James made a mental note to tip the man handsomely, and then a loud wail went up. German bombers were on the way, and everyone had better get to a shelter. The cab slowed, and then stopped. James stepped out and looked up at the driver.
"I don't suppose I could offer you extra to go the rest of the way?"
The man gave a look that bordered on apologetic, and shook his head.
"No sir, I gotta get my family."
"Well," James said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a billfold, "here."
He handed over a little more than he owed and picked his things up. It was only a couple kilometers. If he hurried, he could be there in twenty minutes. Just in time for things to go wrong.
For a moment, he walked, carrying his bag and jacket. Then he thought better of it, pulled anything he could from his jacket pocket, and transferred it to his trousers.
Then he started to jog, and then his strides spread out into a full run. If he wagered it right, he could cut his time in half. As he ran, a noise pulled him out of his fog. He narrowly avoided a car running down the street. That would be Mary and her uncle, then.
She couldn't be safe with Oliver around, he knew, but they couldn't stop him without proof. As long as she got to shelter, everything would be fine. He redoubled his efforts.
By the time he arrived, people were streaming out the front door, nearly a dozen men and women, few of them carrying more than the clothes on their back. He stood back and watched.
They were the servants he'd let go, all right. Whether or not Davis had been involved in whatever Oliver was doing or not, he'd made sure to hire the same staff back on.
One face stood out, though, and he had to blink and rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Was that... ?
"Mary!"
She looked up. They all looked up, but most of them went back to what they'd been doing before. She had to push through the pack of people, all of them moving in towards town, as she tried to cross the road to him.
"What are you doing here?"
"Pearl is dead. Someone shot him."
James wanted nothing more than to draw her up into an embrace, and kiss her, to take her away and damn the consequences. But the people who shot a second-rate lawyer from two towns over on suspicion that he'd been working for someone who knew their secrets wouldn't let that happen. They'd be dead before they made it back to London if he didn't deal with it now.
"I don't understand," Mary was saying.
He kissed her and fished in his pocket, then pressed the key to his flat into her hand.
"Take this. When the raid is over, if you can, take the train to London. Stay in my flat, I should be paid for the rest of the month. I'll come back for you. I promise."
"I want to stay with you," Mary pleaded. He looked down at her, so afraid and vulnerable. He wished that she could stay with him, but it wasn't time yet.
"No. It's not safe. Go on, Mary, before they all leave you behind. With all those people around, you'll be able to blend into the crowd. Wait! Before you go, I have one question. Which room is your uncle's?"
Her directions were good. Up the stairs, take a left, down the hall. He could have drawn a map himself, though he'd only gone up the stairs a handful of times. When he got there, the door was closed and locked.
The lock, surprisingly, held up when he put his shoulder into the door. The frame around it, on the other hand, splintered in after a few hard kicks. A shame, really, James thought. They don't make them like they used to, any more.
The room was largely barren. A footlocker sat at the foot of the bed, and he tried the lock. Closed. He looked around for a minute. Was there anyplace easier to look?
A satchel beside the locker, simply zipped up. He opened the zipper and upended the bag onto the bed. A day's clothing, a shaving kit, and a bar of soap. The Colonel was a simple man, and he traveled light.
James sat back against the side of the bed and breathed. What now? The entire caper had been done in less than a day. Whoever had done it, there was a way to tie it back to Oliver Geis. James was sure of that much, but what?
With a sigh, he started the walk across the estate to his room. He pulled the zipper on his bag, and pulled a pistol from it, checked the chamber to ensure that it was loaded, and slipped it into his pocket.
The house was eerily silent, he noticed now. It seemed almost surreal; the sirens had been audible even from this distance, but now in the belly of the house, he could have heard a pin drop. He came back to the master bedroom, took aim with his pistol, plugged his ear as best he could, and shot.
The bang was deafening, and when he opened his eyes the entire lock mechanism had been blown off. He opened the footlocker. There were large scorch marks where his bullet had gone in, but inside were scores upon scores of letters, each of them addressed to Oliver Geis.
James didn't have time to read them, but some were clearly written in German—and then from behind, he heard a man clear his throat.
He turned slowly. There was no reason to rush, now, after all. James knew who it had to be.
Oliver Geis stood in the door, a couple of men flanking behind him. Davis was one, and the other had been the other man who threw him out. James backed up into the bed and watched them with his tired eyes.
"Mr. Poole, I'm so glad to see that you've returned."
"Colonel Geis."
"So sorry that you won't be staying long." He smiled briefly, a cruel expression that held no happiness. "Davis, Richard, you know what needs to be done."
Oliver stepped back, and then the two men exploded into action. James fired a shot that went wide, and a second that struck the second man, Richard, in the gut. He went down to the ground and didn't move to get back up. He didn't have time for a third shot before Davis's fist hit him square in the gut.
James had been focused on the gun, so he hadn't braced for the hit, and he folded near in half and dropped it. He couldn't take a breath, and couldn't see straight, but he pushed himself straight upright.
Another fist came barreling down, cracking him hard on the jaw, and he fell to the floor. Davis kicked the gun away and moved up to sit on his chest, pulling a fist back to start pounding the steward's face into mincemeat.
In a last ditch effort, James threw his body up and to the side, and Davis was thrown off. Mr Poole didn't waste a moment in scrambling to press his advantage. He didn't bother with a punch, but set his knee into the butler's throat and put his weight down hard.
James could see Oliver, across the room, bent down to pick up the gun. He jumped up without a moment's thought and dove shoulder-first into the Colonel.
Then the room exploded.
23
Mary
Mary had been in the house for more than a week, and she'd barely had a minute to herself the entire time. Nobody came calling, nobody asked why she was there. Nobody pushed her to explain how she'd come to reside in a man's apartment with the man out. She'd been alone with her thoughts, and that was so much worse.
When she'd gotten there, she was sick from worry about everything—about the bombs falling, about what people would think. About what they would do to stay away from her uncle if they were even able to implicate him in anything at all.
Then she'd started worrying about bigger issues. James hadn't come back, and where was she going to stay? By the time she'd made it to London, presses in Yorkshire were already running with the story that the Geis estate had been nearly destroyed in the bombing.
If she was kicked out of this place, she had no place to go back to. The hotel wasn't safe; she'd be caught. If she wasn't caught, what would happen when her father's money ran out? It had to happen, and if James had told her the truth, it would happen soon.
She thought that her father's fortune could afford to pay the rent, if she could access it, but there was further the question of who to pay it to. She hadn't seen anyone since she had walked through the front door, nine days ago. She had found it quite nice, to be able to be
by herself. Now she was beginning to go mad from the isolation.
James... she had tried, for a while, not to think about him. It seemed easier that way. When she slept, though, she dreamed of him, and woke in a pool of sweat. When her mind wandered, visions of him danced before her eyes, and a tightness clutched her chest.
She tried to think of the times they'd spend together, even in this very room, and remember the surge of emotions she'd felt with him. But it didn't help her feel better. Instead, it just made the aching in her chest feel worse.
When she had gotten the paper on the train to London, and heard that her house had collapsed, she'd been so sure that he had made it out alive. He'd promised to her, promised to come back to her. And yet, as the days passed, she was realizing more and more that it was hopeless.
Wherever he was, he wasn't coming back to her. Probably, he was buried under the rubble, and if he'd found anything that could have protected her from her uncle, then it had been buried with him.
Mary shook her head. She couldn't afford that sort of thinking, not now. She needed to be strong, like everyone else with husbands or sons in the war. The only difference was that her war was back in Dover. She took a deep breath and let it out, and tried to count her blessings.
It had been nine days, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of Oliver. Davis had been with him when she'd seen them leaving the house, and Davis knew about the apartment. Maybe there was some soft feeling for her left in his heart. But the thought didn't make her feel any better.
She much preferred the idea that James had stopped them, that he'd succeeded even if he hadn't made it out alive. However he had stopped them, she knew, there was little chance that they were still coming after her. If they were going to then they would have done it already.
She laid back in the bed, the bed that she and James had shared their first night together in. She could still smell him on the sheets, could feel him on top of her, his weight giving her a comforting feeling of safety. Could remember the way he moved inside her.
Mary nearly jumped when she heard a rap at the door, the first visitor in days. This was it, she thought. Finally, the landlord had come, and he was going to evict her. She straightened and smoothed her dress and tried to look as presentable as possible. Nothing untoward here, she reminded herself. She needed a place to stay, and her steward had offered the use of his house while he was out.
Until he got back.
The words drifted through her mind and hit her like a punch in the gut. She wiped the wetness from her eyes, blinked until she had control of herself, and opened the door.
She saw the cast first. It was large and white and drew the attention of most people who saw it. It took up his entire lower arm on his right side.
James Poole stood outside his flat, on a pair of rough-cut crutches. He carried his weight hard on one leg, and he had a single red rose in his hand.
For a moment, Mary could feel her anger flash, red and hot, and she wanted to slap him.
"James Poole, do you have any idea how much you scared me!" She settled for balling her fists up at her sides. "Not a letter, not a word to me, for a week!"
She could feel her tears welling up again, and she tried to push them away, but it was a losing effort.
"I thought you were dead, and I didn't—I couldn't—"
She took a step back and pressed her back against the wall. It was as much a crutch to her as the ones under James's arms, and without it she would have fallen right down.
He waited outside the door for her, until she took a deep breath and turned to him. She wanted a response, but none was forthcoming. He smiled before he spoke, and she already wanted to slap him again.
"I'm sorry, Miss, I seem to have misplaced the key to my flat."
He laughed, a deep sound that came from his belly, and she hated and loved him for it. He took a step into the house and winced when his foot touched the doorstep.
"Do you need any help?"
"No," he lied. "I can get around well enough, if I take my time."
He hobbled across the room and fell into the sofa.
"What happened?"
"I don't remember that well. It happened quickly, so I've only been able to piece some of it together after." He took a deep breath and rubbed his knees. "I found your uncle's footlocker, and it was full of letters. I'm guessing it must have been blackmail of some kind. I remember that several of them were from Germans."
Mary sat across from him and motioned for him to continue.
"Oliver is dead. Last I saw, Davis was in critical condition, but he looked bad. The third man, whatever his name was—I shot him when he came at me."
"No," she said softly. "They left, I saw them."
"They saw me when I was heading out of town, and must have doubled back. I think your uncle was working with the Germans, on something. Your father got mixed up in it. They probably offered him a big payoff if he fronted some of the money."
James looked up to see if Mary was listening, and she was.
"Well, I guess he backed out—that would have been when he hired me, I guess—and then they killed him over it."
They were both silent for a long time. Mary knew, really, that neither of them knew what had really happened. It was a lot of guesswork, and if the house had come down then in all likelihood the evidence was gone. Finally, James broke the silence once more.
"I do have one last question, though."
She could see his face, and could see he thought he was being clever again. She couldn't help but smile seeing it. He was a fool, but she loved it about him. She said the words he was obviously waiting to hear.
"What's that?"
"Mary Geis, will you marry me?"
Mary blushed, and then crossed the room to him. He was seated, and looked up at her. For a moment, she was taller than him, and she thought that was the way she wanted it. Then she leaned down, looked him in the eye, and kissed him.
His War Bride
Public Sex, Voyeurism, Masturbation Erotica
Harley Harper
Millie-
Missing you every day. Loose lips sink ships, but we're supposed to be sailing someplace we'd talked about for the honeymoon before the war started. I don't have much time to write, but I have to go but I hope this letter finds you in good spirits.
-E Jackson, February 2nd, 1944
Millie-
I've received word that the infantry's efforts in the north at [REDACTED] were successful and they're pressing into [REDACTED]. Really putting the screws to those Krauts! Thank you for the photograph you included with your last letter, I've kept it private like you asked. I've got some good news, too: We're supposed to be coming home for shore leave in a few weeks! I'll be pretty busy until then, but I'll write when I have the time and I'll ring you up when I get back to New London and we can go out for some drinks.
-E Jackson, June 27, 1944
I'd written Ellis the day after I received his last letter, and I'd tried to start a second letter a dozen times, and each of them had ended up in the trash bin. Not important enough, not loving enough, not cute enough or sexy enough. I worried that perhaps he would get back before I could send him another letter. In the end I sent a sheet of paper with some lipstick on it and my name and a message that I loved him and I hoped to see him soon.
I thought back to the days before he'd shipped off and gone to do his duty over there in Europe. He'd been so attentive, not like the other boys I'd gone on dates with. We'd been together for nearly a week before he tried to hold my hand, and he always seemed to listen to me when I talked. I almost found it endearing the first time I caught him looking at my chest, because I'd begun to take it as a challenge to get him to look at me that way.
I was almost worried he was one of those folks that fancy boys, but I was lucky he wasn't. We kissed in the picture show for the first time after a month, and a couple nights later I'd put his hand on my breast and he'd felt me up for a few minutes in his car before he said he
should get home. We'd gotten engaged thirteen days later and I'd tried to take him into the back seat but he refused. Said it was the Christian thing to wait for marriage. I'd waited for the right guy, but with Ellis I was sure and I was ready to give myself to him. But he was always too good a man for that.
I sat down in my wicker chair and thought of him. I smelled one of the letters, which still had a faint scent of his aftershave and I let one of my hands drift across my belly. I had to be careful not to let my thoughts drift too long, as I had to be at work in an hour, but I had a few minutes to spare and thinking about Ellis has me feeling tingly. I tried to think ahead to our wedding night, his face clean-shaven above me and kissing me and his arms so strong around me.
I ease a button open in my shirt and feel my skin gently, trying to make the time last before I touched myself. I felt my breasts, heavy and full, and finally I pushed my bra aside and pinched a nipple ever so softly. I squirmed a bit and shivered, and closed my eyes while I hiked my skirt up and touched myself through my panties. I tried to imagine it was Ellis's hand touching me and I mewled softly.
I thought about his soft kisses and his sweet blue eyes and his soft hands roaming all over my body and I wanted him in me right now, but he wasn't around to oblige. I pinched a bit harder and I felt my nipples start to stiffen and crinkle and I gently rubbed the tip of my nipple and the nerves screamed their approval in the back of my mind. I slipped my hand inside of my panties and softly grazed my outer lips, finally slipping a finger inside and touching my hard clit. A jolt went through me and I shivered again, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I sighed and rubbed harder, trying to climb the summit to orgasm.
I rubbed my clit harder still, and pushed my other hand up my skirt as well, rubbing my pussy while I touched my clitoris, finally slipping a finely manicured finger inside and gently pumping in and out of myself slowly, but speeding up. I mewled softly and hoped Ellis wouldn't be too upset I was doing this without him but I needed it so badly.
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