Shellshocked

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Taken from the novel Below Blue London by Chrissie Bentley.  Available NOW from Mojocastle.  http://www.mojocastle.com/london/london.html

I like it the best when he doesn’t warn me that he’s coming.  Sometimes it’s okay, especially if I’m somewhere else at the time, sucking his balls or licking his shaft, or flicking his asshole with the tip of my tongue.  Because then I can stop and take him deep in my mouth, and savor every drop that he has to offer,

But if I’m already there, my lips straining around him, buckled by the veins that run down his shaft, with the tip of his cock against the roof of my mouth, then the only thing better than feeling him come is waiting to feel it, knowing that it’s growing, boiling in his balls, but biding its time, awaiting its moment… cometh the hour, cometh the man, as my history teacher used to quote all the time.  I don’t think this was quite what he meant, though.

I wonder if you appreciate the sheer beauty of the male orgasm.  The first burst is usually no more than the taster, a teasing jet that slides straight down your throat.  It’s the next one you have to take care of, because that’s the one that comes from deep in the balls, to flood your mouth and scald your tongue, and you have to make sure that you catch every drop, otherwise you risk missing out on the rest, and those are the one that he feels the most intensely. That’s how long it takes for his nerve-ends to realize what’s going on, and his brain to lock into the sight, sounds and sensations.  And that’s when you want him to cry out, when you look him in the eye as he slides right down your throat, and every secret he’s ever concealed is revealed.

Except one.  I wonder what it is?

********************************************

“Is there room for another one in there?”

The voice startled me, and I hated it for that.  This is my shelter, my hide-away and, if I’m going to die in here, I want to do it alone, and not have my body parts mashed up with a total stranger’s.  But of course I couldn’t say no, and it wouldn’t have mattered if I had.  The man was already pushing aside the wooden cabinet with which I’d blocked the doorway, and was squeezing his way inside.

“It’s murder out there tonight,” he breathed, and I recoiled from the odors that accompanied him, sweat and oil and brick dust and smoke.  Behind him, I could see the fires ripping through warehouses and storerooms that had already been gutted a dozen times.  It was amazing there was anything left in there to burn.

“How long has it been going?” I asked, because I knew he expected a response of some kind.

“Must be a couple of hours.  Jerry’s really giving it to the poor girl this evening.  Oh, and Merry Christmas to you.”

I smiled despite myself.  Only two hours, and I’d already forgotten all about Christmas; had forgotten about everything except keeping myself as still and small and quiet as I could, hoping that, if I didn’t move and barely breathed, the bombers wouldn’t know I was here, and would drop their load on somebody else.

A high-pitched shriek, above and outside.  I heard myself scream in concert with it; I clutched at the stranger, and immediately felt ashamed.  People say that you never hear the one that’s coming for you, and the muffled crash that merely shook dust down on our heads proved the wisdom of those words, as if I even needed reminding of them.

But the arrival of another person, barging his way into my private sanctuary had shattered my solitary calm.  Alone, I can crouch here and withdraw deep inside myself, until the drone of the Heinkels and the crash of the ack-ack, the collapsing of buildings and the cries of the trapped are no longer even audible.  One morning, I even missed the all-clear, simply sat in silence until old Mr Bannister, the neighborhood ARP man, poked his head around the gas curtain and almost frightened the life from me.  That was the day I dragged the old cabinet down here, and wedged it up against the door.   I was not going to sit through an all-night raid, only to be scared to death by the local butcher.

“Merry Christmas,” I echoed.  And then, “was it one?”

“I went into the country, Lowestoft way.  Spent a few days with my parents.  I was lucky, the only sod in my squadron to swing leave for Christmas.  I was on my way back when the warning sounded.”

“You’re an airman?”  My curiosity was piqued, despite my still simmering resentment.

“Well, not exactly an airman.  Ground crew, out at Manston.  Rearming, refueling, nothing glamorous.”

I was silent.  I wanted to say something noble, about how even the most insignificant job is vitally important, if it keeps our fighters in the air.  But it sounded trite before I even phrased the words.  Instead – “how were they?  Your parents?”

“Not so bad.  The harbor’s been hit fairly heavily, and some of the town, but it could be worse.  How did London fare while I was away?”

I thought for a moment, tried to summon up the memory.  “It was quiet, I think.  Yes, quiet.  People said there was a truce on, that Churchill and Hitler decided to give one another a break over Christmas.  But it was probably just the weather kept them away.  Tonight’s the first clear night we’ve had in a while, and the first raid as well.  The first bad one, anyway.”

“Yeah, they’re really making up for lost time.”  I heard a rustling sound.  “Cigarette?”

I shook my head, then remembered he couldn’t see me in the darkness of the shelter.  “No thanks.”  I almost added something else, a request that he not have one, either.  But how stupid was that, as if the underground flare of a single match, or the crimson glow of a tiny cigarette end, could even be seen amid the vast conflagrations that I knew raged all around us.  “Actually, yes I will,” I corrected myself.

Thick fingers fumbled for my hand, pressed the thin tube into my palm.  He struck a match and I caught, for the first time, a glimpse of my companion.  Dark hair, dark overalls, dark smudges on skin that glowed amber in the match light.  I caught his eye, as he evidently made an appraisal of me, and we both laughed.  “And what about you.  Your Christmas?”

“Quiet.  Family.  The usual thing.”  I could have said more, but I didn’t.  There was no need to explain that the shattered shell he clambered through to reach the shelter used to be my home; nor that the very last time I saw my parents, they were making their way back into the house, before my father left for his shift at the dockyard, and the only reason I wasn’t with them was, I’d stayed behind to fold our blankets.  Then there was a roar and a whoosh, and a hailstorm of debris and, when I emerged, the house, my parents, my entire existence was gone.  The Incident Officer said it was probably a delayed action bomb.  Probably.  Thanks.

“You’re still at school?”

“No, not now.  Land Army.  Or I will be in the New Year.  I signed up last month.  We’re shipping out on the second, off to raise potatoes in the countryside.”

“An army fights on its stomach, but they never give medals to cooks” he chuckled.  “Looks like we’re both doomed to be unsung heroes.  By the way, my name’s Frank.”

“Betty.”  I felt those thick fingers again, flailing in the dark in search of mine.  How wonderfully English.  Even in the darkness, with the entire Luftwaffe dropping bombs on our heads, we still feel the need to shake hands.

His grip was firm and lingering.  “Any idea where they’re sending you?”

“None.  I think it depends on where girls are needed most, but they probably wouldn’t tell us, even if they did know.”  I thought of my brother Pete, evacuated back when the war first started.  It was three weeks before anybody notified us where he’d been sent, and it was all dad and I could do to stop mum marching straight out of the house to bring him back, German invasion or no German invasion.  “No son of mine is going to grow up with a Welsh accent,” she swore, and we teased her for months about that.  But at least he was safe.  I wondered if he knew what had happened yet?  I wanted to write and tell him myself, but the lady at the shelter said it would have to be done through official channels.  I hope it was.

A sudden crash, closer than the last one.  I felt the sides of the shelter sway with the blast, tumbled backwards as Frank fell against me.  Through the ringing in my ears, I heard him speak.  “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I think so.  You?”

“Dandy.”  Debris was still falling around us, rattling on the stonework outside, and pinging off the old tin bath that was still propped against the wall.

“How deep is this shelter?” Frank asked.  “How much soil do you have over the top?”

“I don’t know.  It’s okay, I think.  Dad dug it pretty deep, deeper than they said he should.  And he planted potatoes on the roof, and they need a lot of earth to root in.”  I could still remember the day the shelter arrived, a pile of aluminum dumped on our front lawn while we slept, and a few pages of instructions.  It took him two days to dig out the trench, and that was with three neighbors chipping in.  By the time every house on Tooke Street had its shelter installed, the war had been on for almost a month.  And then it sat there for a year before we ever needed to use it.  But at least I knew it worked.

“That’s good.  You hear that metallic sound?  Like rain?”

“It’s debris from the last bomb.”

“No, it’s incendiaries.  If they land on the soil, we’re fine, they’ll have nothing to burn.  But if they land on bare metal, they’ll just melt their way through.”

I looked up towards the ceiling, less than a foot above my head.  “I check it every morning,” I assured him, and tried to remember if I’d done it today.  I think I did; some things had become such second nature that you sometimes didn’t realize you were doing them at all.  “Yes, we’re okay.”

We sat in silence after that, smoking occasionally, but mostly motionless.  I felt myself slipping back into the semi-conscious dream world in which I’d become so adept at enveloping myself; heard his breathing growing deeper, to merge with the explosions around and the droning above.  How many bombers did they have, I wondered, that they could fill the entire night with them?  And how many bombs?

A flash, brighter than the sun.  A roar, louder than a train.  The sense of soaring upwards, which changed, the moment I was aware of it, into a sense of falling down.  A pain in my head, a blow to my spine, and a cloying fog that spread thick into my lungs, so that every breath left me gasping for air.  And then silence, cold and absolute.

For a moment I lay there, terrified to move.  The blackness was thick and all around me.  Gingerly I raised myself on my elbows, and then clambered onto my knees.  I reached an arm up to brace myself against the roof of the shelter.  It was gone.  I stretched to touch the sides.  There was nothing there, either… no, wait, there was, but it was cold, damp.  Brickwork.

The silence scared me.  “Frank?”  My voice was a whisper, my throat thick with the same filth that was clogging my nostrils.  “Frank, are you there?”

“I’m here.  Are you okay?”

“I think so.  Where are you?”

“I’m not sure.  I can’t move.  Something’s on my chest.  It’s alright, it doesn’t hurt, I just can’t shift it.”

“Can you reach your matches?”

“I’m not sure.  Better not.  Gas.”  You never read about it in the newspapers, but everybody had heard the stories of the families who survived a direct hit, only to be blown to bits when they lit a candle.

“Okay, keep talking and I’ll find you.”  Shuffling forward on my knees, my hands outstretched… okay, we’re definitely not in the shelter any longer.  Four feet, maybe five feet; finally, I felt him, warm on the cold stone floor.  “Where do you think we are?”

“I don’t know.  It depends where the bomb hit,” he said slowly.  “The blast could have blown us anywhere.  But I’d say a cellar.  There’s that same damp smell.  I just hope we’re not buried too deeply.”

The air was beginning to clear, it was becoming easier to breathe.  “I don’t smell gas,” he continued.  “Let’s give it another five minutes, and maybe I’ll chance a match.”

“Okay.”  I felt around his body, trying to determine what was holding him down; whatever it was, it was huge.  “It feels like a telegraph pole, or a street light,” I said, and that made sense.  One had toppled into the rubble during the last big raid.  If this latest blast had caused it to slip, it could easily have wound up in our cellar.

I tried to picture the layout of the room, but it was difficult.  I rarely came down here in peacetime; I don’t think I ever ventured down those rickety wooden steps once the war started – and this was the reason why.  For fear of the rest of the house falling in on top of me.

“I think we’re safe.”  I felt his arm shift alongside me, and then a groan.  “This bloody pole.  I can’t actually reach my pocket… my jacket pocket.  Will you get them? And fish out my cigarettes as well.  I think we need one.”

I leaned over, patting my hands down his torso till I felt the bulge of his pocket, then struck a match.  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden burst of fire, and the match had burned halfway down to my fingers before I was able to focus properly.  Frank was right, we were in the cellar.  I looked hurriedly around, to see if there was any old newspaper around – there was, and I touched the flame to one edge, just as it singed my fingertip.  It blossomed into brilliant light.  “There should be an old fireplace… yes, there it is.  Let’s see if I can get a fire going.  At least we’ll have light and warmth.”

“Be careful.”

“It’s alright.  If this is our cellar, then they turned the gas and electricity off weeks ago, and there’s been enough rain to make sure I don’t set the whole place ablaze.  In fact, the problem will be finding much that is dry enough to burn.”  Somehow I did it, though, and while you could never call our situation cozy, the flickering flames at least chased the chill from the room, and some of the fear along with it.   Which is when I turned and saw Frank’s leg.

“You are hurt.  Oh my God, look at your leg.”

He tried to crane his neck, but was unable to.  “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.  There’s blood.  Sweet Jesus, why didn’t I join the ambulance brigade?”

“Hey, calm down, it can’t be that bad.  It doesn’t hurt, and I can move it okay.  Look.”  He flexed each leg, one at a time, bent them at the knee, kicked them at the air.   And then he stopped and grimaced.  “Alright, now that did hurt.  Up at the top.  Left thigh, near my groin.”

I knelt.  His trousers were shredded, and there was so much blood that it was difficult to tell where fabric ended and flesh began.  “I’m going to have to tear away some of this cloth.”  I began ripping; it tore easily, flaps of fabric peeling back, and every time he winced as congealing blood tugged at the hairs of his upper legs, I bit back an apology.  But then I moved something else, something soft and warm and pliable, and this time it was me who squealed out.  “God, I’m sorry.  I thought it was your belt.”

Shell Shocked

“That’s okay.  Do you see anything?”

“No, there’s just blood.  I’m going to try and clean some of it away.”  I looked around, hoping that some clean rainwater might have collected in… oh, I don’t know, an old cracked cup, a conveniently placed bowl.  There was nothing.  “I’m going to have to use spit.  It’s alright, I don’t have anything contagious.”  I licked two fingertips and wiped at the skin.  Pale flesh peeped through, but I needed more liquid.   Turning away from his curious gaze, I let a glob of saliva fall onto my fingers, then smeared it across his leg, diluting the blood and cleaning the skin, working my way outwards towards his inner thigh, upwards towards his groin.  “I’m still not seeing anything.”

“Try going up a little further.”

I wiped my hair off my brow, soaked my fingers again, and swept the spit in a straight line to the top of his leg.  The thing that wasn’t his belt shifted slightly, a little twitch that startled me.  I didn’t know they could do that… in fact, I didn’t know much about them at all, beyond the whispers and giggles that circulated around my old schoolfriends, and most of that was probably rubbish.

I worked up another mouthful of spit, and this time let it fall straight onto his leg. My fingers were in his groin now, feeling the muscle taut beneath the skin, and the hairs that grew like a forest down there (oh my God, I touched his balls) tickled my knuckles.  His thing twitched again.  I wished it wouldn’t do that.  I wanted to move it away, flop it over on his other thigh, but that would mean touching it again, and I couldn’t do that… I simply couldn’t.

I would ignore it.  “I’m still not seeing anything.  Guide my fingers to where the pain is the worst.”  I knew I was getting closer, I could tell from the way his breathing had changed, tight little pants through which his voice sounded clipped, almost choked.  “Down a little… no, a little more.  And to your right…” Thank Heaven, he was directing me away from his thing.  “alright… yeah… OW!”  I pulled aside a flap of cloth, the remains of his pocket lining.  A gash gaped open there, although it was difficult to tell how big it was, where the actual wound ended and the spilled blood began.

“I’m going to try and wipe it down, so I can see what we’ve got.  Tell me if it hurts too much.  I just need to make some more spit.”

Alright.  I positioned myself over the spot, pushed the saliva out with my tongue.  Thick and viscous, it clung to my bottom lip for a moment, then fell at the same time as his thing twitched once again.  I flinched back and the spit released, to fall thick and foamy across his penis.

I panicked.  Without even thinking, my hands flew to wipe it off, holding it with one while the other tried to catch the dribble on a finger.  But I was only making things worse, as the flesh rolled with my movements and the saliva slipped into the creases in his skin.  Blood from my hands stained his flesh.  Oh shit, and that’s swearing, it was just getting messier and messier, and hotter and heavier, and I didn’t know what to do, or what to say, but I kept on wiping and then Frank started groaning, and I was sure I must be hurting him, but deep down I knew I wasn’t.  Deep down, where I felt that warmth in my belly and the thrill in my throat, I suddenly realized that the very worst thing I could do now was stop.

My wrist was hurting; I needed a better grip.  I slowed my movements, and his moans subsided with them.  But I kept hold of him and lightly squeezed him in my fist.  He was like nothing I had ever touched before, hotter than any flesh I’d felt and, suddenly, so hard.  I hadn’t even noticed that before, how the flesh had swollen and the skin had stretched, and that funny purple bulb now peeped above the parapet… it even had an eye and, as I gazed down into it, so a sudden twitch made it look as though it had just winked at me.

There was a smear of blood around the rim of the bulb.  I rolled my tongue inside my mouth, drew up some spit and very slowly bent forward, to drip it onto the stain.  The smell that offended me when Frank first entered the shelter reached up to assail me as I leaned in closer, but I didn’t mind it now.  A little closer.  Precision bombing.  Fatty Goering would be proud of me.  I opened my mouth and my spit rolled out, but it still clung to my lip as it dripped onto his… call it by its name, Betty, the name you heard behind the gasworks with the gigglers… his cock.  His big hard cock.

I ran my tongue across my lips to break the strand of spit that linked us, then sucked the liquid back into my mouth.  I felt a tang on the edge of my taste buds, that same smell but thicker, and my heart was beating in my throat, loud and fast and exultant.  With one finger, I smeared the spit across the bulb, and Frank moaned aloud; I raised my head and looked at him, still pinioned by that fallen street lamp, but smiling now, his eyes closed, the tip of his tongue poking through his teeth.  I wanted to kiss him, but I didn’t want to move, for fear of breaking the spell that held us both in its thrall.

My lips were dry and tingling and, for the first time in my life, I understood what they meant in cheap romances, when the heroine yearned for the hero.  My entire body

was aching to touch and be touched, and I let my free hand wander down to stroke between my legs.  My fingers came away damp and sticky; I pressed them hard against the crotch of my knickers, and felt the flesh beneath them yield beneath the pressure.

I had never touched myself there before, not like this, and I wondered why?  Hiking up my skirt, certain that Frank could not see what I was doing, I plunged my hand down the front of my knickers, slipped a finger inside myself.  Slowly, I started to move it in and out, and my other hand echoed the motion, rolling the firm flesh of Frank’s cock.

The darkness was returning, the fire was dying down.  My hands were shadows before my eyes, growing fainter and fainter in the accelerating blackness.  I had a thought, but I needed to wait until I was certain he couldn’t see me.  I was so wet down there, so slick; my finger… two fingers now… slid in and out with ease.  I drew my hand slowly from my panties, wiped its dripping moisture across his cock, and heard the comical squelching of wet flesh as I rolled it.  My own scent was in my nostrils now, mingled with his, and the last spark blinked out.  It was now or never.

I tipped my tongue to his cock, and then kissed it with my lips. A memory flashed in the back of my mind.  Something I’d seen, back when I was a kid.  Or did I dream it?  I couldn’t remember, it was so long ago.  But my sister and a boy, on the sofa in the drawing room.  He had his back to me, so I couldn’t see exactly what was happening.  But it looked like he had his thing in her mouth, and she looked happier in that moment than I’d ever seen her, even happier than on her wedding day, or on the day she and her husband emigrated to Australia.  And I made up my mind right then.  That’s how happy I wanted to be, all the time.  So, here goes….

I expected the flavor to flood into my mouth, and was disappointed when I received a mere tingle of taste.  I parted my lips a little, the flat of my tongue laid against his thickness, and then parted them a little more.  He gasped, an intake of breath so loud that it startled me and, for a moment, I almost withdrew.  But the sound subsided and – hey, that wasn’t a twitch, that was a fully fledged spasm and it felt, for a moment, as though he was inside my mouth, forcing my jaw wider than it had ever stretched before, firm and warm against my teeth, and just moments away from choking me.  I drew my head back to catch a breath, then lowered it again.  He wasn’t going to catch me out a second time.

Now he really was in my mouth, hot and thick and my taste buds were screaming as his full flavor flooded my senses, sweet but bitter, sweaty but delicious.  A coppery undertaste… for a second, I worried that I’d scraped him with my teeth, but then logic clicked in and I wondered whether the wound in his leg had stopped bleeding yet?  Holding him firm in my mouth alone, I lay my palm on his leg.  It was still a little sticky, but that was all, so I swept my fingertips down his groin, and played them across his balls.  They were so soft beneath their hairs, and I wondered what they might feel like in my mouth?  But not now.  There was still so much to savor here and, though my jaw was aching and my mouth was full, I wondered if I could fill it even more?

“Suck!”  I heard the word, but I could not fit it into any context that made sense.  With my mouth?  But how?  It was already stretched so wide that I didn’t see how I could even begin to work the muscles… unless… it was as though an instinct I had never known I possessed had suddenly kicked into action, releasing the pressure that made my jaw scream, opening my mouth even wider to accommodate his girth.  I drew in my cheeks.  Like that?   And then he said it again, even louder this time, but it wasn’t “suck,” it was a cry of “Fuck!” and the first wave of his fluid took me so by surprise that I didn’t even have time to gag, choke or cough.

It slipped down my throat, thick and cloying and salty.  I was about to pull back, but the juices kept coming, and I couldn’t think what else I could do but accept them, hold them on my tongue until the deluge finally abated.  I raised my head and swallowed hard, but the taste still lingered, coating my mouth, acclimatizing my tongue to its flavor.

I wanted more, and now I sucked hard, as his stiffness evaporated and shrunk into itself, and then I had the whole thing in my mouth, my nose nestling into the hairs at the base, and my bottom lip curling on the curve of his balls.   And then it was my turn to climax, as my fingers slammed inside me, and I cried out in ecstasy, my entire body buckling beneath the storm surge.  I attempted to steady myself, but it was no use, so I gave up even trying.  I collapsed onto Frank’s lap, and didn’t even notice as the back of my head crashed against the lamp post – although I certainly felt it later, as a blinding blue sky lit up my whole world and a voice called out to an unseen crowd, “Okay, we’ve got them.  Lower away.”  Then a cheer went up, and rough hands reached down to steady the swinging and pat my arm gently.

Blinking in the daylight, clutching a hot cup of tea, I looked around for Frank.  “The gentleman’s on his way to the hospital, love.  Doesn’t look good, although I’m no doctor.  You just got a nasty bang on the head, although you’re lucky to be alive, that’s the truth.  If that ledge hadn’t been there to break your fall, you’d have sailed from here to an early grave.”

The ledge?  He pointed up to a jagged outcrop of floorboards, some thirty feet off the ground… it was all that was left of my old bedroom, with its bright floral wallpaper, and odd stain on the ceiling.  I sat up.  “But we were underground.  In the cellar.  I know, I lit a fire and looked around.  There was a lamppost.  Frank was trapped underneath it.  He hurt his leg as well.  And we were worried about gas, so we sat in the dark for the longest time.”

Mr Bannister, his kind face shadowed by his chipped tin helmet, shook his head.  “Well, that’s as maybe, love.  All I know is, up there’s where you were spotted, by a postman doing his rounds, and up there’s where we hauled you down from.”  I saw his eyes dart sideways, to catch those of a colleague, and wondered what secret message flashed between them.  “But let’s not worry about that now.  They’ll be wanting to give you the once-over at the center, so you just rest easy, and we’ll have you there in a jiffy.”

I allowed strong hands to push me back down onto the stretcher, watched the sky as I was lifted… one, two, three, hup!… into the back of a waiting wagon, and then it disappeared as the doors closed behind me.  I raised my hands to my face and inhaled deeply. Soot, dirt, nothing else.  My tongue explored my mouth. Dust, grime, and early-morning staleness.  There was no trace of Frank, no taste of Frank, and my head hurt so badly now that nothing seemed to make sense.

That’s what the doctors said as well, as they made their notes and smiled their smiles, and the stern looking nurses dished out endless cups of tea.  They say that if I’m strong enough, they’ll discharge me in a month or two, although the Land Army has already released me, as unfit to serve, and I’m really not certain what I’ll do next.

But what they don’t know is, I do still have Frank, and the only thing that keeps me going here is knowing that he’s with me.  They told me he was dead, that the force of the blast killed him instantly, and hitting the wall did the rest.  But he visits me every evening when they’re not around to watch, and I can suck his cock all night if I want to.  And I do.