A Yank in the outhouse

It was simply so obvious how excited she was, obvious not only because her teats were sticking out so much, but by the way she was offering them to him with an almost abject eagerness to please, as if she was a puppy lying on her back surrendering to the authority of the pack leader. When I remembered how the pair of them strutted around the village with their noses in the air – well, I would have given a fortune to have some kind of a magic crystal ball or television set at home which would show this scene over and over again. Not that I’d ever seen a television set, of course, but I had once met a man who said he’d watched one in London before the war.

Soon there was something better to see than any television. Mrs Harrington went back to the side of the table, where she had been before, on the opposite side of it to the window I was looking through. She calmly reached down and pulled the towel off the man’s bottom. As she was neatly folding it I stared at the sight, the paler rounds of flesh in the middle of the long stretches of well tanned skin. Then she put her hands on each of the taut buttocks and stroked them with her palms, just as she had done to his shoulders. The Yank stirred and moved around, then apparently lost interest in Mrs Walsh’s bosom, glancing back and lifting his bottom up an inch or so off the table. The reason why was probably because Mrs Harrington’s right hand had slid out of sight, down between the top of the legs, and the only place those long fingernails could be now was around his balls. It was like getting a bull aroused for a tupping session with a cow.

Mrs Walsh got up and walked around the table on my side, still stark naked and blocking my view of what was happening but apparently helping her friend in her work. Mrs Harrington stepped back and pulled down the top of her white sheet, revealing exactly what I expected to see: nothing but bare skin. Her breasts were a lot smaller than Mrs Walsh’s were, and she winked and smiled at her friend and ran her hands over herself before she stepped up to the table again. Her nipples were browner and larger in proportion to the other woman’s but just as taut.

Then I saw the American’s face for the clearly for the first time as he rolled over on his back. He was very good looking, with a strong chin and a straight nose, like the cowboys we saw in Hollywood films at the cinema. Or perhaps I was put in that way of mind by the pistol he was still holding. Mrs Harrington looked at his face, down at what was in front of her and then back at the man as if she had some great satisfaction in what she was seeing. I couldn’t see much myself because Mrs Walsh was in the way, but it seemed as if they were both playing with him together, which surely, I thought, there couldn’t be room for. Mrs Harrington moved sideways a step or so, leaned forward over the American, rested her hands on the other side of the table and began rubbing herself over him with her breasts dragging to and fro against the mat of curly black hair on the man’s powerful chest. She seemed to be enjoying the feeling. He laughed and put his free hand round behind her. Mrs Harrington moaned loud enough for me to hear as she wriggled her bottom around under the man’s touch. His other hand and the pistol in it was still pointing towards Mrs Walsh.

She moved around to the end of the table and I gaped at what I could see now, the jutting length of maleness that stood up proudly from the American’s loins. Without the slightest hesitation Mrs Harrington reached out to her side and stroked his length from top to bottom, from tip to balls, as calmly as if she was polishing a church candlestick – which was about the length and size of it as well. It didn’t seem necessary to threaten the women with a pistol when he could point something like that at them. Mrs Harrington certainly seemed to be fascinated by it and in watching her companion lean forward between his legs, further and further forward until her face was between his thighs. And then Mrs Walsh put out her tongue and lapped at the side of the rampant horn nearest to her.

Mrs Harrington giggled at the sight, still clutching the top of the Yank’s cock. Then she slid further up his body and lowered her head to kiss him full on the lips as he kept on fondling her amongst the folds of the rucked up sheet. After that she moved back again in the other direction, her tongue running over his body hair, until she was face to face with her friend. Mrs Walsh was still licking the Yank’s cock and both of their tongues met as if by appointment on the very tip of his straining flesh.

As for me, by this stage I wouldn’t have blinked if Adolf Hitler had goose stepped in singing ‘There’ll Always Be An England’ – I was past being surprised by anything. Our two most stuck up ladies, our local snobs, bellies down over a Yank soldier doing things I’d heard of but hardly believed possible. Both of them playing the same pink piccolo at the same time and to the same tune! But who would ever believe me if I told them? Oh, this was going to be good!

It was. First of all Mrs Harrington went to the side of the copper and picked up a small packet she tore open with her teeth. As she came back she took out what was inside it and put on the tip of his policeman’s helmet. With a lot of laughing the two respectable married ladies helped each other unroll the rubber sheath down over the American’s rearing organ, stretching the rubber so tightly it glinted in the flickering light from the open fireplace. It was obvious from the way that the man was rubbing himself up and down against their hands that there was a pressure bursting up inside him he urgently needed to relieve.

The Yank suddenly jumped up, grabbed Mrs Harrington’s sheet and pulled it off her body with one hand, to show she was wearing no more underneath it than her friend had been. Then he grabbed her by her ponytail and bent her forward over the table, still holding her hair and pressing the pistol against the side of her head.

Mrs Walsh leaned forward and reached down between the two of them, apparently positioning his cock for the first lunge forward into Mrs Harrington. When he moved his prisoner screeched like a scalded cat and then much louder again as the Yank jerked against her, wedging Mrs Harrington on that massive piston and beginning to pound it into her like the driving rod on a steam locomotive. Now he was on his feet I could see he was a giant of a man, as wide across the shoulder as the village well, with cords of muscle on him like a blacksmith. Mrs Harrington seemed like a puppet against him as he jerked her backwards one handed, then rammed her foward again with his hips. Not that she wasn’t helping as much as she could in sliding up and down his long inches, her hands gripping the table’s edge with whitened knuckles as she squealed like a slaughtered pig.

I wondered what each of them was feeling. The man was enjoying himself tremendously, proud of showing what he could do and obviously enjoying every movement. I thought he looked like a footballer scoring a goal with every stroke. Mrs Harrington – well, she making so much noise it seemed it might be more of a pain than a pleasure for her, until I saw her face and knew she was getting something out of the act that she had to have. Not just pleasure but a necessary fulfilment – like a moth fluttering above a candle that’s scorching its wings yet desperate to get even closer. It was fascinating.

Meanwhile Mrs Walsh was stepping off a chair onto the table. She stepped over the top of her friend then knelt down on top of her. Mrs Walsh’s bottom pinned Mrs Harrington to the table top, her hands resting on the other woman’s shoulders as if to make sure she couldn’t move.

The American put down the pistol, reached around Mrs Walsh with his huge hands and seized both of the plump breasts that hung down as if they were ripe fruit ready for picking. She seemed to enjoy that well enough, but I could see what she couldn’t, Mrs Harrington’s petulant expression at being held still and suddenly deprived of the Yank’s full attention. She twisted her head around to the left and then to her right, calling him to keep on fucking her. Yes, that was the word she actually used, loud enough for me to hear her, and with her supposed to be so middle class and posh. The Yank grinned in great good humour, suddenly looking like a schoolboy stealing a slice of cake, and then answered her begging with several thrusting strokes so powerful that I was sure the table was shoved forward an inch or so, even with all the weight that was on it. Mrs Harrington beat her palms flat on the table and honked – it’s the only word, through her nose and sounding just like a angry goose as her earrings jangled.

The man’s right hand dropped down onto Mrs Harrington’s spine in front of Mrs Walsh, then slid back to the bush of hair that was the same colour as Mrs Walsh’s hair. The fingers moved between the two women, underneath Mrs Walsh and up into her. Her thigh muscles tensed and her fingernails clutched at her friends shoulders as if she was riding her like a jockey, though it was clear that the only riding Mrs Harrington was concerned with was the one she was getting from the Yank. And it was then, at that moment, that Mrs Walsh lifted up her head, looked at me and shouted out in anger.

It was one of these times that you can see what’s going on in somebody’s mind without any need for words or even signs. She was already gasping for breath, her face screwed up and ruddy cheeked as she concentrated on her pleasures, and then she was suddenly staring at me and trying to warn the other two. The problem for her was that neither of them were interested right then in anything she had to say. As for me, I couldn’t believe she’d been able to spot my eye with everything else that had been taking her attention. Only when I looked down at the window did I realise what had happened. The fire had burnt down, the water in the copper wasn’t quite so hot now and some of the mist on the window had disappeared. Not much, but enough for me to see the firelight through it – which must mean, I supposed, that the upper part of my body was silhouetted against the daylight. Which was how Mrs Walsh must have seen that somebody was watching them. The question now was what to do next.

There was total confusion in my mind about whether to run away or apologise for being there. Then I decided that I was being a fool for thinking that any sort of an apology would get me out of this situation. The only thing to do was to get away as soon as possible. But Mrs Walsh was a lot more quick witted than I was. She forced herself up and back and looked down to where the Yank had put his pistol on top of the table. She reached for it, picked it up and aimed it directly at the window I was looking through.

“Stay there!” I heard her shout.

The pistol was waving around a lot but her finger was on the trigger and the barrel looked as big as a milk churn as it was aimed straight at my eye. Until then I hadn’t had the faintest idea of how frightening it can be to have a gun aimed at you, especially when you don’t know if it’s loaded or not. And even more especially when the person holding the gun might really be angry enough to use it. So I did something I never thought I’d have to do in my life. I held my hands up over my head like a surrendering soldier. But in my shock at what was happening I’d stepped down off the bricks and lost my viewpoint through the latched window. I could hear through it though, a mingled bellow of male triumph and a higher pitched shriek of absolute pleasure. It seemed that Mrs Harrington had finally touched the flame with her wings and the Yank was also very happy about his own situation.

I was much less happy about mine. Staring at the window pane a few inches in front of my face I wondered whether I was still visible through the misty glass from the other side. Perhaps I could run off now, get on my bike and pedal like mad for home. On the other hand maybe Mrs Walsh could see my outline against the daylight outside and if she saw it moving she might pull that trigger. I was pretty certain that the pistol wasn’t loaded, and I was almost sure that she couldn’t be crazy enough to try to kill me even if it was, but somehow those two facts seemed to weigh very lightly against the memory of that big gun aimed straight at me.

There was more to it though. If I stayed there it was certain that I was going to meet the Yank. And even if I wasn’t as smart or as well to do as Mrs Walsh and Mrs Harrington, I was younger than they were and I didn’t think I was so bad looking. And to be honest, I couldn’t see that what they were doing for their luxuries was so bad, especially not with a man who looked like that. I suppose I was getting bored with being a dutiful bible imbiber and bored with living within the rules of village life. Truth to tell I’d just seen two women being treated like Chicago gangster’s molls and I envied them because it was the sort of mad moment which could never have happened in my life. Or at least I thought it couldn’t.

What did happen was that I suddenly found myself staring down the barrel of the pistol again, only without a window between me and it this time. And the reason for that was because the window had been pushed open and the man was standing in the frame, aiming the pistol straight at me.

“Who are you then, honey?” he asked me. He spoke very slowly, dragging the words out of his mouth as if he was pulling them out like strips of toffee. There was a deeper tone in that huge chest than I’d ever heard in anybody’s voice.

“Sarah Vandell – Sarah Vandell! I just came to deliver some wine, that’s all.”

“Oh God. It’s that bloody Sunday School teacher,” I heard Mrs Harrington say sharply. I couldn’t see her though, the Yank was completely filling the window space with his body.

“Wine?” He looked down at the bricks I’d piled up against the wall underneath the window. “You sure seem to go to a lot of trouble making your housecalls. Tell you what, young lady, why don’t you just step back up here where you where and tell us about yourself?”

“Please stop pointing that gun at me,” I protested. “It looks dangerous.”

He grinned, again looking for a second like a small boy: “Lady, in the army they always tell us that it’s the unloaded gun which kills people. This one is loaded and cocked and the safety catch is off, so it can’t possibly hurt you. Now just kindly come back where you where and then I’ll put the gun down.”

The wind seemed to be blowing even more strongly as I took a pace forward and put my weight on the brick pile again. Now I was looking directly into the Yank’s face. Dark skin, hooded eyes, high forehead, that convict style haircut, a glimpse of white teeth in sardonically smiling lips, a strange smell of sweat and – perfume? From Mrs Harrington or Mrs Walsh, or was it true what I’d heard, that American men splashed scent on their face after they’d shaved?

It wasn’t something I had time to think about. He did get rid of the pistol: he passed it to one of the women inside the wash house and immediately afterwards he put his hands underneath my armpits and lifted me off my feet as if I was a little girl. It was a tremendous surprise to be just hoisted and virtually dragged through the window – If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was wearing my long cycling skirt my knees would have been badly grazed on the window sill.

“Hi, honey, my name’s Reuben. I guess you know Harriet and Susan.”

Well, I didn’t, not by their Christian names, and I still didn’t know which one was which, nor did I care too much right then, because I was still being held up in his remarkably powerful hands with my toes just barely touching the paving stones. Above everything else I was acutely aware of the fact that I was about as close as I could be to a completely naked man

“Ladies, I think it’s time we turned the handle here”.

I didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about though it was obvious from the smile on Mrs Harrington’s face that she did. As for Mrs Walsh, she moved as quickly as she could to the mangle standing near to the copper.

You remember I promised to explain about the washing after it had been rinsed? Well, a mangle was a heavy cast iron upright frame and in the top of the frame were two wooden rollers, each one twice as thick as my arm, with the wet laundry squeezed item by item between the rollers as they were turned by a handle on a big wheel. I guessed that was the handle the Yank was talking about.