Part the First: Beta Girl

My name is Bill Rooney and I was born in Shoreditch in the East End of London in 1927. When I was 13 the Blitz began. The German bombers were particularly thick above my family home in the Thames docklands, so I joined the exodus of juvenile evacuees and, in November 1940, was billeted on a family in rural Dorset.

Oh, my dear young reader! You who have lived in times of peace and prosperity! I am so happy for you! I hope that you are my friend, but even if you were my worst enemy I would not wish you to be subjected to the trauma of those terrible days. I was lucky; I was not old enough to fight, and I was too young to be left to the tender mercies of Hitler's Luftwaffe. I got out. But, even so, to be torn from a happy family in a bustling and exciting metropolis, and to be dumped in a quiet country backwater among strangers, well, at first it devastated me. There were five of us children, my brother, my three sisters, and I, and the War scattered us to the four winds. I well remember our last night together as a family. There were tears aplenty from mother and the girls, and us lads too had lips that were quivering. We did not live together again as a family until 1945, and I will never forget the exhilaration of our reunion, the ecstatic joy of the armistice celebrations in central London, and the gigantic relief that none of our close relatives were killed or injured.

But these mighty and tragic themes are not for my pen. I am no Euripides, Tolstoy or Ibsen. My tale is in a lighter vein; I aim merely to titillate and amuse. I hope that you like my story. At least it shows that, even in those dark days, the human spirit was not easy to crush. Girls will be girls; boys will be boys. Young blood runs hot, and young flesh is passionate.

I was billeted on the family of the Rev. Thomas Stokes, an Anglican clergyman. In 1940 he was about 40 years old. His wife, Mrs Sarah Stokes, was younger than him. She was in her early thirties and her daughter, her only child Anna, was 16. For a few weeks we all lived together in the large vicarage, but then the vicar volunteered as an army chaplain. He spent the rest of the war in various barracks in England and then, after the opening of the Second Front in June 1944, he followed the troops as they advanced on Germany.

For the first few weeks I was thoroughly miserable in my new home. I was a working class lad and the restrained, genteel environment of a country vicarage was hard to take. I found it very difficult to fit in. The only bright spot was my schooling; I was quite an intelligent young chap, so they sent me to the boys Grammar School in a nearby town. Opposite my school there was a sister institution for girls where Anna studied, and where her mother Sarah spent part of her time teaching Geography, and the rest of it being one of the PT (physical training) and games mistresses.

After a month or so I settled down and I became a bit happier. The first good news was that just before Christmas 1940 the vicar left to take up his army duties. He was a stiff, stern, formal, unbending man with no discernable tenderness or sense of fun, and I was not sorry to see him go. Then, over Christmas, there were carol services and children's parties at the Church, which was now serviced by a much friendlier and more pleasant vicar from an adjacent parish. Meanwhile I was making some good (indeed lifelong) friends at school, where my cockney accent and my streetwise anecdotes from the Big Smoke (as we Brits sometimes refer to our capital city) gave me a certain aura and cachet.

Anna, however, was a problem. She quickly discerned from her father's attitude towards me that I was, in class terms, her social inferior; and in those more structured and formal days there was a certain stigma attached to that. Then I was three years younger than her. She played the sophisticated adult lady to perfection. She patronised me, and treated me as a child. Even worse, I had no experience at surviving in a middle class environment and I possessed none of the necessary social skills and graces; I made gaffes and faux pas aplenty, and Anna teased me mercilessly about them. As for the usual middle class cultural accomplishments, well, I lacked those too. Anna was a good pianist, with a beautiful singing voice; as for me, it was as much as I could manage to play the paper and comb. Anna could make a very passable stab at knocking off a Scarlatti sonata, a Mozart minuet or a Chopin prelude; at that time my knowledge of music was limited to the Music Hall, and to Al Bowly, George Formby and the other popular entertainers featured on the BBC's Light Programme wireless service. Oh, yes! Anna was a shrewd and intelligent social observer. She soon picked up the nuances. She delighted in keeping me firmly in my lowly niche, and she soon slapped me back into it with her mocking and vituperative tongue if, in her opinion, I began to show tendencies that were above my station.

And yet, dear reader, and yet! Despite her haughty aloofness, I was infatuated with my persecutor. She was the only youthful female to whom I had ready access. I was randy and frustrated, and she was beautiful. In those days of hardship and poverty some of the girls in my native East End were pasty, scrawny, small, stunted and malnourished. In contrast, Anna was tall, big-boned and meaty. For a girl of her age she had a beautifully curvaceous, well-developed body and she exuded an easy grace, amplitude and charm. Her hair was long, black and crinkly, her skin milk white except for a healthy ruddiness in her cheeks, and her bright blue eyes shone like sapphires. In a way her aloofness and her unattainability added to her charms. I fancied her like mad, but all I looked set to get from her was rejection, ridicule and contempt. Well, I was not the first working class lad to be infatuated with a youthful middle class lady, and I do not think that I shall be the last.

I suppose that my torment, and my degradation, might have lasted for the entire war. But then, in the dark days of midwinter, Anna made a mistake, an error that was to prove pleasurable for both of us but in the short term also quite painful for her. She began to inject a sexual component into her persecution. It all started on Christmas Eve, when I was on my way to bed. The door of Anna's room swung open as I passed by, and there, inside, was Anna in her long flannel nightdress.

"Come in!" she said imperiously. I meekly obeyed, and she quietly shut the door after me.

"Do you know what that is?" she asked, pointing to a twig that was hanging from the ceiling by a string.

"Mistletoe," I answered.

"Correct!" replied Anna in a particularly irritating and patronising tone of approval, as if she were a schoolmarm praising a small child. "And you know what?"

"No."

"Well, you can kiss me under it if you like. Yes, that's right." (As I stood wide eyed in astonishment.) "A Christmas kiss."

Well, there was more offensive persiflage from Anna along the same lines, but soon we were both under the mistletoe and I was about to do the business.

Now this, dear reader, is where, at long last, I had the advantage over my temptress. For all her airs and graces and her age advantage, Anna was still a callow and naive virgin. I, on the other hand, was not. In the East End the lower orders used to start snogging and bonking at an early age. I had experience, of heavy petting and of more, in bus shelters, behind bike sheds, and in a hut that we used to break into on our local allotments. Young as I was, I was the proud possessor of a thick, reusable rubber condom, and I had already put it to good use. I had deflowered one of my female acquaintances, and I had had sexual intercourse with several others. I now resolved to put this superior expertise to good use. Anna's contemptuous concession had really got my goat. In the absence of any more suitable or eligible young man this frustrated virgin intended to use me as her sexual plaything before, no doubt, tossing me aside as a creature of no worth. But no, I thought. If I have anything to do with it that is not the way it will go. This could be my chance to turn the tables on Little Miss Stuck Up. If this goes to plan the Crafty Cockney may yet prove more than a match for the naive, well-bred country girl! But first, I thought, I must do this bit right. I must try to use this one opportunity under the mistletoe to set up something for the future.

Like Anna, I too was tall for my age. In fact, I was about the same height as her. I now took advantage of this fact to stand close to her and slowly extend my arms around her waist. Then I embraced her tenderly, and gently placed my lips against hers. To lull her into a false sense of security I then left the next move up to her.

What my new paramour did next surprised me. I was to learn later that this was Anna's first proper kiss with a boy. She told me in retrospect that she had no idea how to play it, but that, having set the situation up, she decided that she had little choice but to go for it. And go for it, dear reader, she did. She kissed me hard and long, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and forcing her closed lips against mine with considerable force and enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I was in ecstasy as I caressed the small of her back, her sides, her tummy and her lower ribcage with my opened palms and fingers.

Well, madam, I thought, as our lips finally parted. That showed enthusiasm and initiative, but there is, I think, a certain gaucheness there, and a definite need for further practice and training. Now, let me show you how it is really done. While Anna was still savouring the memory of that first kiss, I gave her another one, and this time I, not she, was the owner of it. I started far more gently than she had, tenderly pushing and probing, working my lips into hers slowly and seductively. Then came the nerve-racking moment when I opened my lips slightly, pushed my tongue through them and, very tentatively and delicately, probed past Anna's lips, between her teeth and into her mouth. I knew that the next few seconds were crucial. Would Anna break off our kiss in outrage and shock, slap my face for me, and eject me from her room? Or would my gamble succeed? Well later, when we had got to know each other and were on much better terms, Anna told me that I had been in luck. She was at that time in her monthly cycle when she felt at her most randy, and at her most desperate for physical contact with a man. She gasped, and her eyes flew wide open in shock. But she did not withdraw for a second or two, and that was just long enough for her to become addicted to the voluptuous wetness of my probing French kiss. For thirty seconds or so she clasped me tight, but remained the passive recipient of my amorous, seductive advances. Meanwhile, my tongue became ever bolder as it discovered the warm, moist, deliciously seductive inner membranes of Anna's cheeks, of the roof of her mouth, and, finally, of her pert, twitching tongue. Then, at first slowly and hesitantly, but then more firmly and enthusiastically, Anna began to return my kiss. Her tongue started to confront the invader, and then to entwine and enwrap him. Then she pushed him back, beyond her own teeth and lips, out of her mouth, and back into his own territory. Now her tongue was the invader, exploring and probing into my mouth; and thus the tongue tennis continued.

Oh wow! I love kissing almost as much as I love fucking. It is a delicious sport, a delightful art, and throughout my life I have done my best to improve and perfect my skill. Kissing is the perfect hors d'oeuvre to a sexual feast. There must always be an element of selfishness in orgasm. The pleasure to the sexual organs and to the central nervous system is so intense that it must distract you, even if only briefly, from serving, from the gift relationship with your partner. There is always a fraction at least of orgasmic pleasure that is an individual indulgence. Kissing, however, is different. It is so romantic. The pleasure is less obvious and intense, but incredibly unitive. Oh, my dear young readers! Please allow an old man to give you a few well-chosen words of advice. Take the time, take the trouble, to learn how to kiss; and do not kiss for yourself, but kiss for your partner. Let your kisses be selfless gifts, generous and open. Think of your partner's pleasure, not your own. Kiss slowly; take plenty of time, and never rush. Have a buffer, a lengthy time zone devoted to kissing and cuddling before you proceed to intercourse; and sometimes, to prolong the sexual intensity, do not proceed to intercourse at all, at least not until later. Then, when you do fuck, let the foreplay, the kissing, and the selfless giving and taking of sexual favours, prepare you well for it. Whatever the time constraints and the pressures of life, try not, in our English phrase, to "whip it in, whip it out, and wipe it." No. "Wham, bam, thank you ma'am," as you Americans say, is not the way. Sometimes, a "hot, sticky quickie" can be a turn on. I particularly like it when there are undertones of submission and domination. "Strip naked, young lady, and bend over the arm of that sofa. Now, thrust up your bottom, open your legs, and think of England. You are going to get it, and you are going to get it hard." But for me that kind of thing, exciting and stimulating as it is, is fantasy and role-play. What really holds a marriage, a union, together is giving, not taking, unity, not individual go getting, selfless love not self-serving pleasure. (Yes, O.K! I admit it! Selfless love, but, in addition and for good measure, a very large dose of crude, sexy, sweaty, animal lust!)

But oh my dear! Even this early in my tale I find myself meandering. Please allow me to return to the events of that memorable Christmas Eve in 1940.

Well, after my triumphant victory in getting almost to first base with my paramour, I tried my luck further. Starting at the small of Anna's back I started rubbing the opened palms and probing fingers of my right hand lower down, across the tops of her buttocks. Meanwhile my left hand left off caressing the midriff area around Anna's belly button and roved up to gently squeeze and tweak her right breast and nipple. Until that point Anna had been moaning gently and returning my kisses with fervour. But that nipple jog was a tweak too far. Even though her thick flannel nightdress protected Anna's bare skin from my invasive hands, she clearly thought that I was getting cheeky and that I needed to be slapped back into line. And slap me back into line she did, with a stinging smack across my left cheek from the flat of her right hand that sent me reeling backwards. Ouch! It was hard, and it came sharp, very sharp.

"You insolent young cub! How dare you?" Anna fumed, and her eyes flashed fire. "Go on, get out! Get out before I give you the sound spanking that you so richly deserve! I warn you, little boy! If you ever dare to goose me again I will take down your trousers for you, turn you over my knee and smack your bare bottom, hard, with a hairbrush. That's what a naughty child like you deserves!"

However, despite Anna's simulated anger I could tell that she was sexually excited, both at being goosed, and at her threat to discipline me. As for me, I was shamed and sexually stimulated in more or less equal measure. I was captivated by the feel of Anna's wet, delicious mouth and firm, nubile flesh, and deeply shamed and hurt by her merciless tongue-lashing. Now that sex had reared its head in the interactions between us it changed things forever. My humiliation entered a whole new dimension, as did my sexual frustration. I was shrewd enough to realise, however, that if I was patient, and if I played my cards right, I was in with a chance. I knew that I had got to Anna with my kisses and caresses. She had enjoyed them, and, if she wanted more, well, there was no other man around to supply them.

Thus things continued until February 1941. Many times Anna allowed me clandestine kisses and fumbles. She would lead me on and then, when I was all hard and rampant, she would slap me, push me away, and put me down with her coruscating tongue. She now had me eating out of her hand, like a tame pigeon, and I was on a hectic roller coaster ride between elation and despair.

In mid-February 1941 I celebrated my fourteenth birthday. The morning post brought a letter, with a card and a postal order in it, from my parents. Then, after school, Anna's mother organised a little party for the three of us. There was a homemade carrot cake with a thin filling of jam and ersatz cream, and a glass of red wine each. Then, as usual, we were sent to bed early, since it was school the next morning.

As I lay in my bed I snuggled my ears and face beneath the bedclothes. It was a cold, wet night, and rain was lashing against the windowpane. Then, I heard a light click as the catch on the bedroom door was turned. Next the door swung silently on its hinges and there, silhouetted against the doorframe, was Anna. She entered silently, closed and bolted the door after her and approached the bed.

"Bill," she whispered. "Are you awake?"

"Yes!"

"Well move over then, and let me in!"

The single bed was not wide enough to accommodate two well-developed young people adequately so, when Anna climbed in beside me, our bodies were thrust up against each other, and firm, meaty thighs and pneumatic breasts were pushed into me.

"Thanks for the visit," I said breathlessly, "But what do you want?"

"Isn't that obvious?" replied the object of my desire as, to my amazement, she thrust her hand beneath the bedclothes and through the open flies of my pyjama bottoms; then she groped and fondled at my tumescent manhood. "I have come to give you your birthday present."

Oh dear! I am not so sure that I understand females any better now than I did then. Why, oh why, ladies, after you have long denied us will you sometimes suddenly decide to give us a taste of what we have been lusting after? Later Anna told me that this delicious birthday gift was carefully planned. She herself had passed seventeen in January; she was nearly full-grown, with the healthy sexual appetites and needs of an adult woman, and she was tired of life without a man. She craved romantic action and I was her only chance of getting any. She now pulled up her nightdress and placed my hand onto her naked vulva. Already her crotch was wet, and I could detect the musky smell of her female sex. The same smell, I noticed, was on her fingers since, as she later admitted to me, she had almost brought herself to orgasm by masturbating in her own bed immediately beforehand.

Has anything like this ever happened to you, gentlemen? Has a scornful lady ever relented, quite suddenly, and given you relief? It has happened to me two or three times in the course of my life, and on each occasion it has completely thrown me. By now I did not know if it was day or night. My caressed manhood was rampant and my probing fingers wet. Meanwhile, reason battled with lust and, as it did so, one overwhelming priority impressed itself upon my brain. I must not snatch at this chance. I must take it slowly. I must prepare my virgin well for her deflowering, and take her as gently and as considerately as I could. Anna had been a cow to me, and she deserved little courtesy. But, even so, tonight I would treat her with deference and respect. What she was now offering paid all accounts; indeed, it put me deeply in her debt. Well, that is what my head was telling me, but it took it all of its time to enforce the interpretation upon my rock hard fourteen-year-old cock, which by now was barely controllable.

The good news was that I managed to keep to my game plan; I took Anna's maidenhead beautifully, to the satisfaction of both of us. Even now, when we meet as an elderly gentleman and an even more elderly lady, we reminisce fondly over the events of that night. I began by taking off my pyjamas so that I was completely naked. Then I carefully removed Anna's nightdress to put her into the same condition. Then we kissed and cuddled, and, though she was goading me on with urgent body language, I refused to be rushed. Oh yes! I kept my virgin waiting and I kept her hot. I rubbed her, I pinched her, I tickled her and I playfully slapped her. Our kisses were long and deep, and our embraces firm and passionate. Soon wads of pre-cum were oozing from my throbbing member and, tickled and enticed by my eager, probing fingers, Anna's virgin rosebud was as hard and stiff as a matchstick and her vulva was dripping wet with her love juices. As our foreplay escalated I felt a dull, throbbing ache in my balls, the price I had to pay for my unnatural self-restraint.

Then I reached out of bed, and, through the darkness, groped for the drawer in my bedside cabinet. Inside, fumbling around with my fingers, I felt the smooth rubber contours of my reusable condom. Soon it was pulled down the length of my rock hard cock as I explained to Anna what it was, and the need for care and precautions. By now our foreplay had lasted for more than an hour. I remembered from the time when I had deflowered my previous lover, Mary, in the allotment shed one Friday evening in June 1940, that the rupturing of her hymen had hurt her, and that she had bled profusely. I had therefore been doing my best to prise from Anna's love channel any coating of impeding skin. But I need not have worried. Anna was a keen horsewoman, and this, together with a liking for candles and masturbation, had already opened her up nicely. It was a tight fit, but when my condom-covered cock entered her, I discovered that she could take it.

These snatched moments of illicit bliss, of course, were not perfect. I felt like screaming in delight as I reached orgasm, but we had to keep silent to avoid detection, since Mrs. Stokes, Anna's mother, was a light sleeper. Then the old-fashioned, thick, reusable condom was not the ideal; it took away much of the sensation of skin-to-skin Nirvana. But hey! We were only young, and we had certainly never had anything better. There may have been an element of luck about it, but we both climaxed together, and we both climaxed hard; and there is something about stolen, forbidden delight that makes it even sweeter than the more relaxed and comfortable pleasures of a respectable marriage bed.

Well, from that night onwards Anna and I were plunged into what, I suppose, you might describe as an affair. Anna still enjoyed playing the dominatrix, but after I had taken her cherry she did so much more gently, even playfully. She still irritated me from time to time, and she thoroughly enjoyed doing it; but now I did not really mind. I knew that in the near future we would both be naked and together between the sheets again, and that soon another brisk, sharp sexual workout would make my lover pliable and pleasant again.

This brings me, dear reader, to the next part of my tale, and this features Anna's mother, Mrs. Sarah Stokes. The lady of the house was of dark complexion and medium height, with a neat trim figure. Her breasts were fairly small but pert and inviting. Her waist was slim and nicely tapered, her bottom big and meaty and her thighs and legs muscular. As might have been expected of a gym mistress, she was an excellent sportswoman. Even to me, a lad in his teens, she still, into her thirties, exuded youth and energy. Unlike her husband, she seemed to be fond of me, and she always treated me kindly. What first dumbfounded me about her though was an incident in November 1940. It occurred in the playing fields, which were shared between the boy's and the girls' grammar schools.

I had been playing football (or, as you Americans call it, soccer) for my house team. It was a good, tight game that we had managed to win by a narrow margin, and, after I had showered and changed, I was walking back to the main school buildings feeling pretty smug and pleased with myself, and with my mid-field performance. I was in no rush, since our games session was in the morning, and there were no lessons to attend until after the lunch hour. My teammates walked ahead of me, and I loitered idly, casually watching the fifth year girls playing netball. In those days, girls' games attire was far more modest than it is now but, even so, I occasionally glimpsed with interest flashes of naked knees and thighs as the girls jumped up and their gymslips flew into the air. Unlike the more abrasive game of basketball, I mused, netball is a graceful pastime. The players can only run off the ball, and every time a successful pass is made the game is paused into a static tableau, like a group of dancers posing at the end of a sequence in a classical ballet.

Then, suddenly, my sporting conjectures and the graceful flow of the game were both rudely interrupted. Two girls collided and knocked each other over. They were both unhurt, but one of them uttered an indecent expletive against her adversary, and threatened that she would "get her" later. Her opponent not only responded in kind, but also decided on a trial of strength then and there. In the bat of an eye two big, strapping sixteen-year-old girls were into a catfight.

Now, dear reader, to understand what happened next you will need a little background information on corporal punishment in English schools in the 1940s. At that time physical chastisement was rife throughout the educational system, and it was used routinely, not just as a last resort. In secondary schools the boys caught it the worst. They were usually caned, either on the hands or across the bottom. The fate of the girls was much more variable. Male teachers in particular were often chivalrous, and would let the girls off, either completely or with lines or detentions. Occasionally girls might be caned, and on the bottom too, if, for example, they fell into the clutches of a male or female pervert; but most teachers considered that the stick was inappropriate and excessive for the fair sex. Instead, if they were hit at all, girls were usually smacked across the bottom with a plimsoll. A female teacher most commonly carried out the sentence since, in those more innocent and courteous days, it was considered ungentlemanly, as well as inappropriate, for a male teacher to smack a young lady's bottom. Finally, during PT and games sessions, where there was a risk of injury, summary on-the-spot bottom smacking of both boys and girls was frequently used to preserve order and safety.

Anyway, to return to our story, by now our two strapping sixteen-year-olds were flailing around on the grass, kicking, biting and pulling each other's hair. Then, suddenly, an angry and extremely loud voice rang out: "Stop!" It was the supervising teacher, Mrs. Stokes, and I would never have believed that so many decibels could be emitted from her averagely proportioned frame. The voice was both loud enough and sharp enough to shock the two assailants and to end their catfight. They both rose to their feet from the grass and looked apprehensively at their teacher. Mrs Stokes was incensed at their behaviour and the next few minutes were taken up with a savage tongue lashing of the miscreants that left them looking very sheepish, and very sorry for themselves.

"Catherine," said Mrs. Stokes to one of the offenders, "My sports bag is on the grass over there. Inside you will find my gym slipper. Bring it to me, please. Good. Now, both of you come here. Yes, you too, Patricia."

Next, I watched spellbound, with a rapidly stiffening cock, as Mrs. Stokes positioned the two girls a short distance from each other, and got them to straighten their legs and touch their toes. Then up went their gymslips over their backs. The girls were facing away from me, so the effect of this was to display to me perfectly their bare, shapely calves, their naked thighs, and their two meaty nubile bottoms, tightly encased in dark blue cotton knickers.

All this happened so fast that I could scarcely take it in. I certainly got the gist of what happened next, however. Mrs. Stokes raised the gym slipper into the air and then brought it round, very hard, onto Catherine's rump. It fairly whistled through the air before landing, with a loud ear-splitting crack, slap across her beknickered bottom. It struck just above the thighs, to the area between the vulva and the anus where the buttock meat was at its most plump, tender and smackable. Under her knickers I watched entranced as Catherine's big, meaty, womanly bottom wobbled, shuddered and quivered. Shocked and taken aback by the force of the blow, the victim let out a shrill, high-pitched scream. Then, over the next few seconds, as the initial sting was supplemented by a sharp tingling, Catherine let out a series of urgent, angry-sounding grunts: "Ngh! Ngh! Ngh!"

Meanwhile, another high-pitched crack rang out as Patricia's bottom got the same treatment. Her figure was more svelte and trim than that of her adversary, but, even so, she caught it just as hard, and her reaction was much the same as Catherine's. Then, long before Patricia's cries had subsided, Catherine's bum took it again. And so it went on. Catherine took it, and then Patricia took the same, as Sarah leant across Catherine's rump to give it to her second victim: Slap! Slap! Slap!! Slap!! Slap!!! Slap!!! _Slap!!!!_ _Slap!!!!_ The whacks seem to ring out louder and louder as the punishment progressed; they re-echoed around the field as bum flesh shuddered and the victims' shocked, pained and outraged cries filled the air. Each miscreant took eight slaps, and by the end of their ordeal the seats of their navy blue knickers had been well and truly dusted.