Old Europe: Sex & the Single Soldier


"And this is my husband, Jerome."

Her husband! Monica's husband! Who must know -- must know -- that I'd just given his wife a sore back, a sore arse and a thorough going shag! I gaped at moon face and he stepped forward and held out his hand as Monica introduced me. I shook hands with him, I shook hands with the other what's-his-face, Daniel, I even shook the hands of the cleaning women because I was so bewildered. Although the one with the moustache put her hand down and squeezed me in the crotch afterwards and said something which made everybody else laugh. They did a lot of laughing, these Belgiums . . . Although I didn't know yet whether the joke was on me or on them.

"So, Ian," Monica's fellow said. "I think Monica wants to show you the hairbrush she brought back from London. She put on such a good show for us the night she was given it. Everybody else at the dinner party enjoyed her little chastisement. I hope you have a strong arm because we have a maid in the apartment who needs some corrections as well. But I think Philice's turn has come now, hey, Daniel?"

Daniel nodded and smiled like a rabbit nibbling lettuce at what seemed to be a suggestion that I should put his gorgeous wife over my lap and lay into her with a hairbrush acquired from some perverted British aristocrat. Then again, Jerome seemed to be just as happy that I'd just finished screwing his wife in public outside his front door.

'Ian,' I thought to myself, 'I don't think we're in Milford Keynes anymore.'

Then I noticed how they were all looking at my pack. Daniel and Jerome, Monica and Philice. I suddenly realised that these normally well to do people would actually do just about anything for what I had to offer. I could walk into these people's apartment and I could shag both of these men's wives right in front of them and they'd do everything they could to help me and keep me happy.

You've no idea how powerful I felt then. It was the kind of feeling that Gestapo agents must have had when they could walk around this city with an ID card in their pocket that let them do whatever they wanted to. God, it was exciting to be able to do that. Not nice, but exciting.

"OK, I said, "Let's go and get the hairbrush out for Philice."

Philice smiled, took my hand and -- God, help us -- blushed like an innocent school girl being taken into the bushes for the first time. It must have been some kind of a gift, like an actress who can burst into tears whenever she likes. Still, she'd soon have real reasons enough to blush, if I had anything to do with it. But before I went with her I also noticed the looks in the eyes of the cleaners. Like two hungry Spaniels sitting in front of empty food bowls. I opened the bag and took out a packet of Senior Service cigarettes. Both pairs of eyes suddenly sparked up then. Genuine English cigarettes, worth their weight in gold in wartime Europe. I gave the packet to Granny glasses to share with the moustached lady for services rendered.

"Stick around, ladies, I might need you to carry me back to the war after I've finished here."


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