I write this story about my Aunt Charlotte with mixed emotions. In a certain sense, I guess it would be honest to tell you that I have always harbored some feelings for my Aunt Charlotte that were not of a familial nature. It seems like a long time ago but for some of us oldsters with hearts still ticking, the danger and excitement of a global war was the height of non-boredom.

Charlotte, in retrospect, was probably the most beautiful and sexy woman I have ever met in my entire life and she did it all with a flair of normalcy that defied wisdom or belief. At that time, I was decidedly underage, but even a boy just past puberty has a right to fanaticize about the glorious world of secrets under a female's skirt.

My name is Harry Higgins and I missed the big war not having reached my age of eighteen until 1946. In a way, I felt inordinately cheated in not having a chance to shoulder a rifle and start hunting "Japs" in their natural habitat of the jungle or to chase the Nazi criminals who were hell-bent on running the entire world including the good old U.S. of A.

Getting back to Charlotte Morgan's skirt and what she was hiding underneath it, I find it necessary to describe her to you the reading audience with unbiased honesty. I know, you are quite right, it would be impossible for me to be completely unbiased because I was at that time so thoroughly obsessed with her that even had dreams of groveling at her feet and kissing her red-painted toes.

In 1944, the city of New York was a safe haven unlike the unfortunate London that was the primary target of Hitler's bombing campaign to break the will of the British populace. Still, the air wardens were evident on most rooftops at night, the spotlights crisscrossed the dark skies looking for sneak attacks and there were rumors of German submarines landing on the shores of Brooklyn and they were not looking for a hot dog at Nathan's.

My parents had a two story flat-roof that sat on a steep hill on the east side and it was always filled with transients who were not even remotely related to the family.

My father was off fighting the Japs in a strange place called "Iwo Jima" and I couldn't even find it on the map at school. My mother worked at the ball-bearing factory way down on Canal Street and had to walk to work because we were trying to save money to buy "War Bonds". My older sister Trisha was a hostess at the Armed Forces club up near Broadway and she spent her nights doing her best to keep the fighting forces morale up high for the terrible fighting in their future. Anyway, my Aunt Charlotte had the bedroom next to mine because her husband Patrick was already under the waters of the Navy Base in Honolulu at Pearl Harbor for the past three years. That was the reason why Aunt Charlotte decided to join the Women's Army Corps and become an honest to God "WAC". It was sort of strange that the only one in our house to wear a uniform in and out the front door every day was a female but most of the men were a long way away except for those lucky enough to classify as "4F" on the induction examination. I think the worse insult at that time was to be called 4F. In all honesty, it was even worse than being called a "Faggot". I wasn't quite sure exactly what a faggot was, but I knew it had to be bad because it almost always started a fight.

My Aunt Charlotte was not a big woman.

In fact, she was shorter than me and probably only weighed about a hundred pounds. My sister Trisha was much bigger than her in the hips and she had a pair of melons for boobs that she had to lift with both hands to allow my mom to wash underneath when she came out of the kitchen bathtub. The fact the bathtub was in the kitchen allowed me to see all the women in the family in their naked glory but I was only interested in seeing my Aunt Charlotte with her clothes off as I was quite normal and not in the least bit perverted. I remember Charlotte prided the fact she had a bush of red hair that matched her curls on top perfectly. I think the joke at the time was "Does the rug match the curtains?"

When she got into her running shorts and top she looked almost like a boy because she had a small tight backside and her boobs were on the smallish side that could be easily cupped by a loving palm even as small as mine. Her nipples were quite pronounced but it was obviously a genetic trait because my mom had the same thing not that I spent much time looking at my mom's nipples.

I used to hold her ankles when she was doing her sit-up exercises and I would sometimes even sit on her feet to hold her steady at the very end when she was grunting with exertion. Charlotte was keen on the physical fitness thing because she was assigned as a female guard out at the Brooklyn Navy Yard to guard the new P.O.W. s being transported in from overseas. They would be processed there and sometimes stayed a long time because the new camps were not open yet out west. Of course, Charlotte had no idea at all how obsessed I was with her and she even allowed me to watch her finish dressing after she had her panties and bra on so I wasn't exposed to anything of a sexual nature in her mind. She didn't realize how much I got off on just watching her straighten her nylons and put on her lipstick. I never once got smart by trying to touch her unless she asked me to check her uniform for "Irish Pennants" or other unwanted oddities.

I really loved it when she put on her belt with the nightstick and the holster that carried her standard Military Policewoman sidearm that she used to maintain order at the dock. I looked at that gun with adoring reverence because it represented the entire war to me. It was a symbol of authority that put everything into perspective. I couldn't imagine any of those prisoners questioning her right to order them around and despite her small stature she exuded a command presence that I hoped someday I would have in spades.