The Whirlwind Between Winters
by Publandlady
Copyright© 2026 by Publandlady
Historical Sex Story: May, a war widow struggling to keep her Dorset smallholding alive after the brutal winter of 1946/47, is close to despair when two charming drifters arrive offering help in exchange for board and lodging. Their kindness, humour and dangerous influence draw her into acts she would once have thought unthinkable. By the time they vanish with the summer, they have left her carrying far more than memories. A reason to live.
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Farming Historical Sharing First Oral Sex Pregnancy Prostitution .
1947.
I don’t know how I had made it through the winter of 1946/47, but I had. Things were bleak on the farm. Ponds froze, pipes froze, some chickens froze too. At one point I thought I would perish from the constant iciness that hung in the still air every day. Each morning there was almost as much ice on the inside of the window panes as there was on the outside. I slept in nearly every stitch of clothing I could find. The only saving grace was that it was always too cold to think. I hated thinking.
I just added an oilskin coat and rubber boots over whatever I’d slept in to venture into the yard at dawn. Cold as it was, the fowl still had to be fed. I carried a gert kettle of boiling water to pour into their drinking trough. If the hens were quick, they could get a drink before the ice returned. I kept them confined to the barn with a small paraffin heater going all the time but still some died from the cold.
The range in the farmhouse kitchen needed to be kept alight night and day so that room was liveable. I still wore my hat and gloves most of the time. The battery for the old radio was buggered so the outside world was a vague place now.
Most things were still rationed after the war. I didn’t care. I didn’t want much food. I didn’t want much of anything. Before the war, I was a young bride with a lovely round bum. Now, I was thirty, a war widow and bordering on skinny. It was just one more thing I didn’t want to think about.
That winter was just another pile of shit that had to be endured after every other pile of shit.
Angry didn’t come close to the way I felt about my husband. He didn’t have to go off to war. As a farmer, he could have stayed. He hated Hitler and he was going to kill him. They sent him to North Africa. As far as I knew that wasn’t where Adolf Hitler lived. As far as I knew it was just sand; miles and miles of bloody sand. We didn’t want the Germans to have the sand and they didn’t want us to have the sand. The two armies chased back and forth across the desert until one day my Tom got spread all over the sand. He’s there still.
I don’t know if this caused Herr Hitler any inconvenience but it certainly gave me a lot of grief.
When I was rational, I was quite proud that Tom stood up for his principles. But, I was rarely rational. Most of the time I was blood raw or angry or desolate or in any one of a thousand states. I missed him. I missed his sense of humour. I missed his tenderness. If I’m honest, I missed his hard manly body. I lusted after him every day of our marriage. Even this made me angry. Why didn’t he leave me a child? I know that women around here don’t get pregnant very often but he shagged me enough times. You’d think he could hit the target just once. I didn’t want to think about that either. I really hated thinking.
The war was tough but the peace was tougher. We sacrificed everything because we believed it was the right thing to do. Then we had to make sacrifices because we’d sacrificed everything.
We still owed the Yanks for everything they ‘lent’ us during the war. The Germans were getting help to rebuild so that the Communists didn’t get a bigger foothold. We had to rebuild ourselves somehow.
Sorry, I was bitter. I tried to remember that I wasn’t the only one who had lost someone.
In March, the weather in Dorset changed. The warmth brought a whole new set of problems. First it was brown slush and then mud was everywhere. The yard was a quagmire. I lost count of the number of times I slipped up on my arse. The hens that had survived were glad to get outside.
Very slowly, the farm started to dry out. I could finally walk into the village to buy supplies. My dry goods were all but used up. I arranged for more chicken feed to be delivered although the price was extortionate.
Every day, I took eggs to the village shop. Sometimes they would pay me for them but mostly I exchanged them for other goods. Once a week I would take a couple of birds too. I had my War Widows’ Pension as well, so I managed alright.
And then in May it got bloody hot.
The plagues of Ancient Egypt couldn’t compare to the trials of my lonely life.
It was the first day of June and I was coming back across the yard when an old flatbed lorry drove through the gate. It was blue. Well it was now. At some point it had been owned by the Army. Obviously, someone had not been a lover of khaki and had tried giving it the once over with whatever paint they had to hand. The browny-green still showed through.
I had to step smartly backwards to avoid being run over in my own farmyard. The lorry stopped in front of me, preventing my forward motion. The old man who was driving leaned out of the window and said, “Good morning, Missus. How are you going on?”
My good manners got the better of my annoyance and I replied, “Good morning to you.” I decided not to tell him how I was.
“What exactly do you want in my yard?” I asked.
“Is the farmer about?”
I explained, “There is no farmer. Well there is but I’m him ... her.”
“A lady farmer?”
“It’s a long story. Like I said, what do you want?” I snapped.
“We wondered if there was any work going.” the chap said.
I shook my head, “It’s only a small farm. We just keep chickens and a pig or two. I can’t afford the luxury of paying farm hands although, God knows, there are plenty of jobs that need doing.”
The man looked towards the young chap in the passenger seat. The younger man gave a great smile. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen any man smile like that. I felt my chest and throat flush.
The driver said, “We haven’t had any luck finding paid work hereabouts so me and my grandson would be glad to do any type of work for a couple of weeks for just board and lodging. If it would help you out.”
He could see how my mind was working from the look on my face so he followed the offer up with, “No need to come to a rash decision. You could make us cuppa and maybe a little morsel while you think it over. We would be grateful to you.”
Before the war, I would have played at being nonchalant at any sort of suggestion from a strange man but I was so out of practice that I just said, “You’d better come into the house then.”
Both men were soon seated at the kitchen table. I moved the kettle over to the hottest part of the range next to a pan of cold water into which I placed three big brown eggs. I put the big teapot up to warm.
“I can do you egg and cress sandwiches,” I offered as I took a bread knife to the white bloomer that I’d bought yesterday.
“Lovely!” was the simultaneous reply.
Then it hit me like a steam train. What did I look like? Since the weather had turned I’d started wearing fewer clothes but I’d long stopped caring what exactly. Their main purpose was to keep the straw and chicken shit off me.
“Sorry,” I lied, “I normally get changed after I’ve finished my morning jobs. Excuse me for just a minute.”
I rushed upstairs, dragging off my clothes as I went. Reaching the nightstand in the bedroom, I splashed cold water on my face and checked in the mirror for any white splashes. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn a brassiere but I managed to find one in my underwear drawer. I slipped a blouse over it and pulled on a cotton skirt. I dragged out some decent shoes from the bottom of the wardrobe and put them on.
When I returned to the kitchen I was slightly shocked at the sight of the younger man pouring boiling water into the teapot. It wasn’t the sort of thing you expected men to do back then.
“Where did you learn that skill?” I asked.
“You’re very free and easy with someone else’s tea ration.” I added.
“It’s surprising what you pick up in the Home Guard, isn’t it, Gramps?” he answered, flashing that smile again.
“You’re not wrong there, Hen. That’s for you, Missus,” Gramps said, nodding towards a small package on the table.
It took me a few seconds to realise that it was a whole quarter pound of tea.
Colouring with embarrassment, I mumbled, “Thank you. I won’t ask where it came from.”
“India or maybe China, I shouldn’t wonder,” laughed Henry. I couldn’t think what else Hen could be short for.
Over the tea and sandwiches, we talked. Separately, they were funny but together they were hilarious. A real double act. I laughed so much that before I realised it I’d eaten a whole round of egg and cress.
It turns out that Gramps was sixty and Henry (I was right about his name) had just turned nineteen. Neither of them was too put out that their age had prevented them from seeing action overseas. Their stories about their time in the Home Guard mainly revolved around black marketeering and the wives of men who were missing their husbands. Both of them claimed to have been ‘wounded in action’ more than once but they only laughed when I tried to get the details out of them.
When they asked me my name, it threw me for a second or two. The people in the village always called me Mrs Dewy and that’s how I thought of myself. “May, May Dewy,” I said after a pause.
Finally, the subject got around to what they could help with on the farm. They both chuckled when I called it a farm. They thought it was really just a smallholding but they didn’t say so. They had worked on big farms and could do almost anything agricultural.
“Bet you can’t fix a Genny.” I said.
“Hen can tickle about with most things mechanical,” said Gramps, “he’s good with his hands.”
Henry said, cheerily, “I can have a look at her if you like.”
The village had mains electricity and so did a few of the farms around here but Tom’s parents never had it in. The generator used to power a few of the outbuildings and the downstairs lights in the farmhouse. It had been unreliable at best, but now it was knackered. At least, I couldn’t get it to start.
Sure enough, after a little cursing and swearing from Henry and some not very helpful suggestions from Gramps, the Genny coughed and sputtered into life.
Another half hour or so of fine-tuning and she was purring.
It was strange to cook tea under the harsh glare of the electric bulb. I did us some thick rashers of bacon from the pig that I had slaughtered before Christmas. I had sold most of it as it wouldn’t keep too long. I hung a couple of flitches up the chimney where the smoke helped to preserve it.
I made up the two beds in one of the spare rooms. From the back door, I pointed across the yard to the lavvy. There was a candle lamp hanging behind the door. On the other side of the yard I pointed out the well where we drew water for the outside and, if the kitchen hand pump failed, for the inside too.
It felt bizarre not to be alone in the house after all this time as I turned down the oil lamp and slipped into my nightie and into bed.
The sun rose long after I was awake.
I reached the kitchen to find Gramps seated at the table. Henry arrived almost immediately. They were both bright and cheery. Unusually, so was I. It normally took me an hour or two to get over my anger and frustration at the hand that life had dealt me.
We all polished off the rounds of buttered toast and hot tea that was breakfast. Even during the worst years of the war you could always get butter in the countryside. It was like an unofficial currency.
Henry gave me that smile and asked, “If we do whatever you want until noon, can we take care of a little business each afternoon?”
Once he smiled, he could do what he liked but I just said, “That will be good.”
They went off to fix the hinges on the doors that led from the barn to the fields where the fowl roam while I went about my usual morning routine of feeding, collecting eggs and taking them down to the village.
The lorry drove out of the yard just after dinner. Where they were going or what they were doing, I didn’t ask. They were back in time for tea.
The same thing happened the next day. And the next.
After tea on the third day, Gramps put down a ten bob note on the kitchen table.
“That’s to help out,” he said.
“No need for that,” I said, “you’re working for your keep.”
Henry cut me off, “We know but we want to help. Money is easy to get but a nice place to stay is harder.”
After dinner on the Friday I asked if Henry could help me fill the bath before they went off. The tub was made of galvanised iron. I dragged it in front of the range in the kitchen and he lifted the pails of steaming water down and emptied them in. I placed a towel near the range to warm.
As soon as I heard the lorry chug out of the gate, I slipped out of my clothes. Dipping my fingers in the water, I found it hot but not too hot. Cautiously, I stepped in. The warmth enveloped me.
Obviously, I took a bath from time to time but I wasn’t religious about it. Mostly I just washed at the nightstand in my bedroom. During last winter, I didn’t risk washing my body at all. I didn’t want to take the chance. In the summertime I usually draw a bucket of water from the well, take off all my clothes and pour water all over myself. That’s one of the perks of living alone and rarely seeing anyone.
After a while, I stood up and soaped myself all over. Sitting back down the scum rose to the surface. Just then, I remembered Hen’s smile. It always amazes me how quickly a thought can travel from your brain to your fanny. I slipped my hand between my legs to make sure that I’d rinsed off all of the soap.
There was the faintest of squeaks as the kitchen door opened behind me. Instinctively, I put my free arm across my nipples. Who was there?
“Can I have the water after you? It’s a shame to waste it,” Henry said.
Before I could answer, he pulled the towel from near the range and laid it over my shoulders. I just stayed stock still. There was the distinctive sound of him removing his clothes and then he placed his hands on my upper arms and helped me stand up as I pulled the towel around me. I stepped sideways out of the bath while he smoothly took my place in the tub. Without turning towards Henry, I quickly retreated out of sight behind him.
I’d forgotten the beauty of a strong man’s shoulders.
I quietly said, “I thought that you’d gone with your grandfather.”
“He said he didn’t need me today so I stayed behind. You’d best get dried and dressed before you catch a summer cold, Missus,” Hen said gently.
I turned unseen and made my way upstairs.
Lying on the bed, my head was in a spin. Had I been respected or rejected. I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t ask, could I? No, that would imply that I thought that something could have happened or would have happened or even should have happened and that it hadn’t.
By the time I’d raised the courage to go downstairs, Henry had emptied the bath and stowed it away. He was nowhere to be seen. I considered looking for him but instead got on with preparing the tea.
The two men laughed and joked their way through the evening meal and nothing was said by any of us about my bath.
Once I washed up and they had returned from their evening smoke, Gramps said, “I picked this up today.” He reached behind the wireless and produced a brand new battery. I was amazed as he connected up the terminals. The ancient set crackled into life as soon as he switched it on. Obviously, it was too old to have the Light Programme marked on the dial but Gramps knew roughly where it was. Very soon the kitchen was filled with the sound of big band dance music live from the ballroom of the Ritz in London.
Gramps whipped me from my chair and was dancing around the room with me.
When the song ended Henry grabbed his chance and whirled me about the floor.
After that I had no rest as they both took turns with me. Before we knew it, it was way past bedtime.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had so much fun.
The following day Henry and his grandfather repaired the roof on the pigsty. In the afternoon they both went off in the lorry. That evening there was a comedy show on the wireless. We laughed until the tears rolled down our cheeks.
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