Ace!

by

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft, Consensual, Historical, .

Desc: Sex Story: During the Battle of Britain, a young pilot gets five kills in a single day, a young female pilot.

Regina was in the cockpit of the Spitfire called PG-9 checking the gauges, ticking them off one-by-one on the clipboard list when the scramble horn sounded. She only hesitated a moment, tossed the board and list out, yanked the little access door closed, slid forward the canopy and pulled back the throttle and adjusted the mix. She revved the engine, released the parking brake and spun out of the revetment and then taxied to the end of the runway, pulling on the helmet as she did, her heart racing and a smile on her pretty face.

“Peter-George Nine ready to roll,” she announced, holding down the mike button and keeping her voice low. She could see men running toward the parked planes.

“Get going, angels twenty, southwest. Go, go. They’re coming right at us.”

Another plane pulled up beside her, wingtips nearly touching, and they roared down the tarmac together and lifted almost simultaneously. Regina watched the gear come up under the other plane and found the lever. She had never flown a Spit nor any plane with retraceable gear.

The pair climbed together, and she saw a flight of gray bombers with bulbous glass noses heading right for her, skimming the tree tops. She peeled away and went for them head on, clicked on her guns and got a red light on the dash.

Empty.

Damn, she ducked low and flew straight through the enemy formation, saw a few tracers, banked left and headed back to the satellite airfield, almost coasting, very embarrassed as well as angry. The Dorniers had disappeared, skipping her small field and heading for the city.

“George Peter Nine, no ammo; permission to land. Oh, Peter George nine, sorry.”

“Circle once,” said the voice. “Who is this?”

She tuned off the mike and swung wide, lining up the runway as she watched another fighter take off.

She started down and the alarm went off. She smiled to herself, flared out, dropped the wheels, landed smoothly and taxied to the amourer’s area. The only other planes she had flown were an old Piper and a Tiger Moth. She had soloed six months ago, right after turning sixteen, lied about her age and joined the RAF auxiliary, the WAAF. She still remembered that first night in the barracks. She had been a virgin that morning when she took the oath, but by the next dawn, she knew a lot, including that she like fucking and hated the taste of cocks.

Two men jumped up on each wing and she let the Rolls engine idle while they quickly filled her ammo hatches with belted machine gun bullets. It took less than five minutes, and she took off again and headed southwest fast with three hundred .303 bullets for each gun.

At twelve thousand, she saw them, a flight of five DO-17’s in echelon. There was no time to turn. She flicked on her trigger, leaned forward, ignored the tracer coming at her and when the first twin-engined bomber filled her sight, punched twice with her thumb, very short bursts into the right engine and slid to the side and fired at bulbous canopy of the second plane and then nosed up and put three short blasts into the underside of the third. She pulled back, went inverted and turned quickly to see three Germans falling out of the sky, two trailing smoke as several parachutes appeared, one of the other two was headed toward the ground but the other suddenly appeared right in front of her, bomb bay doors open. She gave him a short burst into the wing root and dove for the lone bomber headed inland.

The Spit reached 300 mph before the Dornier filled her gunsight, weaving from side to side. She shot, missed, slipped sideways, throttled back and fired again until her guns were empty. The bomber exploded in a ball of flame, sheet metal and smoke.

Guns empty and fuel low, Regina found her field, circled, got permission and landed, taxied to the ammo area and killed the engine. She slid back and canopy and yelled, “I need petrol.”

A major with a bristling mustache climbed the wing, glared at her and yelled, “Get the bloody hell out of that frigging plane!”

She blinked at him as the tanker arrived, asked, “Sir?” and hit the starter. The already hot engine roared to life and the officer was nearly blown off the wing, as his hat went flying.

Regina taxied to the other end of the short runway where three big tankers waited. She spun about and a thick hose was quickly attached and fuel pumped into her tanks. The cover was smacked closed and one man signaled thumbs up just as the hatless major came running across the field. The girl quickly turned onto the landing strip and gunned the big engine. The tail came up and she rose, smiling, and pulled the retract handle.

Noise crackled in her earphones and a breathless voice said, loudly, “Circle the field, be useful at least.”

She got trimmed up and leaned back, relaxed and made wide left turns about the countryside, alert, hoping for trouble but saw nothing but returning Spitfires. Evidently the raid was over. Thirty minutes later, low on fuel, she carefully landed, taxied to the storage area, swung about and got out of her plane, slid down the wing and hurried away.

By the time the bell rang for the evening meal, the story was widespread and everyone was talking about how some female had hijacked a Spitfire.

That night in the arms of her young lover, a flight lieutenant from a very wealthy Canadian family, she cuddled and purred, highly satisfied, the man’s limp prick in her hand, hoping for more.

“Did y’hear,” he asked, “some splittail took a crate up this morning.”

“Can’t believe it, really?”

“What they say. Spit had one of those new gun cameras, tied to the trigger somehow. They’re processing the film. Slut fired off 1200 rounds.”

“Um, you’re getting hard, aren’t you?”

“Doubt it. You wrung me out, you did. Major’s fiercely angry, says the woman nearly killed him.”

“Oh well, no harm done, eh? Plenty of majors about.”

They laughed and kissed, and she stroked his swelling male member and palmed its blunt head.

“Want to be on top?” he asked, patting her firm butt.

“Now I know why some call it a joystick,” she said with a laugh as she mounted his slim body and eased herself down his stiff shaft.

The next morning at breakfast in the shabby messhall, all the chatter was about the hijacked Spitfire and the story was that the gun film showed that she had hit five different Germans bombers and probably downed at least two of them.

She hurried back to the parked planes, found PG-9 but could not find the clipboard and the list she had been working on so she started another, finished that job and moved to the next plane down the line.

By the evening meal, the story was that the mystery pilot had been credited with four confirmed kills and one probable. A captured German pilot had said that all five of the planes in his wing had been shot down and that six fighters had jumped them from above.

Regina spent that night in Group Captain Manning’s bed and enjoyed his strenuous attentions thoroughly and then lay back beside him smoking a cigarette. “Who’s the girl?” he asked. “You know all the WAAFs; who had the nerve?”

“Lots of us. I could have done it myself.”

“Haw, haw. Course you could. How ‘bout licking the poor thing, dearie?”

The next morning the newspapers and the radio stations had the story and were saying that a female had shot down five German planes and was the Britain’s first woman ace. The search was on to find the girl and pin a medal on her.

That afternoon Regina was called into the squadron office and reported to the C.O. in her number one uniform. She saluted and stood before his desk. He smiled up at her. “This the one?” he asked the major sitting off to the side.

“Might be,” he said, rubbing his bushy mustache. Regina didn’t even glance at him. “Only saw her for a moment; damn’ near killed me, she did.”

“Corporal,” said the colonel with a smile, “did you nip one of our planes and had a bit of a joy ride t’other day?”

Regina blinked at him and shook her head, suppressing a smile. “No sir, not me.”

He opened a folder. “Says her you’ve got a license, soloed in a Moth. That right?”

“Yes sir. That’s tight.”

“So you do know how to fly, eh?”

Regina licked her lips.

“Do you know who took the fighter and flew off, got her story in the papers?”

“No sir, haven’t heard a single word.”

“What do you think, major,” the colonel turned to the bluff man.

“Couldn’t say, sorry. Might be her.”

“All right, corporal, dismissed. Stay out of trouble.”

Regina saluted, about faced and left, blushing.

Regina was in the cockpit of the Spitfire called PG-9 checking the gauges, ticking them off one-by-one on the clipboard list when the scramble horn sounded loudly and repeatedly. She only hesitated a moment, tossed the board and list out, yanked the little access door closed, slid forward the canopy and pulled back the throttle and adjusted the mix. She revved the engine, stood on the right-hand brake and rudder, spun out of the revetment and then taxied to the end of the runway, pulling on the helmet as she did, wobbling from side to side to see ahead, her heart racing and a smile on her pretty face.

“Peter-George Nine ready to roll,” she announced, holding down the mike button and keeping her voice low. She could see men running toward the parked planes.

“Get going, angels twenty, southwest. Go, go. They’re coming right at us.”

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Story tagged with:
Ma/ft / Consensual / Historical /