Old Europe: Sex & the Single SoldierbyDavidShaw©
THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY
Sometimes liberating a city can quickly lead to some very liberated behavior . . .
They say that Brussels is a dull city nowadays, full of Euro community bureaucrats. Well, I don't know about that, it's been a long time since I was there, but I'll certainly never forget the first few days I spent in the place. That was in September, 1944, just after the Guards Armoured Division had liberated the city. Not that I was a Guardsman, or driving a tank. I was only a very young Corporal working as a service corp clerk. It didn't matter to the Belgiums, they were so glad to get rid of the Germans that every British soldier was a hero to them. They couldn't do enough for us, which was a real change from the reception we'd received from the French.
Mind you, nobody needed to look far to see that the Belgiums had been having a bloody rough time under German occupation. The country might not have been actually starving but it weren't far from it. As for cigarettes, soap, booze, the only way to get any of that stuff in Brussels was on the black market, and if you needed to ask how much it cost you couldn't afford it. So when I put some highly desirable consumer items in a webbing pack one afternoon and went out looking for a good time, I thought I might be in with a chance. What I got was an experience of a lifetime.
I hadn't been on the tram for five minutes when two women came onboard who were dressed up to the nines. They were far more smartly turned out than any woman I'd seen in wartime England for a long time. Maybe they'd kept their best clothes for the liberation. One of them was tall, with close cut black hair, a trim figure, and wearing a pair of large pearl ear rings. What caught my eye most though were her hat and her dress. The hat was round and flat, with a thin veil on it which came halfway down her face, and the black dress she was wearing had a repeating motif in white beads sewn all over it, a kind of Chinese style depiction of a cat or a long tailed dog. This must be the famous continental style chic I'd heard so much about. The other woman was wearing a close fitting tweed skirt and a matching belted jacket which was open down to the waist to show off a lot of lace on the front of her blouse. A blouse which seemed to have all kinds of interesting movements rolling around inside it like massive Pacific waves flowing into a tropical lagoon. To tell the truth the woman's figure was so sexy that I didn't even look up at her face as two pairs of gorgeous legs came teetering closer and closer to me on high heeled shoes.
I think it was that jacket which really had me gawping. The hemline stopped just above the Belgium femme's hips -- and speaking for myself, the first thing which crossed my mind was trying to imagine what she would look like without her skirt. The pair of them were both stunners and I wished I had the nerve to speak to them. But there wasn't going to be any chance of that, the tram was almost empty, so they would go past me to another seat. And when they sat down beside me, with the dark one at my elbow, I wouldn't have been more surprised if Himmler had come along in full dress uniform to collect my ticket.
"Hello," she said. "Isn't it a lovely evening?"
I finally picked my jaw up off the floor and tried to answer intelligently. The woman said she spoke English so well because she'd lived in London for a while before the war, and she'd been there because her husband was a banker. I could well believe that, considering the way she dressed and her commanding physical presence. She said her name was Monica and she introduced her friend as Philice.
You know how sometimes you're struggling to sort out impressions in your mind because things are happening so quickly? It was like that with me just then. I was looking at Monica's face behind her veil and I saw dark, intelligent eyes, a firm chin, a small smiling mouth with deep red lipstick setting off perfect teeth and a nose which was too big to make her beautiful but somehow seemed to reinforce her personality. And believe me, this was a lady with personality plus. Not to mention poise, dress sense, money and brains. Just talking to her made me feel like I was wearing a tux at the Savoy and getting ready to dance like Fred Astaire.
And then there was Philice, the other one, not saying anything but leaning around her friend to smile at me, and boy, was it a heavy calibre smile. Philice looked about the same age as Monica, about thirty, with blonde crimped hair and a round fair face with innocent blue eyes. OK, maybe her eyes were innocent but her smile was about as innocent as Eve selling apples off a barrow in a Soho back street. On top of her head was a kind of rakishly tilted scotch bonnet made of grey material with a single peacock's feather sticking up at one side of it. A smattering of freckles ran down her white neck and then trailed off down into that froth of lacework wrapped around a pair of tightly holstered thirty eights. I figured that explained that knowing smile -- no girl who had to defend that much frontage could be innocent about anything. But you can guess how I felt when I finally thought to look down at their hands and found they each had a full set of rings on their fingers. Sod it.
So, there I was, chatting to these two married ladies, both of them probably ten years older than me and I thought they were both being sociable and maybe Monica wanted to practice her English. Come the next stop I'd get off an go and find myself a girl without any glitz but available. And then Monica ran her fingers over the knapsack that was on my lap and asked me about what was inside it. I told her the truth: two bottles of whiskey, some English cigarettes and some bars of soap.
Honest to God, you'd have thought I'd told them I was carrying the crown jewels. Monica seemed almost to have tears in her eyes at the idea of using some decent soap again. Not that she smelt bad, I mean, but she said that the stuff that the Belgiums had been using in their baths for years past had been as rough as washing with a house brick.
Well, I could see where this was leading and I was for getting off the tram as soon as I could. I might have been young and naive but I was sure I could get myself a women for the night with what I had to offer and I wasn't about to give it away to these two maried beauties for nothing. No, no matter how much they smiled at me. But then Monica asked if I was going to go to a bar and get myself a hostess to sit on my knee. Although I was surprised she would ask me a question like that I said that I probably would. And then Monica said that I should come back to her apartment and she and Philice would be my hostesses.
I didn't know what to say to that because I was dumbfounded and while my jaw was still hanging down Monica said something to Philice, and Philice came and sat on the other side of me. I wondered what was going on. Philice blew in my ear, then put her tongue in it. At the same time Monica's left hand moved underneath my pack, settled on the crotch of my thick battledress trousers and gave my cock a gentle squeeze. I twitched like an electric shock patient, and then I had to keep holding on to the pack as it rose up in the air. Philice took her tongue back, looked down at the pack, giggled and slid her right hand underneath it as well. Ten seconds later and I'd lost track of who was holding the top and who had hold of the bottom of my stiff prick, there'd been so much hand to hand fighting for the high ground. What I did know for sure was that I was a very upright soldier and that Monica was smiling at me through that veil as if she was some kind of a teacher and I was a promising pupil.
"We can be good hostesses for you, Ian," she said. "The next stop and then we get off, alright? But perhaps we do something else until then, yes?"
I gulped. Monica and Philice moved their hands out from underneath the pack, giggling and saying something to each other in French. I suppose they'd guessed how inexperienced I was. What they didn't know was that all the nookie I'd had in the last four months was a quick roll in a haystack with a Normandy farm girl. She'd been great but I was never able to do it with her again -- first, because every other guy in the unit wanted a turn with her, and secondly because the stupid bitch had steered her horse and plough into an unmarked minefield a few days later.
Monica held my elbow, then leaned forward until her veil was brushing my ear and I could smell a wisp of perfume. She began whispering in my ear with her French accent that would have had me feeling randy if she'd been reciting King's Regulations. But her conversation was a lot more interesting than that.
"Ian, instead of having us sitting on your knees like club hostesses, perhaps you would like to bend us over them and spank us. The English like to do that to their girls, don't they? I knew a man in London who did that to his maid in front of me because she'd spilt his tea. I'd never seen anything like it before. He used a hairbrush on her bottom and the maid seemed to like it so much. Then the man told her to fetch a tray and offer it to me. And do you know what, Ian, the tray had six or seven hairbrushes on it, all with gold and jewels set in them and the man -- he was a real knight, would you believe? -- he said that I if I wanted to I could take the maid's place and keep the brush afterwards as a keepsake. And would you like to know what happened next?"
What happened next was that the tram came to our stop and I had to get off, bent half over, clutching the pack in front of my groin, with those two women almost wetting themselves with laughter and holding my arms as though I was drunk.
Anyhow, by the time my hard on had finally slumped down a bit we'd come to a big apartment that looked really flash. The sort of place that in London would be on Park Avenue or somewhere, and where a working class git like me would never be allowed in. But Monica and Philice were still holding my arms and they just about frog marched me inside. Monica said the lift wasn't working so we'd have to walk up the stairs.
Which was OK, especially as I decided on the way up to the first landing to have a squeeze on the bottom on each side of me and see what the reaction would be to the slap and tickle. I thought maybe the women would try to stop me straight off but they didn't. What they did do at the landing was that Monica took off her hat and gave it to Philice to hold while she kissed me on the mouth. On the mouth and in the mouth, with her tongue almost wrapping itself around mine. I thought I might choke to death and I ought to enjoy myself while I was going, so I reached out and gave one of Philice's hooters a squeeze. She laughed, holding Monica's hat up in the air so it wouldn't get creased as I tried to handle both of her plump tits at once with one hand. Then Monica stopped kissing me and said that if I went up to the next landing I could have a special present.
That sounded promising, so I just about pushed both of them up the stairs with another double handful of prime female rump to enjoy on the way up. Philice stumbled once or twice because of her tight skirt but held onto my waist to keep her balance. When we got to the landing Monica said that one of her boyfriends had always taken her underwear off before taking her into his apartment, just so she knew what was going to happen inside it. Would I want to do the same?
Yes, I would like to do that, I told her. I would like to do that very much. Then I bent her over the banister with one hand and I was so hot by then I would have done it without any effort even if she'd tried to stop me. She didn't though, she just stayed there, giggling and holding onto her hat to stop it falling off as I hauled her skirt up over her shapely legs and then stared at the pair of creamy silk cami-knickers at the top of them. Since she'd been the one who'd started the talk about spanking I gave those warm inviting buttocks a friendly slap or two. Monica yelped and kicked up her heels in fine style, until I put a stop to that by hooking my fingers into the waistband of her fancy knickers and whipping them down as fast as a French flag at a surrender ceremony. All the way down, right around her knees, with everything between them and Monica's waist laid out ready for inspection.
There was one part of her I decided to check on there and then. A hand between her legs, right up hard, the length of my top finger along the length of her crease, and then a gentle stroking as if I was sawing wood instead of peeling open warn flesh. And presently, just inside the opening fruit, I found the first trickle of juice. Monica grunted, clenched her thighs against my hand and rode on it as Philice pressed herself against my back and licked my ear again. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Until I heard something clattering above my head and two cleaning women carrying mops and buckets came down the steps.
They were both about fifty I suppose, in worn black dresses, one of them wearing wire framed glasses and pushing a huge bosom around in front of her, the other one dark faced and sporting a faint moustache on her upper lip. The cleaners stopped and looked at the three of us. Then they both smiled and laughed, and walked up to me, on either side. Monica's skirt had fallen back around my wrist, and then, and I couldn't believe it, these two old girls grabbed the skirt and held it up for me while Monica was looking around to see what was happening.
She wasn't the only that was getting confused but when Philice grabbed one of the buckets, tuned it upside down and then sat one it I was totally lost. She called out to Monica. And Monica translated: "You have rubber? A contraceptive?"
Yes, I had one, in my battledress top pocket, I took it out, Philice took it from me and gave it to the granny with the glasses to hold as she undid my fly buttons. Only the granny didn't just hold it, she ripped the top off the packet with her teeth like John Wayne pulling the pin out of a grenade as Philice eased my prick out into the open, waving it around with her hand with a look of concentration on her face as if she was a conductor giving an orchestra the tuning up signal with a baton. Her and granny glasses put the sheath against the tip of my hard on and then Philice leaned forward with her mouth open. And the next thing . . .
I looked around. There was Monica still leaning way forward over the banister, still holding onto her hat. There was the other cleaner down on her knees easing the silk cami-knickers over Monica's high heeled shoes. In front of me and sitting on a bucket was a woman underneath a scotch bonnet and bright peacock feather rolling a rubber down the length of my rigid cock with her fingertips and her lips. And beside her was a granny with a pair of big tits slowly getting down onto her arthritic knees, and the only reason I could see why she'd be doing that was so she could have a mouthful of me as well. So this was what it was like to be dead or mad -- obviously, I was one or the other, and I didn't care much which it was.
The way it turned out, I nearly did go crazy because Granny glasses did want a piece of me, my favourite piece, and not only her but the other charlady as well. They both got their lips around the old fellow to give him a good pump up. That moustache was a bit of a turn off, I admit, but they say there's many a good tune played on a old fiddle, and I soon found out there are some old fiddlers who can play a bloody good tune on a new instrument.
And then Philice decided to have another turn at swallowing my best friend while the cleaners struggled upright again and pulled Monica's skirt up like a stage curtain before the play begins. By that time I was in a mood to mount every woman in the building. I bellowed, charged across the landing and waited barely long enough for Granny glasses to guide me into Monica before I started bucking and fucking as fast as a stoat on heat. One thrust and Monica shrieked loud enough to imitate an air raid alarm, grabbed at the banister rails for her life and let her fashionable hat fall off.
Truth to tell, I was young and frantic, and it was probably a close run thing between that hat landing on the ground floor and my load shooting into Monica. No, not a sustained performance at all, but lots of effort, and while it lasted it was a real crowd pleaser. The old birds had a firm hold on Monica's skirt, otherwise she'd probably have been pushed clean over the balcony and become a really fallen woman. But the cleaners used their other hands to push her head right down as well so she was on tiptoe for me and holding onto the railings underneath the banister as I gave her a hurricane force pounding. What with being bent over she couldn't make so much noise but she tried her best, snorting and grunting and calling out some French words.
Philice said a few as well, in between licking my ears, biting my neck and rubbing herself against my back. Like I say, it was on for young and old alike, though the cleaning ladies seemed to be having as much fun out of it as I was. Maybe Monica had forgotten to give them a Christmas box sometime and now they were getting their own back by putting hers on offer. Whatever the reason, they made sure I got the best possible position out of her and I don't think I failed them. Not until I went up on tip toe myself and let loose a burst of high pressure condensate right into madam's interior plumbing
Monica did scream then, but maybe it wasn't all my doing. British army battledress in those days was made out of very rough material and she'd had my trousers rubbed hard enough against her soft bottom to make it very sore. As I found out later.
After I'd done with her I staggered back against the staircase wall and watched as the cleaning ladies hauled Monica back in. They pulled down her skirt, laughing and winking at me as if I was the funniest thing since Charlie Chaplin. Mind you, I must have had a huge smile on my own face. Philice sat down on the bucket, tucked me in and did up my fly buttons. Monica walked over, tapped the top of her head and said I'd made her lose her hat and now she'd have to go back downstairs for it. Then she smiled right across her face, and laughed and kissed me on the lips.
"Ian, you are a magnificent lover, yes?"
Oh yes, no doubt about it. I wouldn't dream of arguing that point. And then I noticed that the cleaning women were chatting to two men wearing suits and ties. They looked shabby but respectable and I wondered if somebody had maybe called the police because of a flagrant outbreak of immorality in the building. They didn't look like coppers though. One of them was scrawny, with a thin neck sticking up out of shirt collar, half bald and sporting a tatty moustache with flecks of grey in it. The other arrival was moon faced with an unshaved chin and black hair plastered down with grease. No, they looked more like bank clerks than police, and they were smiling as well. I wondered how much of the act they'd seen. At this rate I ought to be putting my hat on the floor and collecting coins from the watching crowd. But then again, Monica seemed to know the men. She was talking to them, anyway. What puzzled me was that I was sure I heard the word 'whiskey' in there somewhere.
"Ian," she said, indicating the guy with the moustache, "This is Daniel, Philice's husband. They were in the apartment and heard the noise so they came down to see what was happening."
I stood and stared at Daniel with my brain locked in neutral. It had never occurred to me for one second that Monica and Philice would be taking me someplace where their husbands would be waiting. Good God, had he got to the stairs in time to look down and see Philice with her mouth full of my cock?