I ducked into the maze of side streets that became increasingly dark, murky and unpopulated until I came to a small alleyway, with a door at the end.
I pushed it open and went down the stairs into a dimly lit cellar bar, where, even though there were only a few men about, the fog of stale cigarette smoke was almost as heavy as the swirling mist outside.
“Oh hello stranger,’ said the pale youth dressed in black behind the bar, a delicate young man with a trace of blue eye shadow on his heavy lids and what appeared to be pink polish on his finger nails.
“Hello Tony,” I replied. “It’s too cold a cold night to be out up West.”
“So what can I get you ducky? It’s been a bit slow in here today, not much business.”
“Just a water please Tony.”
It was only then that I noticed the man at the other end of the bar, medium height, stocky, balding and, if not exactly handsome, then strangely attractive, perhaps because he had an air of self-confidence and a strong, sensual mouth that was framed by a neatly clipped goatee.
I knew the type too – City gent, on his way home at the end of another taxing day at the office and looking for a little relaxation before getting the commuter train back to the wife and children.
“Water’s no good on a cold night like this,” the stranger said. “Tony, get him a gin – he looks like he needs it.”
Tony didn’t arch an eyebrow or show even a glimmer of amused interest as he reached for the bottle and poured a measure, which he then pushed across the bar to me.
He’d seen too many brief encounters begin at the bar to even care about the outcome any more and he simply returned to polishing glasses as my new friend left his bar stool and came to stand beside me.
“So, are you a veteran?” he asked, taking in my attempts not to appear too shabby but clearly spotting and understanding the slightly frayed cuffs and the general wear and tear of a jacket that not longer kept out the cold.
I nodded in agreement as he continued: “It’s shameful that there’s no work for fine lads like you. The Government should be doing everything it can for the men who gave so much for their country.”
There was a silence as his platitude came to a finish and I drank the last of my gin.
The stranger glanced over and nodded at Tony, who poured a second glass for me and one too for the man who would be paying.
There wasn’t really any need for words – this was a drama that Tony saw played out every day and one that both myself and the stranger knew very well for we’d both been here before, one craving sexual gratification and the other simply grateful for the ten bob note or even better that would be stuffed into a pocket at the conclusion of the transaction.
“Look old chap, why don’t we find somewhere a bit more comfortable?” my new friend suggested. “Tony, be a sport and fill our glasses will you?”
Tony poured the drinks and with a simple nod of the head indicated a room to one side of the bar.
We picked up our glasses and walked through the door, a sense of expectation hanging heavily in the air.
The room beyond was small and sparsely decorated – just a gas lamp to provide some illumination, a small table and a chaise longue upholstered in rich red velvet that seemed incongruously grand and decadent, even if it was fit for the purpose at hand.
The man closed the door and walked towards me, taking my drink from my hand and putting on the table along with his own.
Then he carefully slipped a hand around the back of my neck and pulled me down to him, his lips brushing against mine in a first tentative kiss that tasted of gin and, because of his goatee, tickled just a little.
The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, though, and much to my surprise I found myself responding, my tongue flicking into his mouth as he gave a little grunt of pleasure.
I reached down and loosened his tie, removing it completely and throwing it to one side before unfastening his collar stud.
The collar flew open – I’ve always found something intensely satisfying and erotic about a loose collar – as I eased his braces from his shoulders and began unfastening his shirtfront, pulling the shirt of over his head.
We managed to keep on kissing – his tongue now forcing its way into my mouth and meeting no resistance as I eagerly sucked at it – and then I unfastened the buttons of his flannel vest, reaching in to tweak a nipple and pulling the vest as open as I could so I could enjoy running my fingers over his smooth chest and attractively large pink nipples that responded instantly to sucking.
By now, he had relieved me of my muffler and my shirt and even pulled my singlet over my head, then beginning to tug at my flies, pulling down my trousers and shorts and gasping with amazement as he took his first look at my erect penis.
“Bloody hell!” he murmured with a tone of astonished pleasure. “Where the fuck are you going to put that?”
“Mouth first and then straight up yer fuckin’ arse,” I whispered as I pulled him towards me and kissed him again, my hands reaching down to help him out of his trousers and long johns so that he too was now as naked as me, his own cock stiff and straight, veined and purple with desire.
Wearing no more than black socks held up by suspenders and black shoes polished to a high shine, he was a fine figure of a middle-aged man determined to satisfy his lust.
Taking me at my word he went down on his knees and took my member in his mouth as deep as he could, my bell end pressing against the back of his throat as he tried to swallow as much of my flesh as he could without choking.
Only when I began to feel the urgent need to ejaculate did I pull away, pulling him to his feet so I could kiss him again and taste my own pre-cum on his lips.
Then I threw him onto the chaise longue, pulled his legs up and apart and onto my shoulders and taking my cock in my hand, plunged into his anus with a force born of unexpected desire and the need for sexual gratification.
His muscles tensed for just a second but then his passage yielded to the assault as I settled into a steady thrusting motion, occasionally puling back almost to the point of exit so that he would cry out: “No darling, no my love – fuck me hard, fuck me harder.”
At the same time he was wanking with his right hand and reaching under to cup my balls with the left, the occasional squeeze adding to my unexpected pleasure in a job well done and much appreciated.
It was as I reached in to kiss him once more, my tongue as urgent as my cock was brutal, that he became to ejaculate a stream of jizz, his cries of intense pleasure swallowed by my kiss.
But if he was spent and exhausted, I still had a job to complete and I maintained my rhythm, pushing harder and harder into his willing body until, with one last moan of intense pleasure, I reared up and thrust so hard that he howled in a mixture of pain and deep passion as I pumped stream after stream of cum into his hole, not stopping the thrusting motion until I felt the very last seed that been expended.
I slumped onto that comforting expanse of chest, physically drained by my exertions but still pleased to see his look of deep satisfaction as my penis finally lost its rigidity and slipped free of him.
“My God,” he murmured. “That was the best fuck I’ve ever had son.”
I smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips as I stood and retrieved my clothes.
For a couple of minutes he lay there in just shoes, socks and suspenders, watching as I dressed.
Then he too gathered his clothes about him and started to dress, transforming himself back into the City gent he had been before we started out on our journey of desire.
I helped him with his stiff collar, fiddling with the tiny stud and then retying his tie, again kissing him – this time allowing myself the pleasure of slipping my tongue into his open mouth again as we enjoyed our final few moments together.
Then he reached into hi
s wallet, pulled out a crisp ten pound note and pushed it into the top pocket of my jacket.
“You were worth it son,” he sighed as he turned and walked to the door.
“I don’t know if we’ll ever meet again but I do know I’ll never experience anything as magical as your cock as long as I live.”
I allowed him to make his way through the bar and to the exit before leaving the room myself, just nodding at Tony – still polishing glasses and apparently still taking no real interest in the business around him – as I headed out once more into the cold.
Chapter Three
The fog was even more dense by now and it was hard to make anything out in detail as I emerged back into the hazy glow of Piccadilly once more.
But even as the fog swirled around, I recognised him straight away, unmistakable as we walked towards each other.
Tall, fair haired and with that distinguished soft blonde moustache that had always been so attractive to me, it was the Young Master, Captain Kenilworth Hardy as he had been the last time I saw him on the fateful night when I both lost and gained so much.
I might have tried to walk on past him had he not brought me to a halt with a cry of: “Good God! It can’t really be Sergeant Fitzgerald?”
“Captain!” I replied, only just stopping myself from saluting, remembering that we were in Civvie Street now.
“No Captain any more, no more respect due to senior officers,” he laughed as he took in every detail, no doubt observing the shabby jacket, too thin for the time of year, and the failing attempt to maintain some sort of standards.
“We’re not in the army any more Fitzgerald. It’s just plain Kenilworth Hardy now – Alex to my friends.”
I didn’t reply – whatever we had been it certainly wasn’t friends, though in one moment of fear and danger we had perhaps become something more than comrades.
Ignoring the frayed cuffs and the scuffed shoes he suggested I join him for a drink and pointed out that the Ritz was just a few yards along Piccadilly.
As we walked along through the fog my mind went back to those early days of the war, the patriotic fervor of the young estate lads like Eddie and myself joining the Young Master in our own regiment, heading off for training and then for the adventure of France.
The adventure, of course, quickly proved to be a vermin and flea infested hellhole, muddy trenches that were like drowning pools in the soaking wet of autumn and winter and then baking, uncomfortable furnaces when spring became summer.
Yet there was often a strangely heady atmosphere in that warren of passages carved out of the farmland of the Somme.
Young men who had arrived on a cloud of patriotic euphoria very quickly became homesick and lonely and although you’ll never read about in the official reports, some of those lads turned to each other in their fear and loneliness.
Furtive kisses might be exchanged in the darkness, a quick fumble in the shadows, perhaps even more when healthy young men who had returned from a few days leave in the brothels of Amiens realised they still had needs that hadn’t been completely satisfied on a French whore’s mattress.
If you saw something you shouldn’t see, you turned a blind eye and hoped that next time you’d be the lucky one taking a chance on a quick fuck while nobody was looking – because it might be your last.
Then came the day we went over the top, the day that Eddie –still laughing, still teasing me with that beautiful smile even though we had never touched each other in an intimate way since leaving the Great House – lost his life.
In the confusion, the shouting, the smoke, the bullets, the deafening explosions, I saw him fall as I went on, knowing that I too was unlikely to reach our objective.
And then the world seemed to stop, the sky filled with a blinding flash, following by a deafening roar and then an avalanche of mud, stones, debris – and still the endless enemy gunfire.
The explosion knocked me off my feet but as I fell I saw the Young Master slump to his knees and then onto his face in the mud.
Somehow, despite a searing pain in my own leg – a shrapnel wound I guessed – I crawled towards him, keeping as low as possible to avoid enemy bullets.
When I reached him I gathered him up in my arms and, regardless of the danger, staggered on with him until I saw the potential protection of a bomb crater and jumped in.
Around us the noise of battle continued, the screams of men in agony, the constant whistling of bullets, the explosions of heavy artillery and the subsequent showers of mud and debris that would fall on us in our unlikely sanctuary.
Not knowing whether the Young Master was alive or dead, I opened the top buttons of his tunic and slipped my hand beneath his undershirt, feeling for a heartbeat, which thankfully seemed regular and not too faint then.
At the same time, though, I could not help but feel the downy fur that covered his slender chest, as blonde no doubt as the neatly trimmed moustache and the wavy hair that now fell over his eyes.
Without even really thinking, I kept running my fingers through the chest hair, finding comfort in the unexpected intimacy and for one brief moment I even dared to slip a hand down to his groin, where I felt sure there really was the faint stirring of life as my fingers brushed over the outline of his penis.
Darkness had fallen and still the nightmare continued, the Young Master resting in my arms like a sleeping boy, unaware I was sure of the intimate pleasure of my fingers on his chest.
But then he started to stir, his eyes flickering open and I withdrew my hand quickly.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured. “I’ve felt your hand on my body – it gave me the strength to come back.”
In the darkness I hardly knew what to say but words seemed meaningless as he found the strength to cling to me, his strong arms encircling me as he leaned upwards and his lips brushed against mine for a kiss that was more about companionship and fear than lust.
Then he guided my hand between his legs and he whispered: “Touch me Bertie. This might be the last pleasure I ever experience.”
I fumbled with his flies and my hand reached within his trousers, fingers grasping the cock, which, much to my surprise, was already hard.
With just a few swift gestures I brought him to a silent climax – no more than a slight murmur of satisfaction - his warm cum trickling over my fingers as once more he slipped back into unconsciousness in my arms.
Then the cold and the noise and the increasing pain in my leg started to take their effect on me too and I also began to lose all sense of time and place.
I still don’t recall much about the next few hours, the rescue, the return to safety of the trenches, but I do remember being loaded onto a cart with the Young Master - perhaps there were no ambulances available for I was to learn later that casualties ran into thousands that night.
The one thing I do recall is that somewhere on the journey to safety, the medics decided that their priority was the Young Master – the Captain as they knew him – and that Private Fitzgerald should be left at a farmhouse far enough from the Front Line to be considered safe.
That was the last I saw of the Young Master, his lifeless body being loaded into a military ambulance as I was carried into the farmhouse where I saw a young woman with a baby in her arms looking at me with concern and compassion.
For the next couple of nights I was delirious, mainly unconscious, unaware of whether I was alive or dead, caught in a fever that burnt my body as the wound in my leg spread its searing pain through every fibre of my being.
But then, thanks perhaps to the almost constant care and attention of the young woman whose name I didn’t even know, the crisis was passed and I started to sleep more peacefully.
I may have slumbered for two here days but I remember that it was dusk when I finally awoke in that soft bed and looked around to see the girl sitting on a ro
cking chair in the corner, her blouse undone as she fed her baby.
I watched for several minutes as the baby suckled greedily at the large round left breast, its little hand grasping at the right nipple.
The girl looked up and saw me watching but instead of being embarrassed she simply smiled at me and continued to rock until the infant had taken enough.
She put the now sleepy baby in its crib but, instead of covering her beautiful heavy breasts – pure snowy white with a trace of pale blue vein just beneath the skin and with the large nipples and areola of the feeding mother - she walked over to the bed and lay down beside me.
Then she supported my head, took her right breast in her hand and directed my mouth to the nipple where I started to suck just as her child had done.
I felt the warmth of the girl’s milk, giving me renewed strength as I continued to suckle at the right teat until, a few minutes later, my nurse moved around to let me suck on the left.
And so we continued for several days, the baby getting its evening meal first and then it would be my turn, my chance to enjoy the comforting warmth of those beautiful breasts which, on the fourth evening maybe, I too dared to reach out and touch, stroking a nipple between finger and thumb as I sucked on the other.
The girl simply sighed and smiled and then, a couple of nights later, she must have noticed the strength returning to my groin for her hand went under my night shirt and touched my unexpectedly engorged cock.
I never stopped sucking but as I took my sustenance from her, she grasped my rod and started to pump gently but skillfully so that I shot my load in minutes, falling back onto the pillows and into an instant and very happy sleep.
The next night, after feeding the baby she approached the bed again, as usual, but this time she removed her blouse, her skirts and drawers and, wearing nothing but her corset and her black stockings, she straddled my body and guided my hard boner into her warm, moist cunt, giggling with delighted as I pierced her with my fully loaded weapon.
Soldiers and Lovers Page 2