Jim - Nine

Jim

 

            As you can imagine, I didn’t handle the sirens so well. In my defense, I was mildly fried and had just watched a girl take off her top. So what can I say? I panicked.

            I tried to run in the general direction of the crowd, but it was insanity. I couldn’t find any of the guys. I didn’t have time to think about them. All I wanted was to get out of the crowd, and, after I was herded down the stairs into the basement, I threw myself through the first door I could reach.

            The room was tiny, basically a closet with a mirror, a stool, and a cot. It was also very dark, so it took me a few seconds to realize that I wasn’t alone.

            There was a girl there, sitting on the bed, wearing a silk dressing robe, looking at me with a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

            “Who the hell are you?” She asked irritably. Her accent was thick, and strangely familiar.

            “I’m…” I didn’t get to answer. Before I could say anything, she switched on the light bulb hanging from the ceiling so I could see her face. Suddenly I couldn’t remember who I was. All I knew was who she was. “Delilah.”

It didn’t occur to me that I had just told her I was Delilah, but it occurred to her. “Actually I am Delilah,” she replied humorlessly. “But actually I am not Delilah, because that is only my name when I have customers and you are too poor to be a customer.”

I was too dumbstruck to say anything clever. “So… neither of us is Delilah,” I said stupidly.

“Yes,” she said, pursing her lips against a smile. “Neither of us is Delilah and you are wearing my scarf.”

I looked down and saw that it was true. “Sorry,” I muttered, holding it out. She didn’t take it. “Um… you know there’s a…?”

“Air raid? Every week. Don’t worry. They never bother to hit this part of town. We’re barely even in London.”

I just stared dumbly at her and kept holding out the scarf. “Oh.”

 She sat down on the stool and looked away from me. “So if you are too poor to be a customer, who are you?”

“Oh,” I said again, not expecting her to be curious about me. “I’m, um, James.” I wasn’t sure why I used my real name. Was it bad to give a call girl your nickname?

“James,” she repeated, still looking at herself in the mirror. “Well as long as we are being honest about who we are, I am Becky.” She shook her head. “No I am not. Not yet.” Then in a move both disturbing and mystifying, she removed her hair. It took me a second to realize the blonde curls were just a wig. Underneath, her much darker hair was cut short and angular against her face. She smiled at me for the first time. “Now I am Becky.”

I racked my mind for something witty to respond with. “Well, if you’re Delilah with… customers,” the word sounded awful coming from my mouth, “who are you with when you’re Becky.”

Her smile turned devilish and she crossed the floor, taking two strides before reaching me. “I am Becky,” she purred, “when I am with handsome, skinny American boys who barge into my room during air raids.” She extended her hands and traced her fingers down my chest. I wasn’t exactly sure how the conversation had taken this turn, and I sure as hell didn’t know where to take it from there.

“And… what do you do with them?” I squeaked pathetically. Clearly, Becky wasn’t about to dignify that with an answer.  Her hands were suddenly considerably further south than they had started off. She cupped me in one hand and grabbed my hair with the other. “Oh,” was all I could say before her tongue was in my mouth.

It didn’t take me long to realize what she was doing. Unfortunately, I was too shocked to stay calm, and stumbled blindly forwards with Becky still attached to my face. She tripped and landed on the stool, leaving my standing above her looking like an idiot. Unfazed, she spread her legs and looked invitingly up at me. I was down on the ground in an instant, kneeling between her knees and kissing her with a hand on each of her thighs. Oh God, it had been a long time since I had done this.

It took all the willpower I had ever accumulated to stop my hands from shaking as I slid them further up her legs, under her robe. I felt the silky fabric of her panties under my fingers and prayed that God would give me the courage to remove them. Sadly God must have been occupied right then, and all I could find the strength to do was press my fingers against the fabric.

Becky tossed her head back and made a noise I had never heard come out of a woman in my life. It fell somewhere between a purr and a screech and made me visibly shiver. I had no idea what I had done to inspire such a reaction (only looking back would I realize how much she must have been exaggerating), but whatever it was I decided to do it more and flexed my finger across the landscape. She seemed to like that less and I tried to return to the awkward fumbling that had made her happy, but I couldn’t get the rhythm back.

Finally she must have given up on me, though she never showed it on her face. She took my face back into her hands and attacked again. Somehow she managed to say something that sounded like, “that’s not your job,” before yanking me to my feet and dragging me to the cot.

I landed spread-eagled on the bed with Becky kneeling over me. Fingers were undoing the buttons of my pants, hands yanking my underwear down to my ankles and exposing the discolored metal rod that my dick had become. She looked at it like it was the one thing she had waited for all her life and grabbed it like she hated it violently. I twisted in her grasp but wasn’t about to make her let go. That was when she put it in her mouth.

Now it was my turn to make an unearthly sound, though mine was much less attractive than hers had been. I’m guessing it was something like the sound of a buffalo getting shot. I half-sat up (it was as far as I could get) and looked at her with eyes so wide they must have taken up my entire face. I had never been with a girl who had done that. I had never known a girl could do that!

Becky, though, was apparently a seasoned master. She just smiled at my shocked expression and gave my length a good stroke. “Shh…” she whispered. “Relax.”

How anyone could relax in that situation was beyond me. I probably would have said something, but she wouldn’t let me. The second her mouth closed around me again I knew I was done protesting.

I know what happened next would not have been pretty to look at. Becky kept was a whirlwind of action and I could barely tell what she was doing. There was the steady pressure of her tongue, the moist trail of her lips, the pulse of her hand. I flopped my head back and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember to at least pant, since normal breathing was no longer a f*****g option, scared of what she might do next.

She intensified, sure of her goal now, though at that point I thought her goal might have been to kill me. She ran her nails across my chest and I bit my cheek until it bled. She sucked in on my dick and I groaned and smashed my head against the wall. She grabbed it with both hands and I sat straight up and gasped. She looked right in my eyes and smiled. That was when I passed out.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Jim landed in the right place. The WW2 years were a wild time. Life was on the edge and people were more free and wild. I like the meeting and the luck of Jim. A excellent chapter.
Coyote

[Jake Donald Stephens]

Just a thought here: Most relatively inexperienced teenage boys would probably be brought to climax pretty quickly under circumstances like these. Especially with a woman who knew what she was doing. Even taking intoxication into account...Still.

But I love the way you wrote it. Especially about the buffalo getting shot. Damn.

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