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From: "David Shaw" <shaw_david@hotmail.com>
Subject: REPEAT POST - "A YANK IN THE OUTHOUSE" (M/FF; F/VOYEUR)
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RP - "A YANK IN THE OUTHOUSE" (M/FF;  F/VOYEUR)

By

David Shaw <shaw_david@hotmail.com>

(THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR THE ENJOYMENT OF ADULTS ONLY)

I've received many requests lately to e-mail stories to people who
have been unable to recover the full text. The easiest thing to do is
to go the deja news power search site at
www.dejanews.com/home_ps.shtml.  In the forum box enter
"alt.sex.stories.moderated". Then in the author's box enter my
complete e-mail address. This will take you to all my stories that
have been posted. Each story is divided into segments. Pick any
segment, then click on "get all segments". That should give you each
story in one complete text. Of course this works for all authors 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

	It's odd to be sitting here in the Florida sunshine as a great
grandmother and to remember that I never even met my first American
until I was almost eighteen. That was when the big war was being
fought in Europe. I'm an old, old lady now but I still remember that
windy April afternoon when I ran an errand to Mill Cottage and
everything that happened to me there.  

	My home was in a small rural village in England and I was
waiting to be drafted by the government for work in a munitions
factory. It was something I was looking forward to because most of the
factories were in the cities, and I'd never been to a city. My father
was a farm laborer who'd spent his entire life in our village. The
only break in his dawn to dusk chores was when he acted as warden in
the village church every Sunday. Perhaps it was because he was such a
well respected member of the Vicar's flock that I became a Sunday
School teacher. Not that I minded, as there was very litle else to do
while I waited to be called up. There were no more dances, no more
church socials, no outings, not with all the young men away fighting
Hitler and all the older people working twice as hard to keep things
going. The village had become a stagnant little backwater in the river
of life and now even my girl friends were packing their bags and being
sent off to make tanks and shells.

	I sometimes wonder how long it would have taken me to wake up
to real life if I hadn't run that errand for the Vicar. Anyway, I did,
and Mill Cottage turned out to be an instant education by courtesy of
our American allies and a pair of English courtesans. And all because
the Vicar wanted to ingratiate himself with Mrs Harrington by sending
her a bottle of  home made dandelion wine! 
	Mrs Harrington wasn't a villager at all, nor her friend who
lived with her, Mrs Walsh. They were a couple of snobby upper class
London wives who'd only moved to the countryside  to escape the blitz.
They were far richer and more sophisticated than any of us, they wore
fancy clothes, their children were in private boarding schools and
their husbands were stockbrokers or something. Whatever they did for a
living, Mr Harrington and Mr Walsh only came down about once a month
to visit their wives. I think perhaps they were enjoying the war a lot
more without their company. Mrs Harrington and Mrs Walsh, on the other
hand, were clearly pining for London and were only kept away by fear
of the bombing. Which all seemed like good reasons to me why they
didn't deserve anything as a gift, not even a bottle of dandelion
wine. Another good reason was that I was the one who was going to have
to pedal out with it to their home at Mill Cottage, three miles away
from the village.

	Transport was always a problem in the war. Very few people
owned cars, and in any case civilian fuel supplies were so tightly
rationed there was none to spare except for the most necessary
journeys, so anybody with a bicycle and a pair of strong young legs
was always being asked to run errands. Mostly I didn't mind, but I
knew just as well as the Vicar that the only reason he was asking me
to run this errand was to curry favour with our local ladies of
substance. Perhaps he was hoping there might be a handsome
subscription from them eventually for his church restoration fund.
Yet, young and naiveas I was, I didn't think he had much chance of
getting any cash from either of those two, no matter what the length
of their purses. Not that I knew anymore about them than the local
gossip, though there was plenty of that.

	In a village as small as mine a couple of women living on
their own caused a lot of loose talk, most of it nonsense, I thought.
They were good looking women though, that was true enough. Mrs
Harrington had brilliant red hair  cut very short in what was called
then a pageboy bob. She was tall and athletic and apparently played
tennis rather well. The dashing air of self confidence in the way she
walked around the village always had the men looking after her
swishing skirt and the long legs underneath it. As for Mrs Walsh, she
was shorter and plumper, with a well developed bosom and an unusual
combination of dark skin and violet eyes. Both of them dressed like
models, even in wartime, right down to nylon stockings, an almost
unheard of luxury then.  Perhaps there was some truth in those rumours
about fancy cars belonging to black market crooks being seen parked
near the cottage.

	Which was really why I decided to deliver that lousy bottle of
wine. Because I was curious about whether anything out of the ordinary
did go on at Mill Cottage. Not that I was likely to be any the wiser
after I'd been there of course, but at least it was an excuse to go
and knock on the door. The back door, of course. I knew the ladies
wouldn't want a farm laborer's daughter knocking on their front door
as if I was  their social equal.

	Having decided to do the job, I found myself heading out of
the village on a blowy April afternoon with tree branches flouncing
around in a cold wind which was blowing straight into my face.  By the
time I got to Mill Cottage I was so fed up with the whole stupid
business that I just wanted to turn around and get an easy ride home
before the wind changed direction. I wheeled my bike down the small
gravel drive at the side of the cottage and then stopped in surprise
at what I saw.

	Parked up behind the cottage, completely out of sight of the
road, was a small car quite unlike anything I'd ever seen before. It
was square at the front and back,  painted olive green, with a raised
canvas hood and a long radio aerial sticking up at the back. Obviously
it was a military vehicle of some kind. There were white stars on the
sides and I realised it must belong to the American army. Apart from
anything else the steering wheel was on the wrong side. Then I
remembered a picture I'd seen in the newspaper, with General
Montgomery riding in something that looked like this. A joop, or a
jeep, or something like that was what it had been called. I didn't
know anything about American cars. In fact I didn't know anything at
all about Americans, except from what I'd seen on the films and
newsreels at the cinema. All I'd ever seen of them in real life were a
lot of  big planes flying overhead with these same white star badges
on the wings. 

	Of course I was very curious about what the joop was doing at
Mill Cottage. A large metal box with yellow lettering and numbers on
it was wedged in between the two front seats. I thought perhaps it
might contain bullets, which seemed even more likely when I saw that
the lid was closed with a padlock. Then I took a second look and
realised that the hasp was hanging free. Anybody who wanted to could
lift up the lid and look inside the box. 

	There was nobody in the back yard, nobody at the closed back
door, no flutter of movement at any of the cottage's curtains. All
that was needed was for me to lean inside and flick open the top of
the box, and if anybody came out I could say I was just curious to see
the inside of the joop. So I leaned in and opened the lid, to find
that what I was prying into was a treasure chest of off-the-ration
luxuries.There were packets and packets of cigarettes with strange
brand names in strange soft packets. There were bars of chocolate,
there were jars of coffee, there were the protruding necks of four
bottles. I  lifted one of them out far enough to read the label -
genuine Haig whiskey! So much for the Vicar's dandelion wine as a home
front comfort. Yet the most impressive thing of all to me were the
cellophane wrappings with nylon stockings in them. Now I knew how Mrs
Harrington and Mrs Walsh were able to wear real nylons whilst the rest
of us had to make do with seams painted on the backs of our legs! And
perhaps the three boxes of contraceptive sheaths mixed in amongst all
these luxury goods supplied a clue as to why they were getting such
treats.

	Of course, even in my remote little village, we'd heard
stories about how US serviceman were incredibly rich, with access to
all kinds of fancy supplies, and how successful they'd been in
spreading them out amongst the looser sort of girls in return for...
well, in return. But this was the home of two respectable married
women. It couldn't be that they were playing fast and loose with the
Yanks, surely? 

	And just as I was turning that question over in my mind I
heard a woman laugh from somewhere nearby. Bewildered, I looked around
and realised that the sound  come from the washhouse on the other side
of the small yard. Smoke was fluttering out of the chimney, which
suddenly seemed very odd, because I knew that Mrs Harrington and Mrs
Walsh had a woman come in on every Monday to do their washing and that
day wasn't a Monday.

	This is were I have to give everybody a little bit of an
history lesson in how domestic chores were done in the old days.
Before electricity and washing machines came along the usual thing in
most English houses was to do the laundry in a 'copper'. A copper was
a very large circular sink - made of copper coated metal - big enough
to hold a week's houshold laundry together with several gallons of
water. Coppers were usually built into the top of a large square brick
fireplace about waist height. Except in the larger houses it was
always put into an outside building, with a hand operated water pump
next to it. The housewife's job was to keep working the handle on the
pump to fill the copper up with water, with occasional breaks to tend
to the fire underneath it, until the copper was half full and the
water as hot as possible. Then the dirty laundry went in and the whole
lot was stirred around many times until it was considered washed.
Afterwards it was taken out, the copper refilled with fresh water and
all the clothes were rinsed. And after that - well, I'll tell you
about those arrangements by and by. Anyway, the one thing you didn't
usually hear in a washouse was anybody laughing - there was too much
hard work done in them for that. So I found it hard to believe our two
high society ladies could be doing their own laundry, and even harder
to believe they could be enjoying it.

	The wash house door was closed. Of course, normally, if I'd
have just opened it and walked in, because it wasn't like going into a
house uninvited. Most wash houses were usually shared by several
houses anyway. This time though I could justify it to myself to be
rather cautious, as Mill Cottage already seemed to have a guest, or
guests. I was therefore perfectly entitled to take a cautious peek
through one of the wash house windows before I disturbed anybody. At
least that was what I told myself as I sought a way to satisfy my
burning curiousity about what was going on in the place.  So I walked
around the small building until I found a small window misted up on
the inside. So misted up that it was impossible to see through. 

	It was an infuriating situation because it was clearly the
only window in the wash house and it was ideally situated, on the far
side from the cottage and facing a high hedgerow at the back of the
cottage garden. Nobody could see me standing there, but I couldn't see
anything either. If it had been an ordinary sort of window the
situation would have stayed like that. Only it wasn't an ordinary sort
of window, it was one of the old fashioned type made of lots of small
diamond shaped panes of glass set in lead strips. Old fashioned and
flimsy, and one of the panes near the top of the window was missing.
If only I could just lift myself up a foot or so....

	Looking around, I saw several old bricks at the bottom of the
wall, stacked together and almost completely hidden from sight by
overgrowing grass and nettles. I plucked out three of the bricks,
carefully, but still got stung on the wrist by a nettle in my hurry.
With the bricks put back on top of each other and with my right foot
resting on the top one I was able to lift myself up high enough to put
my eye to the gap in the window.

	The brickwork around the copper and the metal chimney pipe at
the back of it were set in the very middle of the wash house. A steady
fire was burning in the grate underneath the copper, with a gently
rising cloud of steam above it, and a considerable pile of firewood
still waiting to be used. There was a table, a plain old wooden table,
near to the fireplace. On the table was a naked man.

	Well, naked except for a green towel draped over his bottom as
he lay on his stomach on top of the table. On top of the table and on
top of some more towels which had been spread across it like table
clothes. His hands were resting near his head, the bent arms showing
great bulges of muscle on the upper biceps.  His face was turned away
from me but it was easy to see that he was a young fellow in the prime
of life and physical condition, at least six feet tall, and heavily
tanned from the sun in a very un-English way. Another alien thing was
the way his dark black hair had been cut right down almost to his
skull, top and sides.

	If I was astonished by the sight of the American, as he must
be I supposed, I was even more astonished at seeing a woman leaning
over him, rubbing her palms over his shoulders and neck muscles. It
was Mrs Harrington, smiling as I'd never seen her smile before, Mrs
Harrington wearing a short white tennis skirt and a matching white
shirt, so damp it seemed to be sticking to her like a second skin. In
fact it was obvious she had nothing on underneath the shirt at all!

	This was like something the Vicar often preached about in
church, about Soddom and Gomorah and all the world's wickedness. And
here in his own parish, a married woman indecently dressed was putting
her hands on another man! Yet if I was shocked I was fascinated by the
scene, scarcely daring to breathe. Even better was to come though,
because Mrs Walsh came around the copper carrying a tray in her hands,
a rectangular wooden tray with one small drinking glass on it.
Incredibly, she was wearing a normal sort of blue dress, but pinned up
with a fringe of clothes pegs almost to the top of her bare legs. The
upper part of the dress was unbuttoned and looked as if had recently
been splashed with water. 

	The next thing that happened, astonishingly, was the sight of
Mrs Walsh getting down on both her knees at the head of the table and
holding the tray up to the man as if she was acting the role of a
slave girl! He laughed and said something to Mrs Walsh I couldn't
catch, but she stood up again. In response he raised his other hand
and my eyes bulged when I saw the huge shiny pistol in it. I'd never
seen one before in my life except in gangster films! The Yank pointed
the pistol at Mrs Walsh and she stood still. Then he said something
else and Mrs Harrington took her hands off his shoulders and walked
around behind Mrs Walsh. Then, and not believing it possible, I saw
her reach around in front of her friend and peel off the wet material
of the blue dress to display Mrs Walsh's naked breasts! And Mrs Walsh
held the tray underneath her big dusky white pillows and gently lifted
them up on it with the glass carefully balanced between the mounds of
flesh.  She was watching the American as if unsure of his reactions.
Then she slowly knelt down in front of him again, being very careful
not to spill the glass. Without any hurry at all he put down the gun
on the table, reached out with his thumbs and forefingers and brazenly
tweaked both of Mrs Walsh's bared nipples jutting out over the edge of
the tray!

	Her hands were trembling.  I knew they were because the tray
was, and I knew the tray was trembling because both of the large
breasts piled up on top of it were quivering like newly set jellies.
Mrs Walsh was staring down at her own vibrations and at the fingers
playing on her with a kind of pursed mouthed concentration, apparently
determined on keeping the glass from spilling over. As for Mrs
Harrington she leaned forward over her friend and squeezed the Yank's
biceps as if to encourage him. Then I saw her bend forward a little
closer as though he was telling her to do something. She nodded,
smiled again, reached down with an extended finger between her
companion's breasts and apparently dipped it into the glass. Then the
Yank released his grip on Mrs Walsh and Mrs Harrington immediately
applied her long fingernail to the very same places, apparently
smearing each of her friend's nipples with a drop of liquid from the
glass!

	Talk about exciting! I was watching all this in complete
disbelief. I saw Mrs Walsh wriggle further forward on her knees and
lift the tray higher towards the Yank's face. He had the pistol in his
hand again and pointed it down towards her legs. Then he leaned
forward and started to lick on each of the nipples in turn as Mrs
Walsh apparently struggled to keep the tray level, struggling even
more as the man slid further forward yet on the table and took a
mouthful of her right tit into his opened mouth.  The tray began
quivering again and Mrs Walsh surprised me by suddenly laughing out
aloud in the same way as I had first heard outside. 

	My impression was that the pistol wasn't a real threat, more a
kind of symbol of power. Neither of the women seemed to be in real
fear, I was sure of that. They were playing out roles which they were
willing to do and the gun was there as a kind of  stage prop.
Whatever was going on there was no doubt that both of them seemed
totally unabashed in doing whatever the Yank wanted them to. It also
seemed just as certain that one or both of them were soon going to get
treated in the same way as married women were treated all the time. I
certainly hoped so because I really wanted to watch that! I was also
hoping that it wouldn't be long before it happened because my eye was
watering already with squinting through the small hole and my right
ankle was aching from balancing awkwardly on the bricks. Still, it was
well worth it because now Mrs Walsh had put down the tray and was
holding each of her nipples in turn up to the Yank's mouth, dribbling
a few drops from the glass onto herself each time, apparently as a way
of encouraging him to keep on sucking both of the vivid pink tips.

	It was simply so obvious how excited she was, obvious not only
because her teats were sticking out like chapel hatpegs, but by the
way she was offering them up to him with an almost abject eagerness to
please, as if she was a puppy lying on her back surrendering to the
authority of the pack leader. When I remembered how the pair of them
strutted around the village with their noses in the air - well, I
would have given a fortune to have some kind of  a magic crystal ball
or television set at home which would show this scene over and over
again. Not that I'd ever seen a television set, of course, but I had
once met a man who said he'd watched one in London before the war.

	Soon there was something better to see than any television.
Mrs Harrington went back to the side of the table, where she had been
before, on the opposite side of it to the window I was looking
through. She calmly reached down and pulled the towel off the man's
bottom. As she was neatly folding it I stared at the sight, the paler
rounds of flesh in the middle of the long stretches of well tanned
skin. Then she put her hands on each of the taut buttocks and stroked
them with her palms, just as she had done to his shoulders. The Yank
stirred and moved around, then apparently lost interest in Mrs Walsh's
bosom, glancing back and lifting his bottom up an inch or so off the
table. The reason why was probably because Mrs Harrington's right hand
had slid out of sight, down between the top of the legs, and the only
place those long fingernails could be now was around his balls. It was
like getting a bull aroused for a tupping session with a cow. 

	Mrs Walsh got up and walked around table on my side, blocking
my view of what was happening but apparently helping her friend in her
work. Mrs Harrington stepped back and undid the buttons at the top of
her tennis shirt, reached down to the bottom of the shirt and began to
pull it up over her head. After eventually managing to wriggle it over
her close cut red hair she dropped it on the floor, revealing exactly
what I expected to see: nothing but bare skin. Her breasts were
smaller and firmer than Mrs Walsh's were, and she winked and smiled at
her friend and ran her hands over herself before she stepped up to the
table again. Her nipples were browner and larger in proportion to the
other woman's but equally as taut.

	Then I saw the American's face for the clearly for the first
time as he rolled over on his back. He was very good looking, with a
strong chin and a straight nose, like the cowboys we saw in Hollywood
films at the cinema.  Or perhaps I was put in that way of mind by the
pistol he was still holding. Mrs Harrington looked at his face, then
down at what was in front of her and then back at the man as if she
had some great satisfaction in what she was seeing. I couldn't see
much myself because Mrs Walsh was in my way, but it seemed as if  they
were both playing with him together, which surely, I thought, there
couldn't be room for. Mrs Harrington moved sideways a step or so,
leaned forward over the American, rested her hands on the other side
of the table and began rubbing herself over him with her breasts
swelling up underneath her as she  dragged them to and fro against the
mat of curly black hair on his powerful chest. She seemed to be
enjoying the feeling. He laughed and put his free hand round behind
her, up underneath her short tennis skirt, bunching up the pleats
around his wrist as he took his chance. Mrs Harrington moaned loud
enough for me to hear as she wriggled her bottom around under the
man's touch. His other hand and the pistol in it was still pointing
towards Mrs Walsh.

	She moved around to the end of the table and I gaped at what I
could see now, the jutting length of maleness that stood up proudly
from the American's loins. Without the slightest hesitation Mrs
Harrington reached out to her side and stroked his length from top to
bottom, from tip to balls, as calmly as if  she was polishing a church
candlestick - which was about the length and size of  it as well.  It
didn't seem necessary to threaten the women with a pistol when he
could point something like that at them. Mrs Harrington certainly
seemed to be fascinated by it and in watching her companion lean
forward between his legs, further and further forward until her face
was between his thighs. And then Mrs Walsh put out her tongue and
lapped at the side of the rampant horn nearest to her. 

	Mrs Harrington giggled at the sight, still clutching the top
of the Yank's cock. Then she slid further up his body and lowered her
head to kiss him full on the lips as he kept on fondling her amongst
the folds of the rucked up tennis skirt. After that she moved back
again in the other direction, her tongue running over his body hair,
until she was face to face with her friend. Mrs Walsh was still
licking the Yank's cock and both of their tongues met as if by
appointment on the very tip of his straining flesh.

	As for me, by this stage you could have dropped a bomb nearby
and I wouldn't have noticed it.  Our two most stuck up ladies, our
local snobs, bellies down over a Yank soldier doing things I'd heard
of but hardly believed possible. Both of them playing the same pink
piccolo at the same time and to the same tune! But who would ever
believe me if I told them? Oh, this was going to be good!

	It was. First of all Mrs Harrington went to the side of the
copper and picked up a small packet she tore open with her teeth. As
she came back she took out what was inside it and put on the tip of
his policeman's helmet. With a lot of laughing the two respectable
married ladies helped each other unroll the rubber sheath down over
the American's rearing flesh, stretching the rubber so tightly it
glinted in the faint light from the open fireplace. It was obvious
from the way that the man  was rubbing himself up and down against
their hands that there was a pressure bursting up inside him he
urgently needed to relieve. 

	As soon as they'd finished the Yank jumped up off the table
and bent Mrs Harrington over the top of it, pushing her skirt up
around her waist to show she was wearing no more underneath it than
she had been under her shirt. Then he seized her waist belt in one
hand like the reins of a horse and held her in front of him for a
moment whilst Mrs Walsh reached down between the two of them,
apparently positioning him for the first lunge forward into her
friend. Mrs Harrington screeched like a scalded cat and then much
louder again as the Yank jerked her against him, wedging her on that
massive piston and beginning to pound it into her like the driving rod
on a steam locomotive. Now he was on his feet I could see he was a
giant of a man, as wide across the shoulder as the village well, with
cords of muscle on him like a blacksmith. With one hand he was jerking
the tall and strongly built Mrs Harrington like a puppet backwards and
forwards along his long inches as she clutched the edge of the table
and squealed with approval. His other hand, still holding the gun,
pushed Mrs Walsh in the back towards the table. She clambered
awkwardly onto it and stood up, stepped over the top of her friend
with her back towards the Yank. Again, he put his gun down, to have
both hands free to pull her skirt up. As soon as Mrs Walsh's bottom
was fully exposed she knelt down on top of her friend, her fat round
buttocks pinning Mrs Harrington to the table top, her hands resting on
the other woman's shoulders as if to make sure she couldn't move.

	The American reached around Mrs Walsh with his huge hands and
seized both of the plump breasts that hung down as if they were ripe
fruit ready for harvesting. She seemed to enjoy that well enough, but
I could see what she couldn't, Mrs Harrington's petulant expression at
being held still and suddenly deprived of the Yank's full attention.
She twisted her head around to the left and then to her right, calling
him to keep on fucking her. Yes, that was the word she actually used,
loud enough for me to hear her, and with her supposed to be middle
class and posh. The Yank grinned in great good humour, suddenly
looking like a schoolboy stealing a slice of cake, and then answered
her begging  with several thrusting strokes so powerful that I was
sure the table was shoved forward an inch or so, even with all the
weight that was on it. Mrs Harrington made a lot of sounds something
akin to a goose honking.The man's right hand dropped down onto her
spine in front of Mrs Walsh, then slid back to the dark bush of hair
pressed on top of it. The fingers moved between the two women,
underneath Mrs Walsh and up into her. Her thigh muscles tensed and her
fingernails clutched at Mrs Harrington's shoulders as if she was
riding her like a jockey, though it was clear that the only riding Mrs
Harrington was concerned with was the one she was getting from the
Yank. And it was then, at that moment, that Mrs Walsh lifted up her
head, looked at me and shouted out in anger.

	It was one of these times that you can see what's going on in
somebody's mind without any need for words or even signs. She was
already gasping for breath, her face screwed up and ruddy cheeked as
she concentrated on her pleasures, and then she was staring at me and
trying to warn her partners in sin. The problem for her was that
neither of them were interested just then in anything she had to say.
As for me, I couldn't believe she'd been able spot my eye with
everything that had been happening to her. Only when I looked down at
the window did I realise what had happened. The fire had burnt down,
the water in the copper wasn't quite so hot and some of the mist on
the window had disappeared. Not much, but enough for me to see the
firelight through it - which must mean, I supposed, that the upper
part of my body was silhouetted against the daylight. Which was how
Mrs Walsh must have seen that somebody was watching them. The question
now was what to do next.

	There was total confusion in my mind about whether to run away
or apologise for being there. Then I realised that I was being a fool
for thinking that any sort of an apology would get me out of this
situation. The only thing to do was to get away as soon as possible.
But Mrs Walsh was a lot more quick witted than I was. She forced
herself up and back and looked down to where the Yank had put his
pistol on top of the table. She reached for it, picked it up and aimed
it directly at the window I was looking through.

	"Stay there!" I heard her shout. 

	The pistol was waving around a lot but her finger was on the
trigger and the barrel looked as big as a milk churn as it was aimed
straight at my eye. Until then I hadn't had the faintest idea of how
frightening it can be to have a gun of any kind aimed at you,
especially when you don't know if it's loaded or not. And especially
when you're in a situation where the person holding the gun might
really be angry enough to use it. So I did something I never thought
I'd have to do in my life, and held my hands up over my head like a
surrendering soldier. But in my shock at what was happening I'd
stepped down off the bricks and lost my viewpoint through the latched
window. I could hear through it though, a mingled bellow of male
triumph and a higher pitched shriek of absolute pleasure. It seemed as
if the Yank and Mrs Harrington both had reason to be satisfied with
their present position in life.

	I was much less sure about my own. Staring at the window pane
a few inches in front of my face I wondered whether I was still
visible through the misty glass from the other side. Perhaps I could
run off now, get on my bike and pedal like mad for home. On the other
hand maybe Mrs Walsh could see my outline against the daylight outside
and if she saw it moving she might pull that trigger. I was pretty
certain that the pistol wasn't loaded, and I was pretty sure that she
couldn't be crazy enough to try to kill me even if it was, but somehow
those two facts seemed to weigh very lightly against the deadly
reality of the weapon. Especially when it was in the hands of a highly
aroused woman still quivering with lust who certainly wasn't in her
normal state of mind.

	There was more to it though. If I stayed there it was certain
that I was going to meet the Yank. And even if I wasn't as smart or as
well to do as good wives Walsh and Harrington, I was younger than they
were and with just as good a figure as either of them. And to be
honest, I couldn't see that what they were doing for their luxuries
was so bad, especially not with a man who looked like that. I suppose
I was getting bored with being a dutiful bible imbiber and bored with
living within the rules of village life. Truth to tell I'd just seen
two women being treated like Chicago gangster's molls and I envied
them because it had been a mad moment without any rules at all except
those made by the rutting male animal. What could possibly happen
next?

	What did happen was that I suddenly found myself staring down
the barrel of the pistol again, only without a window between me and
it this time. And the reason for that was because the window had been
pushed open and the man was standing in the frame, aiming the pistol
straight at me.

	"Who are you then, honey?" he asked me. He spoke very slowly,
dragging the words out of his mouth as if he was pulling them out like
strips of toffee. There was a deeper tone in that huge chest than I'd
ever heard in anybody's voice.

	"Sarah Vandell - Sarah Vandell. I just came to deliver some
wine, that's all."

	"Oh God. It's that bloody Sunday School teacher," I heard Mrs
Harrington say sharply. I couldn't see her though, the Yank was
completely filling the window space with his body.

	"Wine?" He looked down at the bricks I'd piled up against the
wall underneath the window. "You sure seem to go to a lot of trouble
making your housecalls. Tell you what, young lady, why don't you just
step back up here where you where and tell us about yourself?"

	"Please stop pointing that gun at me," I protested. "It looks
dangerous."

	He grinned, again looking for a second like a small boy:
"Lady, in the army they always tell us that it's the unloaded gun
which kills people. This one is loaded and cocked and the safety catch
is off, so it can't possibly hurt you. Now just kindly come back where
you where and then I'll put the gun down."

	The wind seemed to be blowing even more strongly as I took a
pace forward and put my weight on the brick pile again. Now I was
looking directly into the Yank's face. Dark skin, hooded eyes, high
forehead, that convict style haircut, a glimpse of white teeth in
sardonically smiling lips, a strange smell of sweat and - perfume?
From Mrs Harrington or Mrs Walsh, or was it true what I'd heard, that
American men splashed scent on their face after they'd shaved?

	It wasn't something I had time to think about. He did get rid
of the pistol by passing it to one of the women and immediately
afterwards he put his hands underneath my armpits and lifted me off my
feet as if I was a little girl. It was a tremendous surprise because I
was never a lightweight, even as a teenager, big hipped and big
chested and taller than most. Even though the rationing and lots of
exercise kept my weight down I was hefty enough by any standards, and
to be just lifted up and through the window was something I'd not have
thought possible. If it hadn't been for the fact that I was wearing my
long bicycling skirt my knees would have been badly grazed on the
window sill.

	"Hi, honey, my name's Reuben. I guess you know Harriet and
Susan."

	Well, I didn't, not by their christian names, and I still
didn't know which one was which, nor did I care too much right then,
because I was still being held up in his crushingly powerful hands
with my toes just just touching the paving stones. Above everything
else I was acutely aware of the fact that I was about as close as I
could be to a completely naked man

	 "Ladies, I think it's time we turned the handle here".

	I didn't have a clue as to what he was talking about though it
was obvious from the smile on Mrs Harrington's face that she did. As
for Mrs Walsh, she moved as quickly as she could to the mangle
standing near to the copper. Perhaps I should explain that a mangle
was used to wring water out of the laundry after it had been rinsed in
the copper. It was a heavy cast iron upright frame and in the top of
the frame were two wooden rollers, each as thick as my arm, with the
wet laundry squeezed item by item between the rollers as they were
turned by a handle on a wheel...

	Yes, Mrs Walsh already had her hands on the crank handle. I
saw that before the Yank spun me round so the mangle was behind me.
Then I felt the back of my skirt being plucked up. Straining my neck
around, I saw that Mrs Harrington had lifted up the hem and was
feeding it between the rollers as her friend cranked the handle
around. The American laughed and let go of me as more and more of the
skirt was drawn up between the rollers and I was pulled backwards,
uselessly trying to hold down the hemline as it rose up and up my
legs. I suppose I must have protested, but nobody took any notice of
whatever I said, not until I was pinned back against the mangle with
most of my skirt hanging out the other side of it. What was left to me
was rucked up around my waist, so high up that I knew the bottoms of
my old fashioned bicycling briefs with the elasticated leg pieces must
be showing. The sneer on Mrs Harrison's still flushed face was proof
enough of that, let alone the grin on the Yank's face.

	"Honey, you sure do have one nice pair of legs, especially for
a Sunday School teacher."

	"Let me go, please."

	He picked up one of the towels off the table and tied it
around his waist, sat down on the top of the table and reached out his
hand to Mrs Harrington. She gave him the gun and he put it down next
to himself. Then she picked up the tray from the floor and put the
glass on it and went around to the other side of the copper. I could
see there was another table there, with clothes and a bottle on it.
Mrs Walsh remained where she was, holding onto the mangle handle and
breathing hard, giving me angry looks all the time.

	"And you sure haven't been short changed in the upperworks
either, Sarah. I thought Henrietta had just about as juicy a pair of
melons as there was around here but maybe yours are even an inch on
hers. Course, it's no sort of a fair contest to judge them until
you're both raw hided and roused up."

	I felt my face burning and my tongue completely tied.

	"Henrietta, why don't you put some more wood on the fire? This
is the only place I can get warm in a goddam country without any
central heating anywhere. Don't worry about our unexpected guest,
she's going noplace soon." 

	A couple of his fingers tapped lightly against the pistol and
Mrs Walsh - Henrietta? - went to the fire, making no effort at all to
cover herself up apart from tugging her skirt back down over her
bottom. Rolled up and pinned in folds as it was, it was hardly any
higher than mine and as she walked past the Yank he caught her right
breast in his oustretched hand and pulled her round to his lap,
putting his other hand underneath the folds of blue material.
Henrietta grunted as if she was a pig rooting through kitchen scraps
and twisted her hips against him in shameless response.  The Yank was
watching my face all the time he was playing with her.

	"See, I told you she wasn't going anyplace soon. She's too
interested in watching what I'm doing to you girls to want to leave."

	"You're wrong about that." I said as confidently as I could.
"I want to leave, so you'd let me go. And you can't get away with
threatening people with guns in this country. This isn't Chicago."

	"Honey, I would never have guessed that," he said
sarcastically.

	 Mrs Harrington came back with the tray. On it were three
glasses and a very expensive looking gold cigarette case. She took two
cigarettes out of it, put the filtertips in her mouth and lit them
with a lighter built into the case. I'd never seen such a fancy thing
before. She passed one of the smokes to the Yank who released
Henrietta as casually as he'd grabbed her to take the white tube of
paper from her hand. Mrs Walsh seemed unhappy about being discarded
for a mere cigarette and knelt down to begin shoving sticks into the
fire with unecessary force. The man and the woman still at the table
drank and smoked and stared at me, Reuben with lazy unbothered
interest, Susan Harrison with sharp eyed annoyance.

	"What are you doing here, Sarah?" she asked.

	"I don't have to answer your questions!" I answered with
defiance.

	Susan smiled coldly: "How would you like us to feed you
through that mangle the other way around - tits first?" 

	"I was just delivering a bottle of wine for the Vicar." I
answered quickly, my stomach feeling as if the wind had just been
knocked out of it. Henrietta snorted in disbelief from the fire. "It's
true - the bottle is in the saddlebag of my bike outside. But when I
got here I heard some noise from inside here and I just wondered,
well, what was going on...."

	"So you decided to spy on us and now you're going to go back
to the village with a lot of gossip which everybody in the county will
hear about in a day or two - or at least you think that's what you're
going to do."

	"I won't tell anybody anything." I told her, trying to damp
down her rising anger.

	"No you won't, not if you know what's good for you. Reuben is
a Major in the American military police and very rich as well, so
you'd better not say anything or you'll be in real trouble."

	"Gals, gals, quieten down will you, I'm getting a head ache,"
the Yank rumbled. "This is no problem. There's twenty pounds in the
jeep that I'll give to Sarah here in return for keeping quiet about
our little get together.'

	Twenty pounds - it was a fortune, as much as a skilled man
could earn in a month. "And seeing as how she's here and paid for, I
guess she may as well join in the fun as well. It sure would be a
waste of a good Sunday school teacher otherwise, for Jacob can see
there is corn in Egypt."

	I was almost as startled by the quotation from the old
testament as I was by his implied threat of what he was going to make
me do. "Now you needn't look so surprised, honey. We've got bibles
back home as well and my folks were kinda strict about bringing me up
on it. Anyway, I guess we need to make a sinner out of you so there'll
be no temptation for you to go throwing any stones. Now if only I'd
have known that I was going to have to teach a pretty young lady like
you as many sins as I can in one afternoon, why I guess I'd have
preserved my strength a little instead of sinning straight off with
Susan." He spread his arms out to encompass all three of us, then
reached down and stroked his groin underneath the towel, still looking
around and leering. "The harvest truely is plenteous, but the laborers
are few.""

	Next his eyes turned directly towards me: "Never mind, Sarah,
ye shall eat of the fat of the land." Henrietta and Susan seemed
bewildered by the second quotation, though I knew straight away what
he meant and then the pair of hussys started laughing at my
embarrassment.

	"I wonder how long she was watching us?" Henrietta asked and
Susan laughed again. 

	"Give her the tray and the drink and tell her to serve it up
to Reuben the same way as you did. And if she says she doesn't know
what we mean we'll have to drop her drawers for her instead." The
three of them each seemed to find the idea amusing. Reuben put his
arms around the women, each of his hands cupping one of their breasts,
the one underneath Henrietta's ample tit almost out of my sight. 

	"One of you ladies around here is a mite overdressed for the
occasion. Maybe we can do something about that," he drawled. His
cigarette was hanging from the corner of his mouth, an eyelid screwed
up against the smoke. I'd never seen a man so self assured. He dropped
his hands and slapped both of them on their bottoms. "Go on, gals,
help her strut her stuff."

	As they moved towards me I reached round to the handle but my
skirt was bunched up in the rollers too tightly for me to be able to
turn it from that difficult angle. And anyway, it was two against one,
two who would have grabbed my arm before I could have turned the wheel
once - and behind them was a hulking great giant strong enough to pick
me and the mangle up at the same time.

	"Keep away from me!" I yelled at them. There was a rattle of
snapping steel as Reuben pulled back part of the pistol on the top and
it snapped back. Something shiny flew out from the side of it and
rattled on the stone floor. Susan bent down, picked it up and showed
it to me. A fat looking bullet made of shiny brass. Then she nodded
backwards, towards Reuben and the pistol now aimed directly at my
stomach before speaking.

	"Sarah, isn't it awfully hot in here underneath that thick
pullover you've got on?"

	Of course it was. In a situation like this I would have been
hot and bothered enough anyway, let alone in a hot steamy room with a
thick woolen jersey on. My skin was pricking underneath it and drops
of sweat were rolling down my face. 

	"So why don't we help you off with it? Or would you rather we
remove something lower down first?"

	Once more in the same day I held my arms up over my head in
surrender.


THE END (For the time being)

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