4.
Saturday, 7 March 1942
Panting from exertion ... having just sprinted over half the length of a Euston Station platform to board the Royal Scot, minutes before it pulled away on its daily 10 am run to Glasgow ... I pushed my way past an older gentleman seated in my compartment, stumbling over his feet, in my rush to wave out the window to Freddie ... who spotted me at once and waved back from the platform below.
Excitedly, I attempted to open the window but the damn thing wouldn’t budge, so I had to settle for mouthing sweet nothings and making faces through the smudged glass.
Moments later the train pulled out with a jolt that sent me flying into my compartment companion’s lap.
“Kindly take your seat, Miss, and do remain there, please,” he sniffed, dismissing me as he shoved me away.
“So Sorry,” I mumbled. "Forgive me. I was anxious to ...”
The man cut me off with a harrumph and raised his crumpled copy of The Times in front of his face. There would be no conversation between us ... that was evident ... and just as well, because I had so much to think about.
My first thoughts were of Freddie. I could hardly believe it, but I had fallen for him in less than a day! What was it about him? Well, certainly his boyish good looks! And that ever present twinkle in his blue eyes, and his ease of manner ... gentility, if you will. Then there was his laugh and, of course, I absolutely adored the dulcet tones of his English upper class accent.
It had been one of those improbable whirlwind romances ... the kind you see in the movies or read about in cheap romantic novels.
It began as soon as we had left Sir Geoffrey, who had given Freddie parting orders to move me to the Savoy and show me a good time on my last night in London. We smirked as we descended in the lift and I went out of my way to intentionally drop my bag and treat the elderly operator to a generous view of my legs when I bent down to retrieve it.
Outside, Freddie joked that I simply had no right going around like that ... giving old gents coronaries. I made a face and we both laughed. Then Freddie hailed what I would have called a taxi, but he called it a hack, and went off to Paddington to retrieve my belongings. My landlady was more than pleased to see me go once she learned that she could keep what I had paid her in advance and still let the room to someone else.
Back in our hack, Freddie treated me to on an exhaustive, all afternoon and into the evening, tour of London’s sights ... from the West End to the East End, and clear down to Greenwich, and back again. We finished the day, sitting together happily in St. James’ Park, sharing fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. The whole thing was lovely, although the enjoyment was tempered somewhat by the presence, nearly everywhere, of bomb damage and the fact that everything worth seeing had been sandbagged. I asked about the Blitz and what it had been like to go through the worst of it, but Freddie waved it off.
As darkness was falling, I decided it was time to remind him that I still needed to check into the Savoy, adding that I feared the hiring of the hack for an entire day might be costing him a fortune. He waved that off too, saying we had a whole evening before us and that the hack would in any case be paid with SOE funds.
Then he suggested going to Soho to take in a show.
“Ever heard of the Windmill?” he said, eyes alight.
“Pumps water,” I replied, betraying my Midwestern roots.
“No, it’s a nightspot ... a kind of theater,” he grinned, punching me playfully on the shoulder. “Famous for its reviews.”
“Oh, okay.”
“But we need some drinks first. I know a good Soho watering hole.”
“Ummmm ... I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Nonsense. Come on, let’s go!”
So we went to The Macclesfield, a pub owned by a Dutch seaman ... so Freddie confided in me ... and a meeting place for Dutch resistance exiles, in addition to being renowned for its oysters, which we sampled in its famous second floor Shell Room, where I also learned it was famous for its well-known literary and gangster patrons. In the Shell Room we met up with some of Freddie’s friends, which was a bit of a letdown because their high class, sophisticated ways made me feel like such a nobody. I compensated by drinking way more than I should have, and got a bit tipsy ... well actually, more than a bit.
In due time, Freddie suggested that we should all go see the show at the Windmill together, so off we went, with me clutching Freddie’s arm for support.
We paid for seats near the stage and were seated just in time for a performance, which consisted ... I soon found out ... of a large number of young women posing nude on an elaborate set.
“They’re naked!” I exclaimed. “And just standing there ... why don’t they move?”
“It’s a tableau,” explained Freddie. “They’re supposed to hold perfectly still, like statues, in order to avoid running afoul of the public decency laws. Nude statues cannot be deemed morally offensive, you see.”
“Well, that’s silly,” I slurred, “They’re buck naked and everyone here is staring at them.”
“Have another drink, Barb.”
Two drinks and four tableaux later, I tugged on Freddie’s arm. “Let’s leave, Freddie. I’m bored.”
“Sure, anything you say.”
We said our goodbyes to his friends, and stepped out into the cool night air.
“Kiss me, Freddie!” I announced suddenly and brazenly.
“Not here,” he replied in a hushed tone.
Taking me by the hand, he ushered me into a narrow side alley. It was dark in there, and as we made our way into the shadows we kept bumping into couples, embracing against the walls of the buildings flanking the alley.
“Some of them are copulating!” I exclaimed, and started to giggle.
“Shhhhh, Barb. This is wartime London. It’s what people do ... any chance they get.”
“Us too?”
“Shhhhhh, not so loud,” hushed Freddie as he backed me up against a vacant spot on a wall.
I threw my arms around him, closed my eyes and kissed him hard on the mouth. His response was immediate, kissing me passionately while sliding his hands up and down my back under my jacket. We held that kiss until we were forced to come up for air.
Freddie took advantage of the pause to nuzzle my neck, giving me the shivers.
As we resumed kissing, his hands were busy pulling the back of my blouse free from the waistband of my skirt. Shortly thereafter I felt the warmth of his hands moving up my bare back and moments later the telltale little tug that went with undoing my bra.
“Oh my God” I gasped as he pulled away from me enough to unbutton and open the front of my blouse and free my breasts from my bra.
Then he went down on me, kissing and sucking my nipples, left then right, and back and forth, again and again, teasing them inside his mouth with quick little flicks of the tip of his tongue.
That drove me crazy. I moaned, leaned forward and kissed the top of his head.
Kneeling before me, he gathered my skirt in his hands, and raised it to my hips.
“Go on. You want it, Barb. Take down your knickers,” he breathed huskily.
“No, Freddie, you do it. And where I come from we call them panties.”
“Suit yourself,” he chuckled as he lowered them slowly down my thighs ... the damp fabric at my crotch clinging momentarily before pulling free ... and then dropped them to my ankles.
I stepped out with one foot and groped for the front of his trousers as he stood. But he already had it out.
Giggling I grabbed him by the shoulders and drew myself up high against him, wrapping my legs around.
“Do it!” I shouted. “Now!”
“Shhhhhh ... Right!”
I felt his rod demanding entrance, pushing against my lips, bending slightly, then slipping deep inside me.
“Yesssss” I hissed.
He began to move, thrusting powerfully with his hips, pressing my bare ass against the roughness of the brick wall.
I gasped and held on tighter as we began our little dance ... rocking rhythmically ... my juices in full flow ... in and out ... in and out ... slowly at first ... then faster and faster ... harder and harder ... until I lost it, climaxing with a scream so loud and shrill that it drew titters from the other couples in the alley.
“Whew!” he said, lowering me to the pavement.
“Whew yourself!”
“Come on, Barb. Get yourself together and let’s get out of here.”
“You don’t want to do it again?”
“Of course I do, but not here.”
“How about at the Savoy?”
“I’ve a better idea. We’ll go spend the night at my club.”
“But I thought they didn’t allow women.”
“Don’t worry I know how to get around that.”
And he did. He snuck me in and ‘shagged’ me ... repeatedly ... all night long ... unbelievable ... and I also came away having learned a new word for it.
So, there I was on the Royal Scot, nose to the window, watching the English countryside go by. My companion had finished his newspaper and had started smoking a smelly cigar. I gave him a disapproving look. He didn’t care.
Countryside, towns and villages flew by. I sagged against my seat. Freddie was gone and I was off to Scotland to endure three months of training, filled with hard work and unknown humiliations, assuming Sir Geoffrey was right about my prospects as a woman. And he probably was. But if I made it, and returned to London, I wanted nothing more than to be shagged by Freddie again ... and again ... and again.
Saturday, 7 March 1942
Panting from exertion ... having just sprinted over half the length of a Euston Station platform to board the Royal Scot, minutes before it pulled away on its daily 10 am run to Glasgow ... I pushed my way past an older gentleman seated in my compartment, stumbling over his feet, in my rush to wave out the window to Freddie ... who spotted me at once and waved back from the platform below.
Excitedly, I attempted to open the window but the damn thing wouldn’t budge, so I had to settle for mouthing sweet nothings and making faces through the smudged glass.
Moments later the train pulled out with a jolt that sent me flying into my compartment companion’s lap.
“Kindly take your seat, Miss, and do remain there, please,” he sniffed, dismissing me as he shoved me away.
“So Sorry,” I mumbled. "Forgive me. I was anxious to ...”
The man cut me off with a harrumph and raised his crumpled copy of The Times in front of his face. There would be no conversation between us ... that was evident ... and just as well, because I had so much to think about.
My first thoughts were of Freddie. I could hardly believe it, but I had fallen for him in less than a day! What was it about him? Well, certainly his boyish good looks! And that ever present twinkle in his blue eyes, and his ease of manner ... gentility, if you will. Then there was his laugh and, of course, I absolutely adored the dulcet tones of his English upper class accent.
It had been one of those improbable whirlwind romances ... the kind you see in the movies or read about in cheap romantic novels.
It began as soon as we had left Sir Geoffrey, who had given Freddie parting orders to move me to the Savoy and show me a good time on my last night in London. We smirked as we descended in the lift and I went out of my way to intentionally drop my bag and treat the elderly operator to a generous view of my legs when I bent down to retrieve it.
Outside, Freddie joked that I simply had no right going around like that ... giving old gents coronaries. I made a face and we both laughed. Then Freddie hailed what I would have called a taxi, but he called it a hack, and went off to Paddington to retrieve my belongings. My landlady was more than pleased to see me go once she learned that she could keep what I had paid her in advance and still let the room to someone else.
Back in our hack, Freddie treated me to on an exhaustive, all afternoon and into the evening, tour of London’s sights ... from the West End to the East End, and clear down to Greenwich, and back again. We finished the day, sitting together happily in St. James’ Park, sharing fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. The whole thing was lovely, although the enjoyment was tempered somewhat by the presence, nearly everywhere, of bomb damage and the fact that everything worth seeing had been sandbagged. I asked about the Blitz and what it had been like to go through the worst of it, but Freddie waved it off.
As darkness was falling, I decided it was time to remind him that I still needed to check into the Savoy, adding that I feared the hiring of the hack for an entire day might be costing him a fortune. He waved that off too, saying we had a whole evening before us and that the hack would in any case be paid with SOE funds.
Then he suggested going to Soho to take in a show.
“Ever heard of the Windmill?” he said, eyes alight.
“Pumps water,” I replied, betraying my Midwestern roots.
“No, it’s a nightspot ... a kind of theater,” he grinned, punching me playfully on the shoulder. “Famous for its reviews.”
“Oh, okay.”
“But we need some drinks first. I know a good Soho watering hole.”
“Ummmm ... I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Nonsense. Come on, let’s go!”
So we went to The Macclesfield, a pub owned by a Dutch seaman ... so Freddie confided in me ... and a meeting place for Dutch resistance exiles, in addition to being renowned for its oysters, which we sampled in its famous second floor Shell Room, where I also learned it was famous for its well-known literary and gangster patrons. In the Shell Room we met up with some of Freddie’s friends, which was a bit of a letdown because their high class, sophisticated ways made me feel like such a nobody. I compensated by drinking way more than I should have, and got a bit tipsy ... well actually, more than a bit.
In due time, Freddie suggested that we should all go see the show at the Windmill together, so off we went, with me clutching Freddie’s arm for support.
We paid for seats near the stage and were seated just in time for a performance, which consisted ... I soon found out ... of a large number of young women posing nude on an elaborate set.
“They’re naked!” I exclaimed. “And just standing there ... why don’t they move?”
“It’s a tableau,” explained Freddie. “They’re supposed to hold perfectly still, like statues, in order to avoid running afoul of the public decency laws. Nude statues cannot be deemed morally offensive, you see.”
“Well, that’s silly,” I slurred, “They’re buck naked and everyone here is staring at them.”
“Have another drink, Barb.”
Two drinks and four tableaux later, I tugged on Freddie’s arm. “Let’s leave, Freddie. I’m bored.”
“Sure, anything you say.”
We said our goodbyes to his friends, and stepped out into the cool night air.
“Kiss me, Freddie!” I announced suddenly and brazenly.
“Not here,” he replied in a hushed tone.
Taking me by the hand, he ushered me into a narrow side alley. It was dark in there, and as we made our way into the shadows we kept bumping into couples, embracing against the walls of the buildings flanking the alley.
“Some of them are copulating!” I exclaimed, and started to giggle.
“Shhhhh, Barb. This is wartime London. It’s what people do ... any chance they get.”
“Us too?”
“Shhhhhh, not so loud,” hushed Freddie as he backed me up against a vacant spot on a wall.
I threw my arms around him, closed my eyes and kissed him hard on the mouth. His response was immediate, kissing me passionately while sliding his hands up and down my back under my jacket. We held that kiss until we were forced to come up for air.
Freddie took advantage of the pause to nuzzle my neck, giving me the shivers.
As we resumed kissing, his hands were busy pulling the back of my blouse free from the waistband of my skirt. Shortly thereafter I felt the warmth of his hands moving up my bare back and moments later the telltale little tug that went with undoing my bra.
“Oh my God” I gasped as he pulled away from me enough to unbutton and open the front of my blouse and free my breasts from my bra.
Then he went down on me, kissing and sucking my nipples, left then right, and back and forth, again and again, teasing them inside his mouth with quick little flicks of the tip of his tongue.
That drove me crazy. I moaned, leaned forward and kissed the top of his head.
Kneeling before me, he gathered my skirt in his hands, and raised it to my hips.
“Go on. You want it, Barb. Take down your knickers,” he breathed huskily.
“No, Freddie, you do it. And where I come from we call them panties.”
“Suit yourself,” he chuckled as he lowered them slowly down my thighs ... the damp fabric at my crotch clinging momentarily before pulling free ... and then dropped them to my ankles.
I stepped out with one foot and groped for the front of his trousers as he stood. But he already had it out.
Giggling I grabbed him by the shoulders and drew myself up high against him, wrapping my legs around.
“Do it!” I shouted. “Now!”
“Shhhhhh ... Right!”
I felt his rod demanding entrance, pushing against my lips, bending slightly, then slipping deep inside me.
“Yesssss” I hissed.
He began to move, thrusting powerfully with his hips, pressing my bare ass against the roughness of the brick wall.
I gasped and held on tighter as we began our little dance ... rocking rhythmically ... my juices in full flow ... in and out ... in and out ... slowly at first ... then faster and faster ... harder and harder ... until I lost it, climaxing with a scream so loud and shrill that it drew titters from the other couples in the alley.
“Whew!” he said, lowering me to the pavement.
“Whew yourself!”
“Come on, Barb. Get yourself together and let’s get out of here.”
“You don’t want to do it again?”
“Of course I do, but not here.”
“How about at the Savoy?”
“I’ve a better idea. We’ll go spend the night at my club.”
“But I thought they didn’t allow women.”
“Don’t worry I know how to get around that.”
And he did. He snuck me in and ‘shagged’ me ... repeatedly ... all night long ... unbelievable ... and I also came away having learned a new word for it.
So, there I was on the Royal Scot, nose to the window, watching the English countryside go by. My companion had finished his newspaper and had started smoking a smelly cigar. I gave him a disapproving look. He didn’t care.
Countryside, towns and villages flew by. I sagged against my seat. Freddie was gone and I was off to Scotland to endure three months of training, filled with hard work and unknown humiliations, assuming Sir Geoffrey was right about my prospects as a woman. And he probably was. But if I made it, and returned to London, I wanted nothing more than to be shagged by Freddie again ... and again ... and again.
