Georg, a sailor on U143, is swept overboard and falls into the clutches of a woman who takes what she needs from her captive.
An Adult historical tale of Female Domination.
The Death Of U143.
The Survival Of Georg.
A Glass Of Cream Sherry.
Asking For A Date.
The End and Notes
Copyright © 2012 (June) Miss Irene Clearmont.
The German Sub.
The Death Of U143.
A submarine is a ship that is designed to go beneath the waves and yet it can still sink, that in itself is a paradox!
This German submarine was sinking slowly in the waters of the grey Atlantic, unwillingly! Its bow flotation chambers were awash with water that the crippled forward pumps could not clear and the deck was pierced by a myriad of holes made by a British Sunderland flying boat just three hours before in an attack of casual ferocity that had swept U143 from stem to stern with armour piercing bullets.
The 'Flying Porcupine' looped two miles before returning with the intention of dropping its load of small bombs that should have finished U143 in a flurry of destruction that would have guaranteed a certain finish. When the lumbering giant returned, however, the German boat had vanished into an Atlantic sea fret that hid it from the searching eyes of the plane.
Like a gull following a fishing boat, the giant Sunderland circled the area for twenty minutes before the engineer declared that fuel was short and it finally soared into the east after making its radio report.
On board U143 the scene was not so tranquil. Reports of damage were being called from all sections and the Captain was trying to assess the chance of repair.
"Diesels, out! Oberleutnant, electrics only!"
"Bow chambers holed, Oberleutnant, pumps non-functional!"
"Rear bilge awash, mein Kapitän, two hours max before the engine room is flooded."
Captain Philip Ahler von Prohn sat in the midst of all this controlled panic and tried to assimilate the damage into a single coherent picture.
Forty men were in his hands, forty brave men who had set out from Cherbourg two months ago to wreak havoc in the sea lanes near Newfoundland. Karl Doenitz, his Admiral, had moved him and his ship like a pawn on a chess board until at last they had loosed three torpedoes at the destroyers covering a juicy convoy. That had just been the start.
Cat and mouse!
Death by drowning.
One British frigate and two convoyed oilers later, U143 slowly made its way back to the French coast, to the glorious safety of the Third Reich. A crew that worked and fought like lions and a captain who was nothing less than the solid rock that they all leaned on. This elect crew were the real force of U143, a crew that had given their all in the war to strangle the United Kingdom. As the German army swept to Egypt, Minsk and victory behind the Swastika banners of their elite panzer generals.
A chance sighting by one of those sub-hunting Sunderlands and it was all over! All that was left to do was to save the crew in any way possible and surrender to their enemies in abject failure.
To head for the nearest land, scuttle and abandon ship. Philip Ahler von Prohn's last orders as a Nazi U-boat Kapitän!
On deck, amidst all the torn metal of the damaged U143, stood three men with binoculars. Now that the U-Boat was unfit to dive, every warning of attack was desperately needed. The Abwerkannone was manned and ready to greet an aerial attacker as U143 slowly crawled under accumulator power to that rocky island coastline that heralded surrender.
Georg scanned the horizon and then swept his gaze to the coastline. It was not his native land, but it beckoned just the same. An English father, who married a German woman, before a bitter divorce that ensured that Germany would be Georg's homeland. England was not his home land, but in a strange sense it was at least home ground!
As he observed the coast, now just two nautical miles away, a wave that had its genesis two thousand miles to the west, swept over his legs and carried him from the security of the torn deck plates into the freezing cold water.
He heard the frantic shouts of his companions. He saw the ring thrown to him and then he saw the low hull of U143 on the crest of a wave as it crawled away and disappeared into the hillocks of the Atlantic swell.
Georg was on his own!
With ring, rubber suit and lifebelt his world had just shrunk to the circle of his feeble reach. The binoculars in his hand, those, he threw away to let them descend into the deeps. Georg knew that the Captain would not turn or stop the crippled vessel; it would cost too much power just to save the life of a careless sailor that had not attached his lanyard to the deck.
Procedure, orders and logic had demanded that safety line. Now they demanded that he be abandoned.
The distant coast was his only hope of life.
The Survival Of Georg.
The backwash of the wave pulled Georg towards that sea and then relented. It sucked a mass of gravel with it, making a terrible rasping noise that combined with the crashing surf of the next wave to deafen the weakened sailor as he struggled up the beach after his four hour fight for survival.
Finally he crawled up onto a rock that nestled under the frowning cliff and curled up like a half drowned kitten. The sound of the next wave made him clutch at the stone, but the wave did not break over the rock, it simply washed around as if bidding a last threatening farewell from the grey Atlantic.
Now that the physical fight was over he had to survive the inhabitants of this sceptered isle, surrender, and hope that he would be treated with some small dignity. Realistically there was no chance of escaping back to the Reich and all that awaited him was a captivity that might end when the Panzers finally crushed Churchill's Britain under their mechanical treads.
An hour, two hours?
The struggle up to the top of the low cliff had exhausted him. Ring and life belt abandoned to the cruel sea, he considered abandoning the thick rubber suit that had saved his life in the water, but as the rain started he could not bear to strip it off. He carried the weight with desperate strength and finally achieved the cliff top.
Stark moorland spread before him.
He turned to look at the sea that was merging with the grey rain and then slowly marched along the cliff.
Where was he?
Georg Atherton, had not been privy to the secrets of the map-room on U143 and could only guess. Cornwall, he supposed, the cliffs and the flora of the countryside that he stood in were suggestive. Every few miles there would be a village, all he needed to do now was to surrender and let the rest of his life take its course.
As he walked he felt his strength return a little. His paces were slow and long in the slashing grey rain that came from behind. He had chosen his direction on the simple premise that one direction was as good as another and walking with the wind was less difficult.
Eventually nightfall came just as he looked down on a large house that nestled in a tiny cove. A single yellow light blazed from a window, beckoning him to advance and find shelter from the storm. For a moment he savoured what was likely to be his last moments of fugitive freedom, and decided that soup and a meal was probably price enough to make him surrender.
The door of weathered wood resounded to his firm knock.
It opened to allow the light into the dusk and he saw an attractive woman standing in the shelter of what seemed to be a well-appointed entrance hall. She looked him up and down as if reading his story from start to finish before she spoke.
"This is not the weather to be out tonight!"
The English awoke in his brain and he was taken back for a moment to his youth, when his fluency was one of his main advantages as he chatted up the girls from Girton College with the vain hope of staying the night in the dormitories.
"It is not the best of nights to get lost," he remarked as she opened the door fully and let his dripping form into her hallway. "
An Englishman's answer to the obvious.
"Stay there," she said with a smile as the door closed. "The carpet will get soaked."
She disappeared into the house, allowing him to assess the place in which he had landed. Clearly the owner was well off, but the style was the faded grandeur of Victorian Britain. Elaborate, but well-worn carpets and furniture could be seen in the light of the bright oil lamp that she had left on the small table.
She returned with a large blanket in her hands.
"Here," she said as she handed the blanket to Georg. "Strip off and dry yourself and then you can come to the fire without drenching the whole house."
"Thank you," said Georg as he unbuttoned his outer suit and stripped it off to reveal the sodden uniform of a U-Boat engineer.
She looked him up and down with a frown when the Swastikas appeared and it became plain that he was a German sailor.
"German?" she asked.
"Despite my English, yes!" he replied.
"No matter," she answered with a slight smile. "Strip it all off and pull on the blanket. You're no use to me if you freeze to death in my hall way, whoever you are or wherever you are from!"
Georg had been expecting panic but the woman just took the lamp in her hand and waited for him to undress.
He recognised that female feral look in her eye and some hope welled through him.
Georg stripped to his shirt and pants and was about to wrap himself in the blanket when she ordered him to take off all of his clothes.
For a moment he hesitated. Decency dictated that he remained covered, but she insisted.
"You'll catch pneumonia otherwise," she commented as she watched him strip off the last two items.
She led him to the living room, another crowded room that smacked of Victorian finery that was worn and dusty with the years.
He sat before the fire and held out his hands towards the heat.
"I'm Georg, a U-Boat engineer..." he offered as she stood holding the lamp.
"Where did you get such good English?" she asked.
"Maths bachelor, King's College Cambridge in thirty six," he replied as the heat of the fire started to seep into him.
"I am Mary," she said, "and I suppose that you need something to fill that cold belly?"
"Please, I need at least one good meal before I surrender, if you would be so kind!"
Mary laughed until the lamp shook and set the shadows in the room shivering.
"I'll see what I can do for you," she said.
Mary disappeared into the hall and he heard the rattle of pans in a kitchen. Apart from the crackle of the fire there was no other sound but the sound of her preparing a hot meal.
'Is she alone here?' he wondered as he allowed the blanket to open so that the radiated heat of the fire could warm his bones.
Finally she returned with a bowl in her hand.
Georg was dozing in the chair, exhaustion and sheer effort having taken its toll.
She looked at his naked form draped in the open blanket and set the bowl of meat broth on the small stand by the chair. Her hand reached out and touched his face and he awoke with a start. For a moment, before he closed the blanket, she saw a stirring, the beginning of an erection.
Mary stood in silence as he spooned the soup into his famished body.
"Thank you so much," he said as the last lumps of potato were scraped from the bowl.
"I can offer you a bed for the night," she said, "and in the morning we can decide what's to be done with you."
She led him up the stairs and to a room that was musty with disuse. A coverlet was pulled from the four-poster bed and he allowed the blanket to fall as he climbed between the sheets.
This was nothing at all like the reception he had expected. Where was the panic at having one of the enemy in the house? Where was the frantic call to the authorities followed by being held in the local Police station? Where was the fear and most of all the hatred of the evil enemy?
As he drifted to sleep he thought of Mary. Perhaps in her mid-thirties, living by herself in a Victorian relic of a mansion.
Attractive and alone...
Georg turned in his sleep and moaned quietly. He muttered a few words in German as he found a position that suited and then snored softly. Outside the storm gathered force and threw sheets of rain at the windows in its fury. A distant rumble of thunder heralded the climax of the Atlantic storm that would last a day and then settle down to the steady drizzle and mist that was its usual aftermath.
A light entered the room, a flickering yellow light that heralded Mary's arrival. Naked, and panting slightly with lust she laid the lamp on the table and slipped between the sheets to nestle up to his sleeping form.
One hand slid down his body to grasp his prick while the other covered his mouth.
'How long has it been since I have had a man?' she thought as she felt him awaken and respond. 'Three years, four years?'
"But..." he said.
Her hand closed his mouth with her finger tips as she slowly pulled at that prick. It hardened and swelled to full size under her attentions before she slid down and over him to leave her pussy poised to take him in.
Her hands took his wrists and guided his arms to lie under the weight of her thighs as she lowered herself onto him.
"This is for me," she said in a firm voice as, inch by inch, she swallowed him into her.
He thrust slightly, pushing a little further before her weight pressed him down and took him all in.
"I said, this is for me!"
Georg looked up at the woman who was fucking him and saw her breasts and long hair in the flickering light of the oil lamp. She was like a goddess who had arrived to break his dreams and create new ones that sucked him into a vortex of pleasure.
A rumble of thunder shook the panes in the windows and hurled more slashing rain at the windows with an emotion that mirrored her desperate need.
Slowly she began to rock on his prostrate form. A slight movement at first, that built into a rhythm that made her moan with ecstasy. Her hand drifted to her sex and began to massage the point of her need, a subtle massage that absorbed her into a world of pleasure.
He was hers, a ghost that had arrived in the night to be surrender to her. A prick that would impale her, if she let it. He was fortune and gratification combined in perfect harmony, a release of need for her body.
Mary climaxed at the thoughts that ran through her fevered mind as the storm and the sex became a single event that heralded what she had always needed, but never managed to find. A man who was ripe to give himself up to her inner strength.
Georg was on the point of no return when she lifted her body and moved to enclose his face with her dripping slit.
'I have to give a little,' she thought as her hand grasped him and pulled his prick tight.
He moaned and then kissed those lips that pouted from her wiry pubic hair. Georg felt enclosed and held to ransom by her hand as he slipped his tongue into her to release a cascade of her sweet juice over his mouth.
It danced over his straining prick and balls as she enjoyed the man who delved into her with lips and tongue. Now he was serving to her demanding fingers, he felt an irresistible urge to push deep and explore as he came ever closer to surrendering his climax.
Lightning lit the room in stark white as he orgasmed and kissed her clitoris with a spasm of completion.
She pushed down on him and directed that waterfall of come over his prostrate form before being overwhelmed by an orgasm that made her gasp with its intensity. Like wave it swept over Mary, as she realised that the man who had walked in from the storm was hers, and hers alone.
A slow coming-to that allowed him to gather his thoughts and realise that the events of the night had not been a dream. The taste of her was still on his lips, the dampness on the sheets was the aftermath of his climax and the oil lamp still burned on the table even though the cold grey light that flooded the room cancelled its warm glow.
Somehow he had found a place where the war was just a slight irrelevant shadow on the horizon. A woman who fucked like a whore and made him serve her like a Queen. He smiled and felt so safe and warm in his bed, how could it have turned out better?
This was not the England he remembered. Bustling, prim and so very moral. This was a quiet corner of lust and loneliness that was of another bygone era.
He stretched and sat up.
"What do I wear?" he thought aloud in English.
It was so very easy to switch to the tongue that was almost his first language.
He looked around at the still room and then at the last of the storm that had almost consumed him last night. If it had arrived an hour earlier, while he was still in the grip of the Atlantic, he would have drowned. He would have been washed up on the shingle to become a small insignificant casualty in a war that was consuming all of the humanity in Europe with its fierce flame.
He pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped himself in it.
As he walked onto the balcony that overlooked the stairs he heard the sound of movement below. He peeped down to see Mary carrying wood into the house. As she entered she shook the water from herself and carried the logs into the living room.
Georg pictured her in the glow of the lantern last night and felt himself stir to an erection. Despite the cloak that had sheltered her from the rain, despite the skirt and jacket she was the same woman. Large breasted, long haired, short of stature with shapely legs and slim hands.
Hands that knew how to make a prick deliver its load!
He slipped down the stairs and entered the living room to find her placing a log on the fire. For a moment he watched her stir the pile in the fireplace without comprehending that the charred remains of his clothes were smoking in the grate.
'She has destroyed my uniform,' he thought as he watched her place the dryest log on top of the blaze.
The happy realisation that she was covering up his presence in her home was balanced by a new thought.
'What am I going to wear?'
Some slight rustle of the sheet that enveloped him made her turn to face him.
"Would you like some breakfast?" she asked.
"Thank you," he said as he contemplated the heat-blued steel button that lay in the grate.
The only thing remaining of his trousers.
"They would give you away, Georg," she said with a smile. "We'll have a bite to eat and then I'll find you something to wear."
She led him to the kitchen and showed him the fresh bread and cheese that she had laid out.
"This is not the welcome I expected as a German in England," he said as he picked up the bread.
There was a moment's hesitation on her part before she replied.
"This is my welcome for a man that knows how to give a woman what she needs. If that is you then the welcome is genuine."
He ate the cheese and bread with gusto as he contemplated her. There was no doubt that she was attractive. Her confident demeanour was not so much a challenge as a statement of her ascendancy. The fact that she knew that he was now relying on her to keep him out of the prison camp on the Isle of Man that awaited prisoners of war was almost a turn-on.
"What happens now?" he asked her as he finished the bread and licked his fingers.
"Well, you get dressed and then you can help me," she answered. "There are a host of things for you to do for me, fucking is just one of them!"
The way that she used that simple crudity just confirmed his opinion that he was now faced with a basic choice. To walk over the hill and give himself up to the first policeman that he saw, or do her bidding and retire from the war as her prisoner.