12a Archdeacon Street
Chapter 12: Sally Takes Charge
Copyright© 2012 by Axolotl
Humor Sex Story: Chapter 12: Sally Takes Charge - A tale of blundering time-travel, quite a lot of sex, several Kleenex-worth of bitter-sweet love and tenderness, and some very big tits indeed...
Caution: This Humor Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft Consensual Romantic Science Fiction Time Travel Historical Humor Tear Jerker Exhibitionism Size Big Breasts School
"When am I going back, then?"
"Soon as you like. It's up to you."
"It's up to you, Brains. I'm just the helpless time traveller round here."
They strolled on through the park. The morning frost had melted and a watery sun was trying to break through. Sally kicked at a pile of wet leaves. Schoolkids did that kind of thing. "When you say 'when', do you mean 'now when' or 'then when'?"
"It amounts to the same thing really. Let's assume that three week period is pretty accurate. You'd want to get back to Eth a couple of days before you first had sex with her, then you carry on just as you did last time until you come to the moment of truth. This time, you slip into something soft and rubbery - or get her to put it on for you. Lisa can do it without using her hands!"
"She's in our class. She showed us with a cucumber at her mum's house. She only borrowed it, and put it back in the fridge afterwards. I wonder if Lisa's mum realised where it had been!"
"You don't mean... ?"
"Of course not! We're not perverts. In Lisa's mouth, of course. With a condom on it. I've gone off salad ever since. Where did I get to?"
"I think I'll put it on myself. Ethel might not be as expert as Lisa."
"I'm sure she isn't! Lisa's being doing it for five years. She's got no tits, though. Anyway, this time, you wear a rubber, every time you do it. Then you come back. And when Ethel gets pregnant, it will be Herbie's."
"When, or if?"
"When. If it's 'if', we've interfered with history, or rather we would have if you hadn't gone back and made everything okay. Now, the only thing is when you go. You've got to arrive before you got there the first time. The first time you made love, that is."
Strange girl. She occasionally used language that would make a sailor blush, but when she talked about making love, she practically turned purple.
"That could have been that Sunday in her brother's car. It might be as well to aim for then if we can."
"What do you mean? Did you do it then, or not?"
"Well, sort of." Russ squirmed, walking a few paces away from the girl. "I got it in."
"God, Russ! Did you ejaculate? Come, or whatever it's called?"
"No, but ... you know ... it might have ... like ... dribbled a bit, you know?"
"How would I know? I'm only a schoolkid, what would I know about screwing?" Her eyes were like saucers. "Let's assume you got her pregnant then. That's a nuisance. And how disappointing, too!"
"What d'you mean?"
"Well, when you give me a baby ... or whenever anyone does, for that matter ... I want it to be a memorable experience, not an accidental dribble." She looked so indignant, Russ had to laugh. He took her hand without thinking, and she gave a little gasp, looking round in case somebody might see.
"I'll try to remember that."
"But that wasn't what I meant. It complicates things if we agree that you got her pregnant in the car. It spreads things out too long. You shagged Ethel on the Sunday, we went back there on the Wednesday, then on the following Sunday you went and got lost for three weeks. See what I mean? You lost nearly a month before you saw Ethel again. Going in there now, but three weeks ago, will be too late."
"That's a pity. I'd have fancied trying again in her brother's car, and making it a bit more of an event for her. And without hurting my wrist this time. That was so embarrassing."
"Yeah, it must have bruised your image. Where did you do it, by the way?"
"In the car. Where?"
"Up on the downs." Russ nodded in the direction of the hills, blue-green in the distance.
"Up there? On a Sunday afternoon? In broad daylight?"
"Why not? There was nobody about."
"It's gross! So unromantic." She shuddered. "Anyway, you can't do it. Three weeks isn't long enough. You'll just have to concentrate on that night at Ethel's. If you'd already put her in the club before that, you've blown it unless we can learn how to take you back more than three weeks. Now, what about me?"
"I have to come in to bring you back. I use your card and come in for you at Ethel's place. I'll need to arrive in time to wander over to Ethel's, and get there that night. I've got to find you behind the couch in Ethel's frilly nightie. It's okay, I'll work it all out in my diary tonight. I've made a note of the dates already." She turned scarlet again. "I've got to go. There's my friends." She waved to a group of girls across the park.
"Which one's Lisa?"
"Who said she was one of them? The tall blonde one with the blow-job lips. She'd love to be introduced..."
"I'd better be getting along. Got to get some shopping..."
"Hey, Sallers!" The girls straggled across and grabbed Sally's hands, giggling.
"Is that him? Wow!"
"Have you done it yet?"
"So would I."
Sally put out her arms and herded her classmates away like a shepherd. Russ sighed, and turned to head for the market.
"I wish I could come with you, Russ. Even though you are only going twenty minutes up the road." Delia sighed. You've got your shopping list?"
Russ patted his overcoat pocket. "I'll bring you what I can. I haven't got all that much cash. There's a bit of an exchange problem."
She reached up and kissed him in a sisterly way. Or perhaps it was mother-in-lawly. "I found you some more at another car boot sale." She poured a heap of clinking coins into his hand and placed a couple of large blue notes on top. "Now, how long will you be away? At least three weeks, Sally says. What shall I tell Claire if... when she comes back?"
"You'll have to ask Sally how that's going to work out, if she can make you understand. It won't be as long as three weeks, because the first three weeks all happens instantly. God knows how. She'll be coming in to get me back out, and she might be gone for a few days, but don't worry, Dee. She's a very capable girl."
"I'd be happier if I knew what she was getting up to back there."
"You probably wouldn't, Delia!"
"Oh, Jesus! Look after her, Russ!"
"She's going to be looking after me."
Sally clattered down the stairs, her face flushed. "I'm all ready. I brought you some more things to take for Ethel. Just clothes and stuff. Shirts and things. Nothing else of mine will fit her. Bye, Mum. Love you!"
"Love you, pet. Take care..." Mother and daughter hugged — a great coming together of bosoms.
"I'll take care of him, Mum. I'll be back tonight on the bus. Come on, lover!"
They hurried down the path and into the car. Then with the briefest of waves, they drove off, turning left in the direction of Staunchbury.
"I've paid for a week in advance." Russ stuck the ticket inside the windshield and slumped back into the driver's seat. "Okay, final briefing. Have I got everything? Two cards, you've got my original one?"
Sally dug it out of her purse and held it up. "Check. You've got the pinhole card, and the spare?"
"Right. And Delia's shopping list, and this bag of goodies for Ethel. Old money. Not really enough, as I may have to find somewhere to stay for a couple of nights, but still. Anything else?"
"I don't know how to mention this delicate matter, Russell, but ... condoms?"
"Oh, shit. There's a machine in the Gents toilet..."
"Don't bother!" She delved in her purse again. "How many do you need?"
"I don't know. How many can you spare?"
Sally produced half a dozen packs of three. "These ought to keep you going. It's all right! I got them off Lisa. I can get some more for the weekend. Only joking," she giggled, patting him on the cheek.
"That's it, then. You'd better not come down with me to the gateway, in case it doesn't work."
"Oh, there's something in the bag for Herbie, as well. I hope they'll fit. I'll go straight to the bus station. It's not very nice round here. I'll see you at Ethel's for hot soup. Any problems, get home whenever you can, okay?"
There was a lump in his throat. "I wish you were coming with me."
"So do I. I love you, Russell." She stared straight into his eyes, not blinking. "Take care."
They hugged for what seemed like hours, then kissed helplessly. Sally wiped his eyes, then her own. She opened the door and stepped out into the darkness. Without a word, Russ came round the car and squeezed her hand, then set off up the hill.
The nanny was disappearing indoors at the top of the hill, holding the baby in her arms and crooning to it. Seconds later, she came back out and down the steps for the baby carriage, nodded shyly to Russ, and backed out of sight with it into the narrow alley beside the house at the end of the street.
Step one: successful. He had made it into the past. The shop was still there, the pale yellow glow dappling the cobbles in the steeply sloping street.
Step two: do not knock on the door. Do not go in. But he could look, discreetly. He edged across towards the shop, just as the roller blind came down, blocking out the light from the glass door. Hurrying, he darted back across the street, through the gap in the iron railings and down on to the damp grass of the little ornamental park. Just in time: the tinkling of the doorbell suddenly carried clearly to him as the door opened. A square of gaslight, and a tall, stooping silhouette in the doorway. "Good night, Herbert. Have a good day tomorrow, and enjoy your Sunday. And when Miss Ethel comes in tomorrow, ask her to finish off retouching Mr Hammond's portraits for me, there's a good lad. 'Night!"
The door closed, and the figure - Mr Spreadbury, perhaps - set off down the street, whistling to himself.
Russ, his pulse racing, waited until he had gone, then came back up into Archdeacon Street and scraped the mud from his shoe on the edge of the kerb. That was a bonus, anyway. Ethel wasn't in the shop tonight. Herbie was, and was just about to lock up for the night. And it was almost certainly Friday. Right on schedule. In fact, had he and Sally been certain that the card was as accurate as this, he could have come in on the Saturday morning, but better safe than sorry. All he had to do now was to find a room for one night. Tomorrow, a bit of shopping for Delia. In the afternoon, meet Ethel at the shop, just like last time.
He wasn't looking forward to that part of it at all. He would have to go into the shop, down the steps into the back room, find Ethel crying, find Royal Garden Blues and put it on the gramophone ... so much to remember. And it wasn't going to be the same as last time. This time, Sally wouldn't have stayed in the car, waiting for him, or not, as the case might be. He was on his own, playing it by ear.
"That's tomorrow," he said to himself, setting off down the hill. First priority was to find an hotel in the town.
It wasn't too difficult, as it happened. The Engine and Tender, across the road and up the hill a little way from the station, had a room at what seemed an absurdly cheap price. The landlady looked askance at his 'luggage', a couple of supermarket carrier bags, but seemed convinced when he paid up front from a pocket full of cash.
The room was icy, despite the efforts of a meagre gas fire. One tended to forget that these weren't the days of universal central heating, although there was a massive cast iron radiator beneath the window. Outside, the church clock struck six, but otherwise, the place was like the tomb out there. Barely a sound. No traffic, no buses, no security alarms. A whistle shrieked, and a train began clambering out of the station with laboured beats and occasional bursts of frantic wheel slip on the wet rails. Smoke drifted across the window, finding its way in through invisible cracks.
"It's only for one night. Dinner, I suppose. And a pint or two of finest 1920s ale." He tried the wardrobe, finding a cache of extra blankets on the top shelf, threw the whole lot on the bed and took a look round the room. "With any luck, tomorrow will be a different matter altogether." His thoughts were shattered by an almighty clanking noise, as if a train had gone straight through the buffers at Staunchbury station and come through the wall of the Engine and Tender. Then he laughed at his own fright. The central heating system had just woken up, the radiator threatening to tear itself from its moorings and go clattering across the room and down three flights of stairs into the lounge bar. He felt it. It was warming up already. "Not a bad little room, I suppose!" A train clanked into the station and stopped. Carriage doors slammed, and a little later came the sound of cars, taxis, gears whining shrilly, toiling away up the hill into the town.
The bar was warm and smoky, with a coal fire flickering in the grate. One or two regulars in raincoats and hats looked up at him curiously. He had chosen a nondescript sweater and grey trousers, but was aware that he looked different, somehow. Something about him would seem wrong, his hair, maybe, or just the way he walked and held himself. He ordered a pint and carried it away to the fireplace.
"Will you be dining, sir?" The girl was smiling nervously, a menu card in one hand. "You were miles away, sir. Will you be dining in tonight. It looks like snow out."
"Oh. Oh, thanks. Give me five minutes, would you?"
The door opened and a gust of smoke billowed out of the fire until three men came in and shut out the night air after them. Smart coats, suits, hats. Business chappies from London, back for the weekend. Another train must have come in. They brushed the snow off their hats as they ordered.
"Getting heavy out there," one of them told nobody in particular.
"Starting to settle."
"And the wind's dropped. It's five degrees colder. Looks like a white weekend."
"We could be snowed in."
"Worse places to be snowed in, I reckon."
"Three more of the same, Bessie, please."
Snow. That wasn't in the original script. How was that going to affect things? Surely, if this was three weeks exactly since the last time he had been back to see Ethel, surely everything had to be the same, including the weather? If something as simple as that had changed, what else might be different, too? On an impulse, he checked the menu. It had the day's date on it. Friday, 10th February, 1928. That was right. The girl was back, exchanging saucy comments with the city gents at the bar. So forward with their London manners! She was still flushed when she approached with her notepad.
"This date is correct, isn't it?"
"Of course, sir. That's today's menu. All fresh today. I typed it myself," she added shyly.
"You don't spell steak like that, Bessie."
She leaned closer, her hair falling across her face. "Ooh, sir!"
"I'll have the steak and kidney pudding though, no matter how you spell it. Any new potatoes?"
"In February, sir?"
"Ah, I suppose not. Mash, then, and whatever else is going. What's the soupe du jour?"
"Sir?" She backed off a pace or so. This is a right one and no mistake.
"In the dining room in five minutes, sir. If you'd like to go through. We've lit the fire and it's warming up. But that does look nasty out. I might be snowed in..."
He was out of bed when the factory hooter shattered the pre-dawn darkness. At least, that hadn't changed. The window had a thick layer of frost on the inside. The radiator was barely warm. He fiddled with the gas fire, but couldn't work out how to make it go. Another scrub at the window.
"Shit!" The street lights down by the station yard were almost hidden by horizontal streaks. It was pelting down, and must have been snowing all night. The road was invisible, just a softly mounded depression between the houses. At this rate, it was going to take him half a day to battle his way up to Archdeacon Street. And if he got through to the shop, would Ethel even be there? Trust the English weather to screw everything up on such a grand scale. Cursing, he climbed back into the creaking bed and wrapped himself in blankets until he stopped shivering.
Things were in slightly better perspective after a hearty breakfast. Bessie, the waitress from last evening, had evidently stayed the night, which was fortunate, as Maisie hadn't showed up this morning. She told everyone the same story. The hotel was full: the three city types had decided to make a night of it, and a number of others had also elected not to try and get home. So the breakfast room was a-buzz with most un-English conversation. Everybody was chattering away, shouting questions across the room.
"Far to go, old chap?" It was one of the city gents. He'd downed a few last night, but seemed little the worse this morning.
"No, it's all right. But have you got far to go?"
He thinks I'm deaf. "Not far," Russ shouted back. "Just up the hill past the market. But even so..."
"Stay put, old boy! She'll understand. We're going to spend the day drinking. It's two feet deep out there, and drifting in the wind. More on the way, too, by the looks of it."
"Shouldn't wonder." Russ turned his attention to his breakfast. He couldn't stay put. Ethel might well understand, but that wasn't really the point. He had to get to her. "Can I get some wellies anywhere, do you know?"
"Boots." Russ mimed the act of pulling a pair of boots on.
"Oh, wellingtons. Wellies! Whatever next? Try the market. Chap there sells footwear. If he can get in to town, of course. And you'll get wet feet getting there, too. Still, there we are..."
"Oh, absolutely," said Russ. "The old Dunkirk spirit, what?"
The footwear man had indeed made his way into town, and his stall was doing a roaring trade. In fact, by nine in the morning, he had sold out of wellington boots, but he found a pair of stout work boots for Russ, and a thick pair of socks.
"Not much call for this size," the trader revealed. "You're in luck. You'll wear them now, I s'pect? Chuck your wet shoes in yer bag. Hey, what's this paper? Smooth!"
The fresh snow began settling on Herbie's hat as Russ plodded through the knee deep streets. The market was a bit of a dead loss as far as Delia's shopping list was concerned, two thirds of the stalls being empty. These boots had cost more than the night at the hotel. He decided to head straight for the shop. Even so, it took the best part of an hour and a half. Archdeacon Street was a winter wonderland. The snow had drifted in across the open space of the park, piling up against the doorways. A group of boys were toiling up the slope, shouting to each other. As Russ made his way up the hill, two of them came careering down the cobbles on a makeshift toboggan, a sheet of plywood bent up at the front. A third boy hurtled past on a tin tray.
A man was shovelling snow further up the street. Outside the shop, in fact. He threw half a dozen more shovel-fulls out into the boys' ski-run, then paused to catch his breath.
"Herbie? Is that you?"
"Mister Russell? You here?"
"It's me. What a morning!"
"I'm shovelling the snow," Herbie pointed out. "But there'll be more coming, I'll be bound. Miss Ethel's inside."
"Spent the night. She came in 'bout six, when the weather started coming down. Said it looked nasty and she might not be able to get in if she waited 'til the morning. She was right. Come through here."
Russ made his way through Herbie's cleared path, stamping his feet on the paving slabs.
"New boots? They'll have cost you a pretty penny."
"Needs must. I'll go on in. I hope it's not too much of a shock for her."
The shop was almost dark inside, despite the false brightness reflected from the snow. Nobody had lit the gas lamps. Herbert was shovelling away outside, his shovel scraping tirelessly. Faintly, from somewhere came a scratchy jazz tune, a ponderous blues theme. Down in the back room, the music would effectively drown out the sound of the doorbell. The bell on the counter was much louder. Russ raised his fist to give it a sharp rap.
But he didn't ring the bell. Instead, he went around the side of the counter. The door at the top of the steps opened silently and the music poured out up the steps, a howling lament of forlornness and despair.
She was sitting with her back to the door, a slumped little figure in a grey woollen dress, her head cradled on her arms on the plain wooden table. The sheer, black hopelessness of her attitude brought a lump to his throat. The record stopped but she didn't move. No doubt, she would eventually. In ten minutes or so, after the clockwork had run down and the turntable had grumbled to a halt, she would bestir herself and wind it up again for another three minutes of collectively improvised misery.
His footsteps carried him unheeded to the gramophone. He frowned, sorting through the pile of discs. Where was it? Then he found what he sought, in the waste bin. Royal Garden Blues was broken in half across the middle, only the label holding it together. He removed the dirge-like platter from the still spinning turntable and parked the tone arm on its support.
Ethel stiffened. Her head moved and she focused on the table top, trying to absorb what was happening. She looked sharply at the gramophone, then sat upright and stared wildly around the room.
Her eyes were fiery red and puffy. How long had she been sitting here crying her eyes out? Her gaze settled on him, not believing. He nodded. She shook her head, looked away, looked back again. She got up slowly and stumbled into his arms.
"You shouldn't have come back. Not today of all days."
"It took hours to get through the snow..."
"I broke it. I wanted to play it, hoping it might bring you back, but it slipped off the table." She stepped back and picked up the record. It bent in the middle. "It was our tune..."
She had departed from the script already. She was crying, all right, but for all the wrong reasons.
"You came in to the shop last night?"
"I've been working hard, trying to forget. Hoping. I took a look at the weather last night and it looked so heavy I thought I'd better come in. Herbert was here, of course. We ... slept in here."
"How did you get here?"