****
“Ouch.” Chrissie felt the stones beneath her feet. And they hurt, but as luck would have it, the pain brought her to her senses. What on earth was she doing? Sex in the back seat of a car? For her first time? No, no and no. Even if it was with Archie.... As far as he was concerned, it was just a roll in the hay. And with a faceless, nameless body. No chance. She would take care of herself as usual.
Her first time would be better than this.
At her exclamation, Archie stopped abruptly, and Chrissie fell against him hard. Free from restraint and with nothing between it and her still naked lower half, his cock jerked against her. Precum seeped from its end and coated her stomach.
“Oh God.” Euk, that is sticky. She almost whimpered. She so wanted to feel his cock inside her, giving her the chance to be filled and satisfied in the best way possible, but not like this. Her own hand was a poor compensation, she assumed, for the real thing. “No,” she said in as firm a tone as she could manage while tugging her hand free. “No, no and no.”
“Oh, come on,” Archie said in a cajoling voice. “You want to. I want to.” He rubbed his cock against her with determined deliberation. “He definitely wants to.”
“Well, we don’t always get what we want.” She moved back and with a deliberate gesture, pulled her skirt down, wondering if she was being very wise in denying herself.” Nor does ‘he’.” Chrissie thought swiftly and took a gamble. “Do you know me?”
She saw him squint in the dim light from the car’s headlamps. Chrissie knew she was just a shadow to him.
“In this light, I couldn’t say. Er, should I?” He sounded bewildered.
Well, she allowed it was a strange question. However she had asked it for a reason. “When you do, Archie Duggan, we will.” She stretched up onto her tiptoes. Surely a kiss wouldn’t matter? Just to tease him and make him wonder what he was missing. Chrissie pecked his lips and he groaned.
“Minx.” He rubbed his hands over her breasts, the thin material of her blouse becoming taut across her nipples, increasing the exquisite sensations he was creating. “Will we? What will we? And if you tell me who you are, I’ll know you in one way, and can explore you and get to know you in oh so many others.” He didn’t end with, ‘so there and what about it’, but the inference was there. She hardened her heart. After all it was what she wanted but not like that.
“Archie, stop it.” Damned if her voice didn’t wobble. “We will make love, have sex, whatever you want to call it, when you know who I am.” She hoped her arousal and regret didn’t show in her voice. It was hard enough without Archie knowing how she wished things could be different. “Now, be the gentleman you’re supposed to be and help me get inside before I get into serious trouble.” Chrissie walked with care back to the wall. Her legs were rubbery, and she hoped she would be able to get over it without collapsing. “Will you give me a leg up, please? And shut your eyes as you do it.”
“No need. Give me a sec. I’ve got a key.”
Chrissie turned and stared in his direction. Now he said so. “What? How come?”
“My house, my gates, my keys,” he explained as if it was the most commonplace thing in the world to do. “Of course I kept a set of keys. It’s in the lease that I can inspect everything,” he stressed the word, “at any reasonable time.”
“I doubt getting on for midnight would be considered reasonable,” Chrissie said with a laugh. “But you know I don’t care. I’m just thankful I can get in. I’ll get enough agro as it is, if Tom the foreman catches me sneaking around at this time of night.” She rolled her eyes in despair, even though he couldn’t see her. Apart from getting in relatively unscathed, could things get much worse? Archie of all people. “Especially dressed like this. There’s no way I can pass it off as ‘I can’t sleep and need some cocoa.’ I meant to ask you, I thought you lived in London?” Please say you’re just visiting for a day or so. With him in London her equilibrium could be restored. Why hadn’t she known the hall belonged to his family? Well, she argued with herself, there’s no reason I should. It didn’t even have the same name as him, and during their ill-fated romance the subject of what his ancestral home was called had never come up. She’d assumed it would be Caverston, like his name. Chrissie bit back a groan and waited for him to answer her.
“I did in the main. Not often now, though. We haven’t used this for donkey’s years; too big, too draughty.” There was a pause. Chrissie could imagine his brain sifting through her statement, and she shook her head at herself. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut and leave things well alone?
“Uncomfortable,” he said as he warmed to his theme. “Never gets heated in there whatever the time of the year. Didn’t want to use it if we didn’t have to. Nasty, cold and surely designed to give you consumption or something.”
You can say that again. Chrissie was used to sleeping in socks and mittens and wearing a spencer and a liberty bodice under her work dresses. It night make her look a bit like the Michelin man in the cartoons for the tire manufacturers but she didn’t care. It was better to be warm than elegant.
“Too expensive,” Archie went on. “Couldn’t keep up with coal and logs. We live in Home Farm. Or, rather, I do now Oz has gone.” His voice was bleak. “What with him…” He sighed. “Well, it’s all up to me now, so Home Farm, not Knightsbridge it is. Ahh, here we go.” The key turned, and the gate moved. “So,” he continued, “how will I know you? I’m going to hold you to your promise, you know. And how did you say you knew me?”
Chrissie thought as fast as she could. What was it she’d always been told? Stick as near to the truth as possible when you tell a fib. “I was at the dance.” She slid through the gap the opened gate had made. “And I’d say your dick will be sure to recognize me.” Proud of that last statement, and pleased to hear his guffaw of laughter, Chrissie walked several yards up the drive as fast as she could without stumbling over the uneven surface. She had an anxious few moments until she heard an engine start up and fade slowly away. Then she retraced her steps. A quick search found her clogs at the base of the wall, so at least she would be able to cover most of the distance almost unscathed. She’d go barefoot for the last few yards so her clogs didn’t make a noise on the gravel under the windows. With her drawers now back in place and her skirt straight, she looked—even if she didn’t feel it—respectable.
Archie in the area and not likely to go away in the near future was one more thing to worry about. And she’d goaded him to try and find out who she was. What an idiot. One day she’d learn to not shove her feet into her mouth the minute she opened it. Chrissie rolled her eyes at her stupidity and crept toward the wall of the house in relative silence.
Kaye was waiting anxiously by the open pantry window when Chrissie reached it. She slipped over the windowsill and breathed a sigh of relief. Kaye held out her dressing gown. “Put this on and if anyone sees us, we can say we went to the kitchen for cocoa. I made us a cup each.” Kaye waited until Chrissie covered herself in her long prewar and cozy dressing gown and passed a cup over. Chrissie took it with a grateful smile as she watched her friend walk briskly across the room and fix the blackout curtain in place. Kaye spent several seconds making sure no chink of light would be seen outside and then screwed the light bulb into the fitment she’d removed it from earlier.
“It’d be just our luck to show a light when the home guard was around,” Kaye said as they made their way up the back stairs to the room they shared. “Was that who saw you? That bloke with the bandy legs and a laugh like a hyena?”
“Um, no, it was the local lord of the manor,” Chrissie responded, as she got into her pajamas. Then she giggled. “He’s got neither. I think he saw more than he bargained for, mind. There I was, stuck halfway up his wall, skirt round my middle, no drawers on, and showing my all. Embarrassing was an understatement.”
“Grief, Chrissie.” Kaye seemed scandalized. “D’you mean he saw...well, everything?”
“Well, it
was pitch-black,” Chrissie said. She got under her blankets and drew them up to her chin. “And there was only a tiny light from his headlamps, but I think he made sure he got an eyeful.” And a handful, but she didn’t pass that tidbit of information on. “Lord, I’m tired. Better try to sleep. Thanks for the cocoa. At least there shouldn’t be any reason to go down to the shelters. Not out here.” Sometimes she felt a bit guilty that they were in relative safety when friends and loved ones faced bombardment and fear of death most nights. However she’d done what her parents thought best. Chrissie plumped up her pillow—her own prewar feather one— and stretched out on her side. Kaye followed suit and then switched the light off.
The last thought Chrissie had before she fell asleep was the memory of Archie’s hands on her arse and his erection rubbing against her mound. It was, she recollected as she shut her eyes, rather nice. She giggled silently at her understatement.
****
It was hard work, to work hard when all you wanted to do was sleep. As the day wore on, Chrissie found it harder and harder to stifle her yawns. She’d tossed and turned for what seemed like hours before dozing off to have the best erotic dream she could ever remember. If women got wet dreams, that one fit the bill. Talk about hot under the collar.
She almost crawled out of bed, to wash in cold water in the hope it woke her up a bit. Kaye as ever muttered something under her breath—she was never at her best before mid-morning—and disappeared in the direction of the shared bathroom. Chrissie watched her with a grimace. She’d take cold water and no queue any time. That’s where a washbowl and jug came in handy. The room was chilly so it took mere minutes to wash, drag on some clothes, shove her feet into her clogs and head off to the dining room. Once there she wolfed down tea and toast with ten minutes to spare before she started work for the day.
As receptionist, telephone operator, and typist, she was—according to Mr. Charters, the owner of the shoe company Chrissie worked for—”Our front row face to the public.” Not according to Jack, one of the charge hands. When he was hung over, and she was in a good mood, he called her Miss Bloody Optimist. It irritated her intensely. As he managed to be hung over more often than not, Chrissie’s patience was sorely tried.
As she was about to leave the bedroom, Chrissie studied her face in the reflection of the reproduction of Constable’s “The Haywain.” Jack wouldn’t say that if he saw her now. More like Miss Lost a Pound, Found a Penny. She was pale, and the bags under her eyes could hold a week’s worth of groceries. She rubbed her cheeks to try and bring some color into them.
There was no getting away from it. On this day, her public face was a tired one. And as far as hoping not to see Archie Duggan, a confused one.
Chrissie didn’t know whether she wanted to see him again or not. She wriggled in her chair as unease gripped her and wondered for the umpteenth time why she’d made that stupid promise. With a sigh gusty enough to stir the blackout blind, she headed downstairs.
Two hours later, Kaye clacked past on her way from the ballroom to the dining room, where the managers had their offices. She had two uppers from a prototype army boot in her hand. Her clogs echoed on the stone floor, and she waved her hand in the direction of the doorway she’d just walked through.
“Watch out,” she murmured under her breath. “Chalky’s got a right one on him today. Seems somebody trod in his veg patch last night, squashed some carrots and spoiled his contribution to the war effort. And dearie me, whoever it was had bare feet, so he’s got no shoe marks to compare.” She moved on, and Chrissie had to grin. Chalky, Mr. Stanley White, was a pompous little man, who if his age hadn’t ruled him out, would no doubt have been allocated a bantam regiment full of men under five foot four.
“Was that Miss Holland making that racket with those infernal clogs?” The man in question had walked up unseen and unheard. He paused in front of Chrissie’s desk. She moved her own clogs across the floor, making as much noise as possible.
“Yes, Mr. White. Why? Did you want her?” Chrissie said the words in an innocent, but in her natural “I would have been a Deb if my father hadn’t lost his fortune” voice. Stanley White colored. It was common knowledge he fancied women younger than his fifty-odd years. When Chrissie spoke to him in that tone of voice, she could see he felt small, inferior, and deflated. And to her disgust, she noticed as she glanced down with deliberation, turned on. That immediately quashed any remorse she felt over her attitude. He began to hum and haw—she assumed—to try to mask his reaction to her.
“Hmm, no, not really,” he said. “But I must insist both you and she stop wearing those infernal clogs. Such a racket they make.”
Chrissie looked at him. Horrible, little man. Deserves to get his carrots squished.
“So sorry, Mr. White,” she replied in a butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth tone. “But I can’t afford to buy anything else. And anyway, I haven’t got the coupons.”
“Nor me, sorry.” Kaye came up behind him on her return journey upstairs, and picked up on the comment. “And we really can’t go barefoot. We might tread on something.” She waved cheerily and walked on, her clogs clacking louder than ever.
Chalky White went red, then the color of his nickname and harrumphed. He was the only person Chrissie knew who could do that noise and it tickled her. She stifled a laugh and disguised it as a cough. “Was there anything else, did you say?” She raised one eyebrow—she’d been practicing the gesture for ages and had at last perfected it—and turned back to her state-of-the-art Royal typewriter to set about typing a letter on behalf of Mr. Charters.
Chalky mumbled something under his breath and stalked off. Later, Chrissie giggled as she told Kaye about the conversation. Kaye’s response of, “You mean semi-stumbled while adjusting the set of his little bit of not very much!” had her in stitches.
It seemed she got her comeuppance for being cheeky to Chalky. A stream of letters to be typed arrived on her desk, most in Mr. Charters’ almost indecipherable scrawl, her typewriter ribbon broke three times and the fire smoked so badly she felt like a kipper, and no doubt smelled like one. Chrissie scowled, muttered under her breath and opened the door as often as she could. Sadly though, the day was damp and misty and didn’t help to dispel the fug.
By the time clocking off arrived at 6:00 p.m., it was getting dark, and the blackout curtains were in place. Even with double summer time from April to October and the clocks staying an hour ahead of Greenwich Mean Time the rest of the year, the large entrance hall where Chrissie worked was always gloomy. Pity Archie’s ancestors hadn’t thought about that, Chrissie mused as she banked down the coals in the cavernous fireplace which dominated the room and hoped that if it continued to smoke it would now be someone else’s problem not hers. She’d had enough.
She covered her typewriter and dusted her desk and the telephone—jobs that needed doing more than usual due to the uncooperative fire—then bent down to recover her gas-mask case from its resting place in her bottom drawer. The door from the foyer opened, sending yet another swirl of smoke into the room. The acrid smell filled her nostrils, and she coughed as it went down her throat.
“Dratted fire.” She heard a familiar voice utter in a very upper-class, theatrical, accent. “The grandpapa always said it was the last straw, the reason for moving out, don’t you know? Always being choked as he had his pre-bedtime brandy. Not good for the tubes, he reckoned. Mind you as he smoked a fifty-a-day gaspers, I couldn’t see the difference.”
Chrissie remained where she was, head down. Archie. But why was he talking in such an affected manner? And hadn’t his grandparents moved away because his grandmother flat out refused to stay in such an antiquated house when their London house had all modern amenities? Expressed, forcefully, the sentiments that she wanted her meals hot on the table, not lukewarm due to the distance from the kitchen to the dining room. Chrissie agreed with her. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate anything other than warm. Now she yearned for piping hot soup or uncong
ealed custard.
She strained to hear what would be said next and wondered who on earth Archie was talking to in such a manner.
“Quite so, your, er, Lordship.” Now she knew the reason for the stupid voice. Chalky White at his obsequious best.
“No need for that, old man.” Archie guffawed and Chrissie bit her lip to stop herself laughing out loud. It was so unlike him. “Don’t use our titles—and I’m a baronet anyway,” Archie said amiably. “Now...Lady Stride?”
Oh shit, why that, now?
“She should be around here somewhere. That’s her desk, and it’s just on 6:00 p.m. Conscientious is our Lad...er, Miss Stride.”
So, should she stand up without prompting? Or wait to be found? Chrissie knew she couldn’t stay crouched behind the blooming desk for much longer. If for no other reason than it was uncomfortable, and her knees ached and the blood had rushed to her head.
She stood.
“Were you looking for me, Mr. White?” she asked, all innocence. “I was just locking up my drawers.”
Archie laughed at the double entendre. Chrissie’s stomach lurched, and she swallowed. Had he realized just whom he saw last night? What now? Would he hold her to her promise? She didn’t know whether to be excited or scared.
Stanley White glared at both of them.
“Baronet Caverston is,” he replied fussily, “looking for you. He wishes to take you out for dinner. Mr. Hillman has agreed, as long you are back by your curfew time.” He turned to the younger man. “As her guardian here, in loco parentis, Mr. Hillman takes his responsibilities seriously.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Archie stated with a nonchalant air. “Wouldn’t do for sweet, young things to be out too late. Never know what might occur. Er, what happens if they get held up? Or caught up in something and not get back in time?” He was all innocence.
The bloody bastard. He damned well does know it was me he was feeling up last night.
“Not much likelihood of that around here,” Chalky was saying as Chrissie made sure her desk was locked. “All quiet and tight as a nun’s… ahem, well quiet as the grave.”
Bomber's Moon Page 3