Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 MISS ELSIE'S HOUSECOAT

   by Holly Rennick, adapted from "1942" by Jenny Wanshel

   AUTHOR'S NOTES

   Jenny Wanshel's writings were my introduction to erotica.  My entry into
the genre was a re-writing of her BOY MAGNETS into my WRITER'S NOTEBOOK for
which she was kind enough to offer encouragement.

   Now some years later, I'm trying my hand at expanding a portion of
Jenny's "1942," written to welcome the new millennium.  The epilogue I've
left in Jenny's words.  I could fiddle with some verbs, but I'm a sucker
for romance.  Thank you, Jenny.

   MISS ELSIE'S HOUSECOAT

   Micronesia, November 26, 1942, Thanksgiving

   Lieutenant O'Connor disappeared trying to cross the reef.  Perhaps it
was his boots that pulled him under when the surf upended the launch, but
in any case he vanished.

   Miss Elsie held back the boys who wanted to swim to the officer's
rescue. She grabbed them by the shoulders, the arms, the hair, but
ultimately it was her shrieking that dissuaded them from likewise
perishing.

   There were ten on the sand, nine boys from Palua Secondary School and
Miss Elsie, their teacher.

   She'd had no idea where Palua was when she responded to the, "English
teacher.  Two-year contract.  Transportation provided," in Language Arts.
The school turned out to be in the far Pacific, a boarding institution for
the children of expats who didn't foresee the world coming their way under
the banner of a rising sun.

   When the Japanese spotter flew over their vessel -- the M.V. 
Tammerville, a grime-encrusted inter-islander pressed into evacuation
duties -- Elsie had barely time to button her housecoat before she, her
boys and their naval escort piled into the launch.

   "Safer on land," the Tammerville captain ordered, pointing to the
nearest land.  "Goddam' Japs.  Sorry, ma'am," leaving Elsie unsure if the
apology was for the language, the war or the island.  No naval officer,
this captain, she allowed, but if anyone could dodge the Japs, he'd be the
guy.

   There might have been Palua Secondary girls with them, but they'd sailed
the week before.  For the best, thought Elsie, as she hadn't the
wherewithal to serve also as chaperone.

   As they approached shore, Lt.  O'Connor assured his charges that the
island, uninhabited and of no strategic uniqueness, wouldn't be occupied.
Stay in the trees and the Navy will slip back to retrieve "you sailors" in
a couple of weeks, the boys picking up on "you sailors." As the lieutenant
pointed out, they'd be well placed to gather intelligence for the Allied
effort.

   The boys weren't the only passengers impressed by the officer.  He
wasn't wearing a ring, and a few days' watching the sea would allow Elsie
to better make his acquaintance.  Not that anything would come of it, but
at least she'd have someone with whom to chat.

   Lt.  O'Connor beached them safely and died trying to retrieve the
jettisoned drum of survival supplies -- the axe, the tinned meat, the
matches.  Why did the Tammerville carry such a drum, ready on the deck,
Elsie wondered?  Ships go down more often these days, she supposed.

   The irony was that the drum later washed onto the sand.

   Lt.  O'Connor dead on the ocean bed for no purpose and Miss Elsie and
her boys alone on the island.  Alone, but at least alive.

   "God help us." Rescue was promised soon, she told herself, but what if
the Japanese arrived sooner?

   "God help us," she repeated in case He'd missed the first request.  As
there'd yet to be a flash on the horizon, maybe the Tammerville was yet
steaming.  The vessel's grime might provide camouflage.  If not, it no
longer had its launch.

   The ten awaited the onset of darkness, ten forlorn souls cold and wet.

   Thanksgiving, 1942, Elsie reflected as she tried to rest against a
poking rock.  "God help us," in case He'd also missed the second.

   November 27, 1942

   Dawn brought the sun, an opportunity to assess their situation.

   Hungry and exhausted, but still the teacher, Miss Elsie had to get a
grip, to take charge.  They'd need shelter, food, fresh water.  They'd need
some kind of a latrine, not something the boys wouldn't think of, but the
exact sort of thing to establish a semblance of order.  She was no
lieutenant, but teachers know about order.

   "As Jess is oldest, he'll be my sergeant," Miss Elsie announced to all.
Kids know each other's ages, she figured, a fair enough way to choose a
leader.

   The boys discussed whether Jess could be a sergeant, given that Lt. 
O'Conner had been a Navy man, but Miss Elsie ruled that as it was all the
Armed Forces, her assistant's rank was her decision.

   "Now Jess, you know what we need: a latrine."

   "Yes, ma'am," in the manner of a sergeant.

   The boys built shelters from palm fronds.  Scouts back home, reflected
Miss Elsie, would have never seen a palm tree.  For their teacher, they
built a lean-to some yards distant.  She was appreciative for the privacy,
but unsure about island fauna, was glad it wasn't farther.

   A stream provided ample water.  Stones thrown at the treetops failed to
loosen the coconuts, but those already fallen could be opened with the axe.
The island must once have been inhabited, they guessed, given the variety
of fruit.  The latrine could wait until tomorrow, Miss Elsie decided.

   We're rather like Wendy and the lost boys, she decided, today's
situation seeming a bit less precarious than that of yesterday.

   Her housecoat wasn't designed to be a dress, of course, but she guessed
it wasn't that different.  Pasted to her since coming ashore, and even with
her slip, it did little to disguise the lines of her girdle and the thrust
of her brasserie, but sooner or later she'd dry out.

   That evening they made a fire, far enough into the greenery that a
passing ship wouldn't notice, but big enough to stave off the night.

   As the boys didn't want to sing, however, Miss Elsie couldn't come up
with what to do until she thought of a vocabulary contest.  "Who can make
up a sentence using both 'principle' and 'principal?'"

   "The lieutenant told us to spy," the boys countered, suggesting a
guessing game involving warship identification.

   "The Navy needs properly written reports," trumping their objection.  As
none of the boys could distinguish "principle" from "principal," however,
like singing, her contest fizzled and at the end it involved how many guns
has a cruiser?

   Across the embers, Elsie felt the eyes on her housecoat.

   "Well boys, it looks like we're all in this war," to redirect their
thoughts.

   "I'm not afraid," Jess declared, his hairless chest gleaming in the
firelight.  Why his attire was just a pair of trousers, Miss Elsie didn't
know, other than perhaps like her, he'd had no time to grab his valise when
they took to the launch.

   "Me neither," the others chorused, though Miss Elsie suspected
otherwise.

   "We're all scared a little," she suggested, with which no one disagreed.

   On her bed of fronds, Elsie tossed and turned and finally rid herself of
her girdle.  Some things just don't make a lot of sense when you're
marooned, she recognized.

   It was only a short while when TJ, her youngest charge, came crying. 
She knew from the school records that TJ stood for Thomas James, but no one
called him that.

   Maybe it was their aloneness or maybe it was because TJ seemed as scared
as she was -- she couldn't sort it out -- but for whatever reason, the rest
seemed suddenly distant.  Home.  Their school.  Lt.  O'Connor.  Even the
other boys.

   "It's okay, TJ.  We've got each other," drawing him against her, the one
who was near.

   A kiss followed.  Just a tiny one to the edge of his cheek, a way to
tell him that rescue would come.  It must have done some good, for his
tears ceased and she understood his kiss in return.

   Is this okay, thought Elsie?  But not before she'd kissed him again.

   Maybe it came from being so far from the rest of the world, she
wondered, but what can be wrong with a kiss?  A boy his age wouldn't think
of other things.  Not with a teacher, anyway.

   Maybe it's okay, she allowed.  He can't read my mind.

   From there it was a multitude of caresses.  At first he seemed not to
understand what she wanted, but once she ran her tongue into his mouth, he
seemed to like it and did the same in return.  Why she let him, she wasn't
sure, but how many teachers are so alone?

   In the end, though, she turned away and let his warmth ease her to
sleep.

   In the small hours Elsie was awakened by a hand on her back.  At first
disoriented, then realizing that it was TJ, it's good to have someone near,
she decided, someone who'll massage your shoulders.

   She was picturing her home, her tea set -- so many thoughts strung one
on another -- when the hand slipped under her elbow.  She thought to pull
away, but at a time like this, a boy like TJ needs to be close to someone,
too.

   She was surprised when the hand moved onto the edge of her breast, but
again didn't impede it.  The teacher in her of course couldn't allow it to
remain, but at the same time, another part of her wanted to raise her arm.
The teacher in her said to act awake, but another part of her said to
remain as if she were still asleep.  Emotions become confused in the
darkness.

   Thank goodness she'd kept on her brasserie.

   TJ was gone when she awoke.  He didn't want the others to know he'd been
crying, Elsie figured, and slept beside the teacher.

   The kissing was best forgotten, she told herself, but not before passing
her palm across her housecoat to see how she must have felt.  That's when
she noticed that the buttons were misaligned.

   Oh my!  her nipples suddenly erect.  So many emotions become confused
and some of them make even less sense in the light of day.

   TJ?  The boy who came crying?  The boy whom she kissed?  The boy who...?

   Oh my!

   She was careful to choose the moment, but at last finding TJ alone,
approached him from behind and put a hand on his shoulder.

   "Feel better today, TJ," pulling him toward her.

   "Lots, Miss Elsie," resting against her housecoat until a classmate came
into sight.

   November 28, 1942

   Distressed by yesterday's difficulty distinguishing "principle" from
"principal," Miss Elsie led the boys in a game of Homonyms.

   "Okay, 'close,' as in, 'Close the door.' Give me a homonym."

   "Clothes, like what you wear."

   "Excellent.  How about 'knight,' like of the Round Table?  Homonym,
please."

   "Night, like when you're asleep."

   It worked quite well, letting them shout the answers.

   They made their midday meal of coconut meat, but now with roasted
breadfruit.  The food-gatherers promised to bring back a larger quantity if
it didn't make anyone sick.

   After policing their campsite -- cleanliness being next to godliness, a
sound principle.  "'Principle' or 'principal,' boys?" which some correctly
answered -- the boys set off to explore the stream.  If nothing else, the
channel provided a path to the interior and as Miss Elsie reminded them, a
route back.

   When the explorers failed to reappear in what Elsie deemed a timely
manner -- she'd no watch, but it seemed far too long -- she followed the
watercourse and after a scramble, came upon the explorers swimming in a
pool at the foot of a banyan.

   By the clothing strewn on the bank, she realized she shouldn't be there,
but before she could turn back, one of them caught sight of her.  "Want to
join us, Miss Elsie.  The water's nice," to which another added, "If you
don't mind a few eels," at which the others splashed him into silence.

   "Perhaps not," averting her eyes and passing by as if she'd a further
destination.

   Finding an upper pool where she could herself bathe, she entered the
water.  Not like the boys, of course, but sans housecoat.  Warming herself
on the rocks afterwards, she must have dozed, for it was a boy's voice that
woke her.

   "Hi, Miss Elsie.  We didn't want you to get lost."

   Fortunately she was on her stomach and her slip, being a full one,
provided some degree of modesty.  She supposed that the cut of her panties
was noticeable, but at least the boys couldn't gawk at her brasserie.

   "You can go back with us," suggested another.

   "I'll come later, but thanks for checking," as she appreciated their
concern.  No reason to begrudge their little reward, as after all, they're
still boys.

   That night several felt ill, but no one thought it was the breadfruit.
Elsie was up past midnight, a nurse with a soothing hand, and finally all
were asleep except for Richard, the one who'd joked of eels.

   "Were there really eels?"

   "Sort of."

   "Oh my!"

   "Not the kind that bites."

   She thought on that one.

   "Maybe I need a protector," rubbing the back of his neck.  Of course she
could sleep alone -- she'd done it forever -- but TJ made last night so
much better.

   "Sure thing, Miss Elsie," Richard's assurance.

   Richard smoothed himself a place on her fronds, cozied up behind and the
two talked of topics as weighty as the wages of war and as frivolous as the
tracks of crabs.

   Yes, she realized, TJ made last night so much better, but it wasn't just
his presence.  Had he gone on to touch her breast?  He was far too young to
know how it might seem to a girl, but even still, he was old enough to
unbutton her housecoat.

   Flitting between prudence and stirrings, restraint and excitement, Elsie
was almost asleep when tonight's hand ventured forward.

   Just like TJ, she told herself as the buttons came undone.  Again she
could have intervened, but as they were all her boys, it wouldn't be right
to treat them differently.  Teachers know not to do that.

   But oh my!  Tonight's Richard wasn't last night's TJ, the distinction
apparent when a second hand drew her slip upward,

   Oh my.  He can see my panties!  Elsie realized, but what's a teacher to
do?

   When he unfastened her brassiere, she knew she shouldn't have arched her
back and when he spread the straps outward, she knew she shouldn't have
hunched her shoulders.  She crossed her hands between her legs as he lifted
the cups.

   Oh my!  What he must be able to see now!

   Bathed in the starlight, she lay motionless as fingers encompassed her
north, south, east and west before ascending to her nipple, hard like a
peanut.

   Oh my!  But thank goodness he thinks I'm asleep.

   In fact, Elsie must have ended up so, for the stars seemed brighter when
next she awoke.  It took her a moment to register the situation, but when
she felt the weight above her and felt the underpants wedging and
re-wedging into hers, she knew exactly.

   "Blunt instrument" came to mind, something she'd picked up from dime
detective novels, but still garbed in his underpants, Richard's wasn't the
lethal variety.  She knew about erections -- from second-hand accounts,
anyway -- but until now she'd thought the tales to be exaggerations.

   Richard seemed in a hurry -- she supposed that he was worried about her
awakening -- and when he jerked, she felt the seep from his underpants into
hers.  Her college roommate, a nursing major, had shown her an illustration
of the little wigglies with long tails and Elsie could imagine them now
wondering where they were supposed to go.

   In retrospect, Elsie was self-impressed that she'd so promptly discerned
his intention.  It's not the sort of thing that one reads about in dime
novels, not the ones on the drug store rack, anyway.  The object's
bluntness wasn't the giveaway, of course; it was the resultant damp spot on
her panties.

   Not much to it, she deemed, not for the girl, anyway, unless maybe he
took more time.  She rather liked the idea of him ejaculating.  As she'd
been stalwart in her charade of sleep, he'd never know she sensed the
liquid.

   November 29, 1942

   It occurred to Miss Elsie that word squares might be a fun activity for
school.  Letters in the sand.  The boys, at first dubious about a word
game, pursued victory with a vengeance.

   The winning word square:

   E A R

   E Y E

   L E D

   Miss Elsie liked the use of "eye" and "aye," as in "Aye, aye, sir," plus
she could remind the boys about "led," while the past tense of "lead," is
pronounced like "lead," the metal.  English has its problems.

   By how they elbowed one another, she could tell that they took delight
in "eel," but thought it best to act dumb regarding the matter.

   That night, it was decided that Tom would act as protector.

   Miss Elsie thought she knew the routine -- not that she agreed, of
course, but the hand from behind was indeed compelling.  It seemed to take
forever before Tom opened her housecoat, but maybe that was because, she
feared, her sleep maybe wasn't that convincing.  When he lifted her slip,
it wasn't the brush of breeze that caused her to shiver.

   The hand resting on her panties wasn't in the bargain, however.  Only on
the waistband, but most definitely her panties.  When the hand began to
travel, at first back and forth and then lower and lower, she knew that he
was sensing her.

   Should she struggle?  Of course she should, but that would be when there
was hope for help.  Till morning, she knew, there'd be just Tom.  Maybe if
she shouted something like, "Tiger!" the other boys would come, but then
they'd see she was lying and go back to their shelters.

   When the finger began to resemble what she knew herself, up and down,
yet bolder and bolder, she realized that this boy knew females, how they
worked.  It was his doing, not hers, she argued with herself, but a teacher
should never let this happen, not even at a time like now.  Oh, to sink
into the sand!

   If Tom's press hadn't so closely mimicked the way she herself started,
she'd not have let him continue.  But oh my!  So quickly it felt so
natural.

   Oh my!  Tom, she wanted to tell him.

   It had never occurred to her that another, much less a schoolboy, could
do what she'd learned as a girl in the bath.  How he'd gained such
knowledge, she cared not to speculate, but this student so obviously knew
what his teacher needed.

   Needed?  No, she told herself, not at a time like this.  Their
situation's too precarious.  As the teacher, she'd so many
responsibilities. This sort of need isn't as important.

   But at least the others were sleeping.  It wasn't as if she'd something
else to do.  Who would ever know?  The boys have their sports, their jokes
about eels, their camaraderie, but what's there for a teacher?  Maybe it
helps to be on an island.

   Don't, Tom, she wanted to say, as he slipped under the cotton.

   Don't, Tom, she wanted to say, spreading to help.

   Don't, Tom, she wanted to say, her wetness welling.

   "Where's my little peek-a-boo," she imagined Tom's finger calling.

   "Waiting here, for only you," her peek-a-boo would answer.

   "Come out, my friend, so we may play."

   "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, I say."

   A naughty little ditty she'd written as a girl, though she knew that
tiny part of her must have an actual name.  A silly little ditty for which
she'd never rhymed a proper last line.  Her very first poem.

   "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, I say," Elsie recited to herself over and over
as the all-knowing finger brought her to climax.

   "Oh yes," as Tom massaged her neck, though she wasn't sure if was just a
thought or something spoken.  Had he only masturbated her, she'd have felt
awkward, but his doing her neck afterwards told her it was good.

   Oh my!

   Elsie shied away from Tom the next morning, but when they crossed paths
by the stream, he acted as if last night was within the allowable.

   "Sleep okay, Miss Elsie?"

   "I did," inadvertently adding, "Thanks."

   "I've got a sister," his reply at first not making sense.  After a
moment, though, it seemed to confirm an earlier speculation.  Tom's sister
would be older, she bet.

   November 30, 1942

   Miss Elsie attempted a discussion about Tom Sawyer, but quickly realized
that her students had Tom confused with Huckleberry Finn.  She understood
their error, as the tales have similarities.  Samuel Clemens, she informed
them, first wrote Tom Sawyer and from it came Huckleberry Finn, a darker
piece.

   What do you mean, darker?  they asked and that led to further
discussion, what every English teacher strives for.

   Dinner: fruit and fish, but a bigger fish with fewer bones.  Or maybe it
was that the boys were by now better at cooking on a stick.
That evening's protector was Jess.  "I get to because I'm the ranking

boy," as he snuggled behind.

   "Get to what?" Elsie was confused, not by the hand so quickly to her
housecoat-- she'd expected that much, though not until she feigned sleep --
but by his vagueness of verb.  Just because she'd let Tom masturbate her
didn't mean that all could.

   "You know," Jess clarified.  "Ball you."

   "What?"

   "You know.  The hoochie coochie."

   His matter-of-factness startled her.  Was he suggesting sexual
intercourse?  Considering the context, yes.

   "That's rape and I'll tell the Navy!" alarmed by the thought.  If the
Navy returns, that is.

   "We're betting you won't."

   Who's this "we," she wondered?

   "Won't what?" not knowing how to respond.

   "Think of it like that."

   Think of it as rape?  Not wishing to discuss the definition, she tried
another tack.  "I'll fail you," wishing it were daylight when the teaching
profession would have better respect.  You can't have sex with your
teacher, not as long as she's in charge and the island needs someone in
charge.  On that matter, Miss Elsie was perfectly clear.

   "I'm your sergeant."

   "That doesn't make you my..." but she couldn't think the correct noun.

   "I'll just go in part way in," Jess offered, cupping her from behind as
if to gage her heartbeat.  Her pulse was indeed rapid, she realized, too
unfocused to displace the hand before it had undone the top buttons.

   "Part way?" feeling her housecoat part way and the fingertips now
traversing her slip.

   "For starts."

   "You can't just part way..." this time searching for the correct verb.

   "See.  You're interested!" ignoring her protest, his forefinger
confirming that her brassiere wasn't sufficiently padded.

   Why, of all times, now?  she asked herself, him talking of sex and her
showing through her slip?

   "It's not what you think," hoping he wouldn't ask what it was, then. 
"And even if it is, it's involuntary." Anything more would only tell him he
was making a difference and he'd realize that such difference was in his
favor.

   "My eel's volunteering, Miss Elsie."

   "Your what?" before understanding.  She needed to protest, but how to
respond without inviting even less-acceptable terminology?

   "My this," as he guided her wrist behind her back and against the fly of
his shorts.

   Oh my!  too surprised to withdraw.  The safest thing would be to ignore
what her hand was feeling, but even that didn't seem too safe.  She'd not
have thought Jess would be quite so...  quite so volunteering!

   "I'll make you come," Jess proposed.

   "Make me what?" letting him push her palm from side to side.

   "Better than last night, even."

   Oh my!  realized Elsie.  Orgasm!  Tom must have talked!

   "You already knew how, right?" Jess pursued.

   "To what?" closing her fingers around something that seemed surprisingly
substantial for just a boy.

   "Whatever girls call it.  After you go to bed."

   She thought on that one.  One can't rush thinking.  Is he asking her, a
girl, if she masturbates?  Even another girl wouldn't ask her that.

   "None of your business."

   Though her personal activity was indeed no one else's business, she
weighed the pros and cons.  It wasn't okay, what Tom did, but on the other
hand, it most certainly wasn't a "hoochie coochie."

   "And even if I did," she fibbed, "it was when I was very much younger."
She'd no idea why she even told him that, other than maybe she didn't mind
the idea of him thinking about her a little bit that way.  Just the idea if
him thinking, not him acting on it, of course.

   "Tom said you came like Gang Busters," Jess noted.

   "Really?" she allowed, foreseeing where this must be heading.  Jess
could read her breasts, she figured.  Her thoughts, even.

   "I'm good at it," urging her nipples yet more erect.

   "Okay," after a bit more thought, "but you can't tell the others,"
turning her hand for improved leverage.  Not that she was agreeing he could
likewise reach lower, of course, but a second time wouldn't be that bad.

   Maybe he'd want something in return, she wondered?  She wouldn't, of
course, but maybe he could show her how.

   "Not with my finger, though," Jess clarified, attuned to her
inquisivity.

   "No?"

   "My eel."

   She was quick to let go of what she'd been so carefully holding.

   "No.  You can't just..." Can't what?  Expect her to call his penis his
eel?  To admit she masturbates?  To confess to climaxing like Gang Busters?
To let herself again be masturbated?  To play with Jess's
whatever-he-wants-to-call-it?  To have sex?

   "How come?" apparently in reference to the latter.

   She thought carefully.  Teacher carefully.  How come she didn't want to
have sex?  There were the moral things, the laws, what others might think,
but those were so far away.  Too far away to be considered, even.  Here on
the island the answer wasn't that complicated.

   "Umm, I'm not..." she tried.  "I'm not married or anything and..."

   "We figured you're a virgin."

   Oh my!  Miss Elsie didn't want her boys to think otherwise, of course,
but at the same time didn't want them pondering that aspect of her at all.

   "Of course I am."

   "We think you're ready not to be."

   What was with again his use of "we." The boys?  Did they take some sort
of vote?  Is our teacher ready for something not spinsterish?  All in
favor, Aye.

   "Well, it's the girl who decides," what she knew to be a waning argument
but maybe stronger than an admonition about waiting until her bridal night.
She was hardly going to wed one of her boys!

   It's so tiring always being the teacher, she realized, everyone
depending on you.  Well, this teacher sometimes wants someone else to take
some responsibility.  Someone who'll carry through with what's decided. 
It's why teachers sometimes need sergeants.  If they had a vote, together
they'd have had a broader perspective about chastity.

   "It'll be better if you help out," Jess's unsolicited advice.  "It's not
supposed to be one-way."

   Better than what, she wondered?  Than masturbating?  Than being
masturbated?  Than being raped by the Japanese?  Than dying as a spinster
in her corset?

   Oh my!  What's a girl to do when there's a war going on?

   He knows I'm excited by the thought of it, she admitted.  I can't help
it and it's true about the war.  Things like this happen, teachers and
their boys ending up on islands.  The Navy might never get here.  Across
the campfire, she'd indeed noticed Jess's body, though she'd thought
nothing of it at the time.  Kissing with TJ hardly came to much.  Richard
exposing her breasts hadn't hurt anyone.  Not even when he'd spent himself
on her panties.  Tom's masturbation hadn't turned out badly, had it? 
though he oughtn't have told.  Would a penis inside her be that different?
Not just any penis, but the penis of the young man she'd put in charge.

   "So, like I said, you're interested," his observation.

   In what?  Elsie asked herself.  Maybe I might want to try something, but
doesn't every girl?  Maybe with somebody like Lt.  O'Connor, but not with a
schoolboy, even if he's my sergeant.

   No, even if she wanted to, of course she'd never allow it.  She was the
teacher, after all.  Of course she wouldn't.  This was just a boy assigned
to protect her at a confusing moment.  No, of course not!  Why would she
want to make love with him?

   But why, then, was her body deciding just the opposite?  Why was she
warm, shivering, pinching her legs, moving them apart, tingling on the
inside, breathing so fast, feeling so damp?

   Why indeed?

   "You said just part way." She wanted to make sure.

   "Okay."

   "It's the girl who decides how far," not positive as to the veracity,
but hoping to sound knowledgeable.

   "For starts."

   Hesitant, Elsie slid out of her housecoat.  She wanted to keep her slip,
but let him take that as well.  There's no need to take off my brassiere,
she wanted to say, but allowed him to take that, too.  You're actually more
vulnerable when the male's behind you, she realized.

   She almost panicked as his thumb inched her panties past her thighs, her
knees, her calves, her ankles, her heels.  She hoped he'd understand that
she'd never been naked in a male's presence.

   She could hear the click-click-click of his zipper.

   "First we get like this," Jess offered, rolling her onto her back and
placing his knees between hers.

   She wished he didn't feel obliged to explain everything.  She wished
there were some way to do what she was about to do without being where he
could see everything.  Where she could see everything, too.  She wished she
wasn't so damp, but at the same time knew that it was for her own good. 
She wished she could keep her eyes closed, but at the same time, wanted to
see the instrument about to be applied.

   "Ready?" hardness to wetness.

   Why bother to ask, she wondered?  Maybe because he's polite.  Maybe to
make her acknowledge her own arousal.  Maybe to establish that this is
indeed not a rape, as all would be worse off it that happened.

   As ready as she'd ever be, probably the thought of most virgins the
moment before they're virgins no more, she allowed.  Do only virgins get
asked that question, she wondered?  If you knew what you were doing, you'd
be able to tell him by use of your body.

   "Let's do it," she whispered, reaching to guide.  "Just part-way,
right?"

   "You decide."

   She bit her lip so the others wouldn't know the moment.  Though their
shelters were at a distance, she'd little doubt they were listening.

   God forgive me, she pleaded.  She guessed He'd at least understand about
the war and give her credit for the years of chastity.

   She'd no way to judge their mating, but it wasn't as uncomfortable as
she'd feared.  After a few adjustments, in fact, it wasn't bad at all and
part-way was all the way.  From there it got quite a bit better, probably
the very reason authors so often write about it, she guessed --
circuitously, of course, but very much about it.

   The fronds of her bedding brushed and crackled, but she was only hearing
the swish-swish-swish of steadfast insertions.

   She knew she wasn't the teacher, but at the same time, felt something
more than her student's student when at last their shudders coincided.

   Like Gang Busters?  A spent Miss Elsie thought her orgasm to be perhaps
better than that, more than the product of her background in masturbation
and Jess's skill in entering.  Maybe being marooned made a difference. 
Maybe it was the talking, how Jess prepared her even before she knew where
she was going.  Talking's good.

   It was good to have saved herself, she allowed, letting the war make it
happen.  She could have indeed been dealt a worse hand.  Probably lots of
virgins don't orgasm.

   "You did swell," deemed her protector.

   "For an English teacher, maybe," Elsie depreciated, though in her
personal opinion, "swell" wasn't a suitable adverb.  She'd retrieved her
panties, but put them on backwards and couldn't decide which was less
elegant, to strip and re-dress or to wear them backwards until Jess was
gone.

   "No, I'm serious.  Susan cried the first time."

   "Dennison?" Susan Dennison, Palua Secondary's likely valedictorian?

   "She likes it now, though."

   Oh, my!

   An eel at first so rigid and now so limp, Elsie reflected as she relived
his probes, her sequence of acceptances, their quickening rhythm, the
soaring release and even yet within her, the extra wetness.

   Oh my!  The boys were totally correct: she'd never tell the Navy.

   "Sweet dreams, little eel," stroking her little pet maternally.  After
lovemaking, you can't have a student thinking he's bested you.  You just
hope he fails to notice that your panties fit oddly.

   December 1, 1942

   Miss Elsie helped the class collectively recollect the plot of Moby
Dick. She was certain about "Call me Ishmael," but allowed some literary
license after that.

   "Would you call Moby Dick a 'swell' novel?" she demanded.  "Of course
not!  What might be a better descriptor?"

   She didn't feel uncomfortable standing, but hoped the boys didn't notice
that she was a bit stiff in moving about.  Maybe three times was too much
for a girl's first night, but he wouldn't have come back for desert if he'd
not liked the entre and he wouldn't have returned for the entre if he'd not
liked the salad.

   That night, Elsie herself removed her housecoat and Hank, a redhead with
gangly limbs and big ears, showed his teacher how to do it while seated. 
Elsie wondered if this was how the natives had sex, but didn't ask.  As odd
as it seemed initially, she decided that sitting worked rather nicely. 
It's more equal.  You can feel your liquids flowing outward while his flow
inward.

   Just don't call it swell, she wanted to suggest.  How about "engaging?"

   December 2, 1942

   Miss Elsie utterly failed in explaining the rule dealing with "o" vs. 
"oo." "The goose is loose, but don't lose the what?" Rose?  No.  Dose?  No.
Some English is simply what it is, she left it.

   Raymond, originally from Des Moines, lay on his back that evening.  At
first she thought she shouldn't be on top, that it wasn't her job, but it
worked.  She wouldn't have believed that Iowans would do this sort of
thing, but maybe they do.

   On your back, you see the stars.  On top, you see the jungle or the sea,
depending which way you're facing.

   December 3, 1942

   Miss Elsie oversaw a limerick competition.  Calvin's, all the boys
seemed to think, was the best.

   We stand forth for that which is right.

   For freedom and justice we fight.

   We greet each new day

   With Anchors Aweigh

   And Waltzing Matilda at night.

   Miss Elsie hoped she wasn't nicknamed Matilda, but wasn't sure.

   Calvin proved surprising.  Such an unassuming boy, a limerick champion
able to bring her to a second climax before himself letting go.

   "Where'd you learn that?" she blurted before realizing that where he
learned really wasn't her business.

   "Sister Bee," she thought she heard.

   "You have a sister, too," thinking back to Tom.

   "No.  Sister Benedicta.  I went to St.  Mary's back home."

   Oh my!  As Elsie wasn't Catholic, it was indeed none of her business,
but it still seemed surprising.  She'd always thought of parochial schools
in terms of poor salaries, behind the times in terms of educational
methods.

   December 4, 1942

   Robinson Crusoe wasn't in Palua Secondary's curriculum, but given their
situation, Miss Elsie figured it an appropriate substitution.  She'd follow
with The Swiss Family Robinson, another curricular deviation.  It seemed
interesting that both were "Robinson," but probably just a coincidence, as
she saw no linguistic tie to shipwrecks.

   It was Stanley, a boy whose parents were translating the Bible for a
remainder of the unreached, who introduced Miss Elsie to what she'd never
dreamed she'd let herself try.

   They'd been prepping in the conventional manner when Stanley reversed
direction, thrust his head between her legs and used his tongue.  She at
first tried to shake him off, but upon further consideration, decided
otherwise.

   Stanley's penis bounced against her neck, her nose, her jaw, but she
didn't employ her lips until well into her own finish.  Drying herself
afterwards, she felt sheepish, but Stanley seemed to think she'd done it
correctly and she wasn't in a position to disagree.  Nonetheless, it seemed
rather risqué for a school teacher, certainly not suitable under normal
circumstances.

   On the other hand, it was very fair.

   December 5, 1942

   Miss Elsie did her best to interest her students in a bit of Latin, the
genesis of so much English vocabulary.  She thought their extracurricular
activity might be called "visitati nocturni," but settled on explaining
such roots as "amo," "inter," and "nov."

   What?  thought Miss Elsie when Amos before entering her shelter shook
himself like a wet dog.  As his subsequent performance went well, however,
she supposed that maybe this was akin to how some spelling bee participants
rid themselves of errant thoughts before approaching the podium.

   December 6, 1942

   Resolved: English should become the world language?  A debate.  It
earlier seemed that the proposition might be true, but not recently.  Miss
Elsie couldn't see everyone learning Japanese, but perhaps German.
That night TJ -- the protector order appeared to be repeating -- mumbled

that perhaps she'd like a night alone.

   "But we could watch the stars for a while," she suggested, leading the
lad to where a fallen coconut trunk made a suitable seat.  "The Southern
Cross," the only constellation of which she was certain, though she knew
another contained a belt.

   As TJ peered skyward, his teacher shed her housecoat.  "This over us
will be warmer"

   "Okay."

   "Was that a shooting star?" distracting him as she reached behind to
unhook her brassiere.

   The two speculated on a few formations until Miss Elsie asked, "You've
never done it, right?" subject unstated.

   She could tell her directness caught him off guard, but after a moment
he answered, "Sort of not."

   "That's good, to keep yourself that way." Back home, a troop of Scouts
would all be virgins.  They take some sort of oath, she'd heard.  Not out
here in the Pacific, though, where boys have more opportunities.

   "Yeah."

   "It's tougher when there's a war, though."

   "I guess."

   "Want me to let on that we did it, you know, tomorrow, for the others?"

   TJ looked relieved.

   "But part of you wants to, right?" she pursued.  "It's voluntary."

   He didn't respond.

   "That's why you unbuttoned me last time."

   "I wasn't...  You were awake?"

   "I didn't mind," she assured.

   "Oh."

   The two sat together, watching the sky.

   "A week ago, I was new at this, too," her softer side.

   "I know."

   It bothered her that everyone probably knew everything, but then again,
maybe such knowledge bound the group together.  There's a purpose to
things, she supposed.  She'd never have made love had they not been
marooned.

   She spread her housecoat on the sand.  Not that they couldn't remain on
the trunk, but the first time shouldn't involve balancing.  "Want to get on
it?  We can see better."

   "Okay."

   After a few moments, she was done with looking upward.  "Come closer. 
It's cold."

   "Okay," moving to where their shoulders touched.

   "TJ?"

   "Huh?"

   "We could get captured tomorrow," resolutely gazing at the heavens.

   "I guess."

   "Wouldn't you rather have done it?"

   No answer.

   After a moment or two, "Maybe we can kiss again?" in what she hoped
sounded a casual manner.

   He took so long to reach within her slip, but maybe, she wondered, he
didn't know her brassiere was already loosened.  This wasn't the boy who
last time came crying, but then again, he still wasn't certain.

   "Mmm," confirming when he found her nipple.

   "We're both sort of interested, right?" her thigh pursuing his
excitement.

   It would have been easy enough to push down his pants, but teaching's
not about imposition.  Virginity should be given, not taken.

   He slid away, but not so far that Elsie couldn't undo his belt, remove
his shorts and underpants.  For his sake, she tried not to look.

   Her slip, then brassiere, then panties, she removed herself.  Had he
ever seen a naked woman?

   Surely most of her boys had had sex with island girls.  Why wouldn't
they?  Bold ones like Jess did it with girls in their class.  Boys like TJ,
though, should begin with someone who's older.

   She could tell he wasn't quite decided by how he'd at times scoot away.
Not too far, but enough to defuse what Elsie had in mind.  At last she got
frustrated -- not a good way to teach, she knew, but what teacher doesn't
become impatient at times?  -- and dragged him back to the center of
housecoat where she could use her weight to still him.

   "Don't!" a bit more emphatically than she'd anticipated.

   "Don't what?" her thigh firmly on his penis.

   "You're..."

   "I'm just getting comfortable."

   "Yeah, but..."

   "Plus I'm scared.  It's better when we're close."

   "You're scared?"

   "You got a sister?"

   "No."

   "Well if you did and she got scared, you'd protect her, right?"
realizing that now she could lift some of her weight and slide her leg side
to side.

   "I guess."

   "She'd let you touch her."

   "You think so?" sounding a little surprised at the thought.

   "Trust me," and then, "We won't do anything," and then, "We can stop
part way."

   "How far?" suggesting he'd been thinking rather specifically.

   "You can decide." This whole discussion seemed so familiar.

   "It's just that I'm not, you know..."

   "Doesn't matter," Elsie assured.  "We're just getting comfortable.  How
'bout you on top?" the teacher part of her, "so we touch," letting him
ferret out where.

   "I don't think..." TJ again tried, but far too tardy to change the
outcome.

   TJ's tutoring required nothing overlooked in Miss Elsie's lesson plan.

   Step / Result

   1.  Preparation / Erection

   2.  Placement / Insertion

   3.  Action / Reciprocation

   4.  Conclusion / Orgasm

   "Just part way in for starts," wiggling her hips to mold her housecoat
into the sand below.

   "What if I go too far?"

   "We can change our minds."

   The surf pounded on the reef, but she heard only the thud-thud-thud of
thrusting thighs.  The breeze rustled the palms as she relished her wet
reward.

   "Now you won't have to fib," she noted after a pleased TJ at last
slipped free.

   Oh my!  she told herself later.  He was in her for maybe a minute.  His
liquid, maybe a few hours.  But she'll be in his head forever!  She hoped
he'd also remember the stars, the housecoat on the sand, the surf, the
breeze.

   December 7, 1942

   Today was poetry.

   The breeze so fresh, the sand so white,

   The jungle green, the sun so bright.

   The moon so full, the palms so tall,

   The sea so blue, the seabirds' call.

   The war we'll win with all our might.

   We stand as one, we do what's right.

   We have no doubt, we have no fear,

   We salute Miss Elsie, our teacher dear.

   by Stanley J.  Ellis

   He'd even used the apostrophe correctly, Miss Elsie noted with academic
satisfaction.  So many students have trouble with it.  Stanley's employment
of course assumed he'd intended more than one seabird, but she hoped that
was the case.  But then again, perhaps he'd used "call" as a verb, which
would make it grievously in error.  Better to give him credit for oral sex
and not ask about punctuation.

   In the sequence of nighttime protection, tonight was Richard who this
time bared not just his teacher's breasts.

   "I get to screw you, right?" the jut of his underpants speaking of
immediacy.

   "Richard!" It wasn't his blunt instrument that alarmed her, but she'd
not permit vulgarities.

   "But they said..."

   "We call it making love," reaching to unhook the elastic from where it
had snagged.

   When Richard mounted Miss Elsie, this time both sans underpants, he took
his time -- why hasten when the girl's not asleep?  she agreed -- and
afterwards she pictured the little wigglies with long tails enjoying their
chance to freestyle.

   December 8, 1942

   Each day the housecoat -- frayed as it was becoming, but yet the cloak
of authority -- was rebuttoned and chores, food gathering, sports and
school passed the hours.

   Today's lesson: favorite lines from Shakespeare.  Not that Miss Elsie
was an expert, but she knew enough to impress the boys.

   Double, double toil and trouble;

   Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

   Fillet of a fenny snake,

   In the caldron boil and bake;

   Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

   Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,

   Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,

   Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,

   For a charm of powerful trouble,

   Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

   The boys voted that Macbeth was okay.

   In passing the boys' bathing place, Miss Elsie would see flashes of
nudity, but an outside observer -- which of course there wasn't -- wouldn't
have guessed that she knew each boy much better.  The pool upstream was for
her alone and if the boys spied, they did so silently.  It would be silly
for them to bother, she figured, but just in case, she kept on her panties.

   The pool was where she sponged the stains from her housecoat.  Her
brassiere, however, required more drying and on the days she washed it, she
knew the boys tracked the sway of their teacher's breasts.  Also silly, she
thought, as each boy knew so much more.  Nevertheless, she tried to remain
seated while she lectured.

   Or maybe their interest wasn't silly at all, she allowed.  Daytime was
the time for her to be teacher and every teacher knows that boys are
titillated by inaccessibility.

   Each night the housecoat was unbuttoned, and on the fronds, each boy was
different.  A spectrum.  What must it be like when you're married and every
night's alike, she wondered?

   Tonight was Tom, Miss Elsie's first and only masturbator.

   "So tell me about your sister."

   "Gwen?  She's married and has a kid."

   "So you're an uncle!"

   "In her hubbie's eyes, anyway," with a grin.

   Oh my, thought Elsie.  This Gwen must be a rather close sibling!

   Tom again used his finger on his English teacher, but this time finished
with his penis.

   Thirteen nights as castaways.  The first, cold and wet.  Three yet
virginal.  And now nine of midnight milk intermingling with midnight
moisture.

   Oh my!  thought Elsie.  Nine!  Every boy to whom I teach grammar!  Every
boy to whom I teach composition!

   December 9, 1942

   Elsie didn't know if her boys thought that class attendance was a
requirement for "protecting" her -- maybe not the correct term, but one
that seemed understood -- but as attendance was 100 percent, she saw no
need to rule.  Or to put it the other way, did intercourse foster their
interest in language?  Now class, what's the climax of The Scarlet Letter?
for example.  Though she saw no correlation between aptitudes, given how
often novelists allude to lovemaking, there must be a connection.

   Today's lesson dealt with similes and metaphors.  The boys already
understood the latter, Miss Elsie realized, based on their use of "eel,"
but she hardly wanted to cite that example.  Instead, she used, "Japan's a
sinking ship."

   Afterwards the boys played dodge ball with a husked coconut.  She
thought it a bit dangerous, but no one was injured.  I need a
more-consistent lesson plan, she recognized, but there just aren't the
resources.

   This evening would be Jess's return, a pleasing thought.  Miss Elsie
looked forward to being a better partner, one more on top of things, so to
speak.

   We're rather like Wendy and the lost boys, she deemed, doing our best as
we hope for Peter Pan.  Wendy's boys, however, were younger.

   But instead, Peter Pan arrived that evening as a PT boat.

   Elsie, who'd been smoothing her bed when the Yanks arrived, retrieved
her girdle from where she'd stashed it, affixed her brassiere, cinched her
housecoat and reported that all hands were accounted for.

   "Job well done, ma'am," saluted the skipper who seemed younger than some
of her boys.

   "Just doing my duty, same as you," not knowing if she should salute
back. As he wore a ring, Elsie didn't bother to remember his name.

   "Couldn't have made it without my men, though," acknowledging her crew
for services not related to food and shelter.  "Protection services," she'd
have called it.

   The officer glanced at their shelters.  "Not where you'd want to spend
Christmas, though."

   No, she'd not want to spend Christmas, but that wasn't to say she'd not
look back at the place without mixed feelings.  She hoped he'd not caught
that hers was the only shelter with bed enough for two.

   "She made us have school every day" the boys' case that the time should
count against the interrupted scholastic year.

   "Sounds reasonable to me," the officer obviously not a head master.

   They made me have sex every night, Elsie didn't counter, because

   (1) They didn't make her do anything,

   (2) They didn't get there until the fourth evening, and

   (3) What if the officer didn't think every night sounded reasonable?

   "I was second in command," supplied Jess.

   "Fine work, son," the officer apparently not in need of an assistant
commander.

   Thank heavens Jess didn't identify himself as my first mate, thought
Elsie, though their rescuer probably wouldn't have caught it.

   The boys presented their plan to fortify the island with a revolving
howitzer, which the officer promised to pass up the chain of command. 
"It's the Old Man who decides these things, of course."

   The boys were pleased that their scheme would get such esteemed
attention, though Miss Elsie doubted that they knew who the elder actually
was.  She didn't, anyway.

   "I think it best, sir," she informed the PT man, "that one of my men and
I police our outposts for anything that might be of use to the enemy."

   "Excellent idea, ma'am."

   "My sergeant will give me a hand.  The others can show you a few of our
camp improvements for your report."

   "Excellent.  Excellent.  We'll start with the latrines."

   She hoped the boys would know to keep him far from the place by the
stream with the soft sand.  As she'd lost some weight, her girdle now
slipped off and on rather easily, so that wouldn't slow things down.

   "Come along, sergeant.  We'll need to be snappy."

   "I'd suggest we start with the sandy outpost where we watch for enemy
aviation."

   "My idea exactly, sergeant."

   For their female passenger, the crew scavenged up a pair of bellbottoms
and a yeoman's smock.  Miss Elsie had never ridden a PT, which she thought
frightfully fast.  Most of the boys were too seasick to watch the wake.

   Her housecoat, frayed, faded and stained by what wouldn't rinse away,
Miss Elsie tossed into the Pacific.

   EPILOGUE (by Jenny Wanshel)

   New York City, Christmas Eve, 1942

   The Angel of Death and the Spirit of Christmas stood on the observation
deck of a high building looking out over the world.

   "Look at them out there, slaughtering each other," said the Angel of
Death.

   "They still want to live, for all that," the Spirit of Christmas said.

   "Bah.  More cannon fodder for the Fatherland.  What about that woman who
gave herself to all the boys?

   "Look at her now, on the ship taking her and the boys to Australia.  See
her there?  She's terrified that everyone on the ship will soon know her
disgrace.  She's missed a period and she's fearful that she's pregnant, and
there is no way of telling which one of the boys is the father.  If what
happened on the island ever becomes known, she may go to prison, and if she
is pregnant, she is doomed to the hard life of an unwed mother.  How will
she tell her parents?  What man will ever want to marry her?

   "Look!  She's contemplating killing herself.  All she would have to do
is throw herself over the rail of the ship and it will all be over in a few
minutes.

   "She's made her choice.  She's going to do it!  She's climbing up onto
the rail!  She's going to kill herself!"

   "I must go now, to her side," the Angel of Death spoke.

   "Wait!  Stop!  Look what's happening now!"

   John Abelson, ship's purser, had been trying to get up his nerve to
speak to the young woman ever since she came on board.

   She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen.

   Now was his chance.

   "Hey there," he said, running up to her side.  "Don't lean over the side
like that.  You might fall off!"

   Her face was flushed and her eyes were wild.

   "Oh, how stupid of me," she said.

   He brushed a few stray wisps of hair out of her face.

   "This wind out here on the deck -- it's ruining your hair.  Why don't
you come inside with me?"

   "No thanks -- I think I'll stay outside on the deck by myself for a
while.  I've got something to think about."

   Something raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck as she sensed an
unseen presence at her side.  The unseen presence seemed to be urging her
to get rid of the young man.  Something tugged at her thoughts.  She needed
to be alone to get a better look at the unseen figure beside her.  She
could almost see it, out of the corner of her eye.

   "It's Christmas Eve," he said.  "We're having a party in the mess.  Come
join me, won't you?  We have a gramophone and we'll put on some dance
records.  There's eggnog, and maybe a glass of champagne."

   Eggnog!  She hadn't had eggnog in years.  After the plain, repetitive
diet they had had on the island it sounded deliciously tempting.

   She could taste it already.

   "Only if you promise to dance with me," she said.

   He was actually a very nice young man.  She could definitely go for him,
she thought.

   He took her arm and they went inside.

   THE END

   Holly on the Web

   Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My
problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As
literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that
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   Holly