A shadow passed across her. She opened her eyes and saw Adrian, looking pissed off.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said.
‘You’re not going to believe this. We’ve just been landed with the neighbours from hell.’
Adrian had chosen a pitch among the trees towards the edge of the field, a little away from the tangle of tents in the middle, so that they’d have a bit of extra space around them. However, there was now another tent a couple of metres to the side of theirs. It looked quite old and shabby with strips of gaffer-tape on it and speckly patches of mould. The inhabitants weren’t around but there were some carrier bags lying on the ground and some plastic six-pack rings.
‘Look,’ said Adrian contemptuously. ‘They haven’t been here five minutes and they’ve already started littering.’
‘Who are they then? Have you seen them?’
‘Yeah, they came in driving a knackered old Astra. There’s about six of them. Boys, boy-racers, whatever you want to call them. Chavs, basically.’
‘You’re such a snob, Adrian.’
‘Don’t have a go at me, I’m just telling the truth, that’s all. You’ll know what I mean when you see them. They’re so bloody loud. They’re going to make this holiday a sodding nightmare.’
‘Oh dear. Well, maybe they won’t be too bad. We’ll just have to see.’
Adrian started picking up the bags and plastic rings, huffing and tutting.
‘It’s not your mess, Adrian, leave it.’
‘That’s not the point, it’s the general state of things, isn’t it. Oh, I don’t know.’
He stood up and wiped his forehead.
‘I’d like to have a word with Mr Kenwald and find out what he thinks he’s doing, putting a load of hooligans next to us. Can’t he find a more isolated place for them?’
Mirabelle thought that Adrian had probably chosen the most isolated spot already. She expected Mr Kenwald was thinking of the other campers. But she thought she’d better not say that to Adrian.
In the distance there was an aggressive farting sound. It grew louder and louder and then an old white Vauxhall Astra appeared.
‘Oh, hurrah,’ said Adrian.
The car trundled across and parked under the trees. They piled out, in high spirits, carrying more plastic bags filled with bottles and beer cans. The eldest boy must have been about twenty, Mirabelle thought, and the youngest about sixteen or seventeen. Most of them were rather unhealthy-looking with pale skin and spotty jowls. They had a sort of uniform, consisting of American football shirts, checked baseball caps, and gold chains. They had a sort of language too, a gabble of filth: it was all fucking bollocks and fucking shite and what the fucking cunt? Mirabelle wasn’t sure whether to be frightened of them or not. They were all guffawing at each other’s jokes and monkeying about the place, but she thought that somehow they didn’t look such bad boys. One in particular caught her eye, one of the younger ones, who had wavy reddish-brown hair and freckles. He was a slender boy with long legs, narrow hips and a long back, and high, square shoulders like Adrian’s. He had such a cute face with a pink Cupid’s bow mouth. But he was so close to manhood, he reeked of it. He was so ready. And there was a knowingness in his eyes too, an eagerness. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Mirabelle was quite shocked by her thoughts. Perving at boys more than ten years younger than herself!
They’d noticed her now. They were glancing naughtily at her and laughing at each other’s hand gestures. She couldn’t quite decipher what the fists and fingers meant. They were obviously in-jokes of some kind.
She wondered how many of them were still virgins.
Adrian said, ‘If they give you any trouble I’ll geld the little fuckers.’
While Mirabelle had been on the beach Adrian had made sandwiches for lunch, so they sat outside at their folding table to eat. He said that they should just try to ignore the boys as much as possible. But there wasn’t much else round there to watch, so he and Mirabelle ended up doing a running commentary on the boys’ antics.
‘If they don’t eat some solid food soon they’re going to be sick as hell,’ said Adrian.
‘It’d be much better if they used the camp toilets instead of going behind that tree all the time,’ said Mirabelle. ‘It’s going to stink of wee round here before long.’
Adrian snorted.
‘They’re doing a lot worse than weeing, mark my words.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on Mirabelle. Boys that age? They’ve got no control over themselves. All they think about is getting the poison out.’
‘You mean they’re masturbating?’
‘They’re teenage boys. Of course they’re masturbating. There’ll be semen all over the place back there, believe me.’
Spunk like tree-sap. Mirabelle’s eyes grew wide.
In the afternoon she and Adrian went down to the beach. As they sunbathed side by side, she found she kept daydreaming about the boys. She wondered what they were thinking about, when they were behind the tree, to get themselves off. They were so young, she could hardly imagine they’d had time to develop really corrupt fantasies. Would a nice pair of tits be enough for them? But there was so much porn available on the internet and suchlike these days that she supposed it was quite possible for a young boy to become a seasoned, jaded pervert before he’d so much as sniffed an actual woman’s crotch.
That one boy in particular. If he was still a virgin, it was almost a crime. He looked as though he knew exactly what he’d do, given the chance. He’d done his research, he’d know where her clit would be, how to touch it, how to build pressure and friction. Perhaps he’d come quickly but his cock would be stiff again almost straight away. And he’d drink in every moment, every moan she gave, so he could learn everything about her response. God, what a treat that would be.
Later on, back at the tent, she rolled on to her side to face Adrian and said, ‘Actually, they remind me of myself at that age. Me and the girls. Did I ever tell you we went on holiday together to celebrate finishing our GCSEs?’
‘The Gower, wasn’t it?’ said Adrian.
He was sitting on the edge of the airbed, sorting the cutlery back into the roll-up case. Outside, the boys were playing dance music. They kept fiddling with the volume, so it would be almost silent, then suddenly flare up intrusively, then die back again. Occasionally they’d stop it mid-track and put something else on. It was difficult to ignore.
‘That’s right, Three Cliffs Bay,’ she said when it was quiet enough. ‘Beth’s granny let us have her static caravan.’
‘Were you a bunch of annoying bastard hooligans, then?’
‘We were supposed to be there a week but we got thrown off after four days.’
‘Really? I don’t remember that bit. What did you get up to, you naughty girls?’
An explosion of laddish laughter came from outside. One of them shouted, ‘Not again Boycey, you fucking minger!’
‘The usual,’ she said. ‘Drinking, smoking, singing. Having boys back.’
‘Boys, what boys? Did you fuck anyone?’
‘No. Some of the others did.’
‘So what did you do, then?’
He came and lay down next to her. His face was very close to hers and he began to pull at her dress straps.
‘C’mon, spill,’ he said into her hair.
‘There was a boy called Simon, from Chester,’ she said.
‘And how far did you go with Simon?’
Adrian eased the front of her dress lower. He put his hand inside and began stroking one breast, then the other.
‘This far?’
‘Well, mm, yes,’ said Mirabelle, and she stretched herself out so her nipples came out of the top of her dress.
‘What about this?’ he said and bent over her. He began lapping slowly at a nipple.
‘Mm. Yes, but, mm, not quite like that. More sort of – well – more urgent.’
His tongue pressed harder.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Just like that.’
She arched her back, feeling her cunt give the first squeeze of excitement. She wanted more.
‘The other thing he did, was – he got me to touch his cock.’
‘No!’ said Adrian between licks.
‘And he fingered me.’
Adrian gasped.
A dirty thought occurred to her. She looked round for the gas lantern. It was turned up bright but it was hanging near the tent door. Totally the wrong position.
Then the music shot up again and the bass shook the ground, making everything buzz. His head came away from her tits.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’
‘So I got my hand,’ she said quickly, almost having to shout. ‘Like this.’
She stroked the front of his jeans. There was some blood in his dick but it wasn’t fully hard, like she’d expected it to be.
‘And he did this.’
She took his hand and pushed it up under her hem and between her legs, where the juice had seeped through her knickers. But the hand was lifeless, completely forgotten by him.
‘It’s fucking intolerable! I don’t see why we’re putting up with this.’
Mirabelle sat up and sighed heavily.
‘So what are you going to do, confront them? You say a word, they’ll just be ten times worse.’
‘I’m going to talk to Kenwald. Right now.’
‘No, you’re not. I need you!’ she said, hearing the desperation in her voice and hating it.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I can’t concentrate. It’s no use.’
He unzipped the tent and walked out. Mirabelle was outraged. She scrambled after him, pulling her straps back up.
‘Adrian, get back here!’
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he called, disappearing into the dark.
‘Bastard! If he thinks I’m following,’ she said, and suddenly she became aware that it was very quiet. The music had stopped.
The boys were sitting round their fire, all staring at her. Wide-eyed, curious boys.
The rage inside her was unbearable. She saw the skinny boy on his feet not far from the tree. He looked like the rest of them, part defiant, part uncertain.
She had to do something.
She ducked back inside the tent, grabbing the gas lantern.
‘So, you want to wank?’ she said, putting it on the ground and throwing her dress off. She faced the side of the tent.
‘I’ll give you boys something to think about.’
She took her knickers down, sticking her arse out, and turned to the side so they could see her profile and her high tits. She massaged her boobs, one in each hand, and then she bent her head and stuck her tongue right out, circling a nipple. It felt so good and she moaned, quite unable to believe how outrageous she was being. Then she switched sides, turning round so they could see her licking herself.
She heard a nervous giggle, some urgent whispering, then more silence. She could picture them, dumbstruck, their shorts straining at the front, hands straying down.
Now she touched herself between her legs. She was wet all down her inner thighs. Her clit stuck right out of her lips, hungry and so big. She fingered herself, still holding one tit up to her tongue with her other hand, and she wondered how she could show them what she was doing to her cunt. She held her hand clear from her body and just used one straight finger to tease the very tip of her clit. She moved her hips against the fingertip and threw her head back, luxuriating, moaning out loud.
‘Oh my fucking God,’ said one of them quietly.
‘She’s going to come.’
‘D’you think she …’
‘I’m going to fucking well come.’
‘Oh my God!’
She was sure they were all tossing off round the campfire by now, she could hear the strain in their voices. But which voice belonged to that particular boy? In that moment, she thought they were all him, all the voices, and if she couldn’t give him his first fuck, well then, she’d give him the next best thing.
Her finger was dipping into her slit quicker and quicker and she thought that she’d never felt so turned on in her life. Her legs felt weak but she had to stay on her feet. She needed something inside her now and she scanned the tent, looking for something with visual impact.
The first thing that came to hand was Adrian’s camping torch. It had a grooved black rubber handle and when she gripped it she found her fingers and thumb didn’t quite meet. She hoped it wouldn’t be too thick.
She also hoped Adrian wasn’t on his way back yet.
She turned to face them again, standing with her legs apart, and she held the torch as if she were a porn star, stroking it theatrically, admiring its dimensions. Then she pushed the end into her cunt.
‘Oh Christ,’ she breathed. It was really big. But not too big, just right in fact, and with a few movements it went in further and further.
Outside one of them groaned loudly.
She stuck it up herself, working her clit with her other hand. It filled her so deliciously that she knew she’d be coming very soon. She gyrated, turning this way and that, pushing her arse out so they could see it going in from behind. She teetered and nearly lost her balance as she worked the handle in and out. She couldn’t keep standing much longer. Rubbing her clit frantically, she shoved the handle up and came, throwing back her head, freezing for an ecstatic moment, and then collapsing on the airbed with the handle still jammed inside her.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she felt Adrian sit down on the bed. She became aware that she was under the covers by now. There was a sublime ache between her legs. He was taking various items off the bed and putting them away.
‘Darling,’ he whispered, ‘you must be careful not to leave clothes near the gas lantern. Your dress could easily have caught.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, rubbing her eyes, dazed.
‘I don’t think we’ll be having any more trouble with that lot, anyway,’ he said, taking his T-shirt off and getting under the covers. ‘I just had Mr Kenwald down here.’
‘Oh, did he talk to them?’
‘Yes, well sort of. They were quite well-behaved in front of him, annoyingly. Either they’re frightened of getting chucked off the site, or they’ve just knackered themselves out. They’re pretty subdued though, turned the music off, the lot. Kids today, eh, no stamina.’
He kissed her neck.
‘So Kenwald probably thinks I’m over-reacting. He had a word, anyway. Told them not to leave their filth all over the place.’
‘Well done,’ said Mirabelle.
She turned over, closed her eyes.
‘They couldn’t even look me in the eye, any of them. Scared shitless.’
‘They’re good boys really,’ she murmured. ‘Well done, darling.’
To Fly An Eagle
by J. Manx
The Eagles of 133 squadron transferred to Biggin Hill, Kent, England, in May 1942.
133 was the first American squadron to be stationed there.
‘Do you recognise any of it, Grandma?’
She was a sweet thing, my granddaughter. Twenty-five years old and she reminded me so much of myself, full of life and eagerness.
I was a little disappointed but not majorly so, I didn’t really expect it to look the same. Still, I had hoped there would be similarities. But the orchards had gone, replaced by dull, suburban housing.
‘I can’t say I really recognise it, sweetheart, so many houses.’
My granddaughter looked disappointed. She’d planned this as part of a birthday surprise, a return visit to the house of my youth.
‘Come on, let’s go to Biggin Hill, I’m sure you’ll remember something there.’
I shuffled back into the car.
‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘it’s been a lovely day and I’ve really enjoyed your company.’
We drove along the busy ‘A’ road and the housing became less dense and the land became more open
and the trees more abundant. And then, familiarity. The shape of the road, the lay of the land. I recognised several houses.
‘I know that house,’ I said, excitedly, ‘I remember this road.’
‘See grandma, it was worth it.’
I remembered. The breeze in my hair, the laughter, the sun, the summer freshness and him. How could I ever forget him?
It was June 1942. I was nineteen.
‘Can I see you again?’
I hesitated, not knowing how to react. I’d never been asked out by a man before.
It was the end of a thrilling evening. A dance. The first I’d ever been to and it was the first time since the war started that I’d had such heady fun. There were a lot of men from the Biggin Hill air base, but he stood out. He breezed into the village hall with two others, laughing and loud, and every girl noticed them. They stood in the middle of the floor as if they owned the place and he looked around and his eyes fell on me and my girlfriends and a big, bright smile spread across his face. He nudged his friends and walked over to us.
‘Could you teach us how to dance?’ he said. And he was handsome. He had friendly, Clarke Gable eyes and an Errol Flynn chin. He had Hollywood style. Of course I said yes. Coyness, playing hard to get, had its place but not if you might never see them again. He turned my head and left it spinning. He danced with me all evening.
Johnny Genarro. ‘What kind of name’s that?’ I’d asked.
‘My father’s Italian, my mother’s Irish, a passionate mix, could only produce a passionate son.’
Everything about him reflected his love of life and he just carried me along.
The orchard, that’s where he took me that first time. Mum was a bit unsure, had circumstances been more normal I don’t think she would have let me go. But this was wartime and Dad was away fighting and I think she thought why the hell not? And she could tell Johnny was OK, he won her over with his warmth. ‘We’re just going for a drive, Mrs Carter, won’t be long; I promise we’ll be back within the hour.’ And he was, although it seemed like five minutes. He picked me up in a car he’d borrowed from his base. There were hardly any cars around in those days, we had the road to ourselves. And he took me to the orchard and it was there that I tasted my first kiss. I can still taste his tongue, the shock and the pleasure, and his mouth on my neck and the thrills coursing through me. Those first few times he took me back home spot on time and left me longing to feel him again. After a couple of weeks he got bolder.
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