3 comments/ 35213 views/ 1 favorites Under Siege By: Pussrider Part 1: Roger Ask any historian of British naval history about the late Rear Admiral Sir John Ambrose 'Bull' Bullamore, DSC, and they will tell you he is a legend: a ruddy-faced, pugnacious, larger-than-life character, the son of a humble provincial tailor who rose through the ranks due to a combination of superb tactical awareness, daring and courage in confronting the enemy, and indefatigable determination. I can tell you another story, however: he was an absolute brute, a raging, vicious bully who loved nothing better than scalding, belittling and generally terrorising anyone over whom he had influence of power. That included not only the men unfortunate enough to serve under his command, but also his family, and in particular me, his youngest daughter. My name's Sandra; well, actually it's Alexandra, after the fabled Macedonian warrior king who was my father's hero. My parents had had two daughters by 1911, and when my mother, already 36 years old, fell pregnant again in the summer of 1920 father anxiously awaited the son he craved to carry on the family name, and follow him into Dartmouth Naval College and the Senior Service of the Empire's armed forces. Then I came along. He never forgave me for being a girl, and throughout his life he insisted on calling me Alex, when he ever called me anything other than bloody stupid and a waste of space. He never missed an opportunity to put me down, constantly telling me how ignorant I was, how useless, clumsy and lacking in grace. He frequently compared me unfavourably to my elder sisters after they left home, those two paragons of virtue who showed the good sense to get out as soon as they could, both marrying professional men and settling in England, far away from whatever Mediterranean ports my father happened to be posted to. I have only the vaguest memories of my mother: a thin insipid woman who seemed to live her life in monochrome compared to the Technicolor ogre that was my father. I never received any comfort or support from her in the face of his tirades; she used to simply fade into the background, like the shadow on a wall of somebody who was absent from the room. She died (in Alexandria, ironically) when I was 11, due to liver failure brought on by chronic alcoholism, her only escape, I later came to realise, from life with her beast of a husband. I wasn't stupid, or any of the other things my father called me. On the contrary, I am highly intelligent, widely read, and any girlish awkwardness on my part was simply due to a deep-rooted lack of self confidence, hardly surprising in the face of the constant undermining to which I was subjected. I certainly wasn't graceful, being cast from the same mould as my father, below average height (five-feet-two in my case) and solidly built – strong and naturally athletic, never fat, though by age 16 my chest did require a D cup. But I was pretty, with piercing blue eyes, curly chestnut hair which I wore quite short, a snub nose decorated with freckles and a rounded dimpled chin. I also had shapely, muscular legs that looked good in a pair of shorts. Some of the happiest times of my childhood were spent at my slightly inferior boarding school on the rolling green Sussex Downs. I used to dread going home during the holidays, and prayed that reasons might be found for me to stay in England, perhaps with one of my sisters, though it never happened. Even though my father was in active service his patrols around the Med rarely lasted more than a day or two, so there was little respite for me. A few years after mother's death my father developed a heart condition, and was retired from active duty to a desk job in Malta. He loathed his new role, and naturally I bore the brunt of his disappointment. I had hoped to stay in school until I was 18, and then go straight into employment, or perhaps to college, but it wasn't to be. At 16 I was withdrawn, to be my father's 'helpmate'. So, against my will, I settled into a cowed life in dry, dusty, flat, clay-coloured Malta, in a house in Sliema with a view across Marsamxett Harbour to the skyline of Valletta. My only allies were a rotund Maltese cook cum housekeeper, Carmela, who despised my father, and her daughter, a nervous little thing a few years my senior who acted as our maid and scuttled around the place trying not to get into trouble. For want of something to do with myself during the day I enrolled at secretarial college in Valletta. In the evenings when my father returned from his office I would mix him a G and T and try to be polite in the face of his rudeness. I was rarely allowed out in the evenings with my friends, and I would retire to bed as early as seemed reasonable and spend hours reading English classics – Darwin, Austen, Wilkie Collins and the like - or dream of some handsome cavalry officer riding along and sweeping me up onto his charger to rescue me from my plight. On days when I wasn't at college I would either sit on the terrace overlooking the garden, reading and dodging the fearsome heat of the day, or hike or bicycle around the peaceful, crime-free island which was now my home. On Sundays there was usually some military social event or other which I was required to attend with father. Despite his age and his weakened arteries he loved playing tennis at the United Services Club, and I was forced to act as his doubles partner. He played as aggressively as he lived the rest of his life, and thought nothing of roaring his disapproval on-court at any error or weakness on my part, as our embarrassed opponents stood awkwardly pretending not to notice. Naturally I hated the game, and swore that at the first opportunity I would burn my racquet and never pick up another. My life began to change for the better in 1939, after I turned 18. I had started working as a clerk for a branch of the Navy in Valletta, and as the looming crisis in Europe deepened father, as a military man, naturally became engrossed in it, enabling me to steal a little more freedom. At a dance in Sliema one evening I met the man who seemed to offer me hope of salvation from my situation. His name was George Mitchenor, and he was a 21-year old lieutenant with the Devonshire Regiment, newly posted to Malta. He seemed rather immature - I shuddered to think of him commanding a force of fighting men – but he was good looking, slim, tall and blond, a good dancer, a nice kisser, and he could make me laugh. Just before our third date Britain declared war on Germany. That evening, as we left a cinema in Valletta, George suddenly turned to me and asked me to marry him. I instantly consented; to be honest I think I would have said yes to almost any man who had offered me an escape route from my situation. Besides, with the turmoil of impending war, who knew what the future held? George produced from his pocket a ring set with the tiniest diamond imaginable, and tried to push it onto my finger. Terrified of the reaction at home I told him my father was at sea on manoeuvres, and persuaded him we must keep our engagement a secret until we had been able to seek father's permission. After that I wore the ring under my clothes, on a silver chain around my neck. Perhaps fortunately, before things George could become impatient at the delay in formalising our arrangement, the Devons were posted to the other side of Malta, and I saw little of him for some time after that. My life became rather more humdrum, but I had his ring, the occasional letter and my dreams of the future. Life in Sliema and Valletta was still quite vibrant at that time. Though war had been declared, nothing was actually happening, and many people were convinced, or at least hoped, that it could still all blow over. The social whirl continued, and it was at an early Christmas party at the United Services Club one evening in December that my life changed forever. I had attended with my father and was expecting a rather dull affair. In fact, the champagne was flowing freely and as father settled down with a few of his cronies to refight the Battle of Jutland over a bottle of pink gin I was able to slip my leash. A very polite young naval Sub-Lieutenant asked me to dance, and I was having a good time with him when I heard a cultured baritone voice ask, "Excuse me old man, do you mind if I cut in?" The interloper was Commander Roger Ransome, and without waiting for an answer he gently disengaged me from his subordinate and whisked me breathlessly across the floor. Roger was one of the best known British officers in Malta. In his mid-40s, very dashing in his naval uniform, tall and blessed with the chiselled (though clean shaven) good looks of a Ronald Colman or Robert Donat, he was much admired by the ladies of the military community. He was, however, also solidly married to the beautiful aristocratic blonde daughter of a former Minister of War. A regular tennis opponent of my father's, he had always been very kind to me in a teasing, avuncular sort of way, and, truth be told, I had a bit of a crush on him. I felt flushed with pleasure at Roger wanting to dance with me, giving me his best movie star smile and leaning his lips close to my ear to make jokey little observations about other people at the party. We stayed together for the next dance too, a slow number, and I blushed even more deeply as his strong arms wrapped around me, a warm hand resting on the bare flesh of my upper back, exposed by the halter-neck dress I was wearing in the face of my father's disapproval. Without really meaning to I rested my head on Roger's chest, bringing our bodies into even closer contact. As the music finished he stepped back from me then said, "Whew, I don't know about you but I could do with a breath of fresh air after that!" I was feeling a little hot and bothered – though more from champagne and Roger's presence than from the effort of dancing – and gladly took the hand he held out to me to lead me through a set of French doors into the grounds of the club. It was a lovely evening, warm for the time of year, and we strolled, chatting about this and that, still hand in hand, along a path lined by Chinese lanterns towards a pergola near the tennis courts I so hated. I thought nothing of it when Roger guided me into the darkness of the wooden structure. But then his mood seemed to change. He steered me into a corner by an unglazed window and, looming over me, his arms either side of me as his hands rested against the walls, he said, "You know Sandie (only he ever called me that), Marjorie tries to be a good wife and mother, but she really doesn't understand me." Naive little fool that I was, I felt a flood of sympathy for him – I had always regarded his wife as rather snooty. Leaning his face to within a few inches of mine, he continued in a husky half-whisper, "You understand me though, don't you Sandie? I think you and I understand each other perfectly." Before I could respond one of his big hands dropped from the wall and, to my utter disbelief, dived down my dress and into my bra, curling round the flesh of my breast. I could barely see his face in the darkness, but he chuckled, "Mmm, what a lovely big booby you have in there". Then his lips pressed roughly to mine, forcing my head back against the wooden wall of the pergola, his tongue surging into my mouth, agape with shock as it was. I tried to fight him off, pressing my hands to his chest, but he was so much stronger than me. I felt his other hand slip inside my dress and the fastener behind my neck popped open, only the pressure of Roger's body on mine preventing the bodice falling to my waist. I managed to drag my face from his and gasped, "Please Roger, stop, don't." He disregarded my plea, mashing his lips to mine again, his tongue raking deep into my mouth. Between kisses he rasped, "Come off it you little minx, you know you want it as much as I do, I've seen the way you look at me." I couldn't deny that I had occasionally allowed myself silly romantic fantasies about Roger, but my chaste girlish daydreams were a million miles from what was happening in that pergola. I was horrified at the turn of events, and felt powerless to prevent them; my heart thundered and tears sprang to my eyes. Yet, terrified as I was, as one of Roger's hands squeezed my right breast quite painfully, the finger and thumb of the other hand rolling my left nipple, bizarrely my sensitive nips tingled as they swelled to his touch, and I could feel my quim twitching with sexual anticipation. One of his hands left my chest and I felt him pulling up the front of my dress. Openly crying by then I scrabbled feebly at his wrist but he shook off my hands. I tried to clamp my legs closed but Roger pushed a thigh between them, then his hand took hold of the waistband of my panties and he dragged them part way down my legs. I felt an electric shock shoot through my entire body as he thrust several fingers into my exposed cunnie, grunting "Mm, nice" into my mouth. My legs momentarily gave way and Roger quickly took advantage. Slipping both his hands onto my hips beneath my dress he lifted me into a semi-seated position on the sill of the adjacent window, causing the bodice of my dress to drop, exposing my bra. He forced my knees apart, causing the bunched material of my panties to cut into my lower thighs. He wrenched them roughly off me then moved between my legs. A moment later I felt a heavy pressure on my cunnie then I yelped at a sharp pain as he rammed his erect cock into me. Despite my fear and revulsion at what Roger was doing to me, I felt a warm glow of arousal radiating from my cunnie into my belly and upwards. Initially I had placed my hands on his shoulders, partly to maintain balance and partly still trying to repel him. But as the flush reached my face, throwing my mind into turmoil, my arms of their own accord slipped around his neck, pulling him towards me. Then, as suddenly as his assault on me had started, it ended. After a loud groan and a huge final thrust Roger stepped back and began to button his fly, as I slumped dazedly to the floor. The whole thing, his penetration of me, couldn't have lasted more than about 15 seconds. Half turning away from me he casually lit a cigarette then muttered, "Probably in both our best interests if nobody finds out about this, old thing." And with that he sauntered out of the pergola and back towards the house. God, I haven't thought about that night in years. A lot of girls want to remember the time they lost their virginity for the rest of their lives; it took me a very long time to banish the thought of it from my mind. It took a minute or so for my brain to register what had just happened: I had been raped by a man old enough to be my father, a cultured, respectable family man who I had liked and trusted. I'm not how long I sat there, flopped against the wall like a discarded rag doll, the evening breeze carrying the faint sound of music from the party, and the occasional high-pitched laugh or the clink of glass on glass. Finally I came to my senses enough to hunt around on the dark floor for my discarded panties, straighten out my dress and return to the Club house. I passed zombie-like through the party, looking neither to left nor right, heading for the lavatory. The moment I got there I pitched over a hand basin and threw up everything in my stomach, and more until I was dry heaving, tears streaming down my face. An officer's wife I knew slightly had observed my return and entered the room to see if I was all right. On finding me dishevelled and sobbing my heart out she asked no questions and simply helped me tidy myself up then called a taxi, kindly insisting on accompanying me to my home. I'm sure she understood the nature of my distress, however, because her last words to me as I exited the cab were "My dear, if this is a police matter you need to speak to them as soon as possible." I lay wide awake in bed the whole night, crying, carefully feeling my bruised and tender quim, and trying to banish visions of a dark silhouette looming above me, his hot breath rasping on my face as he violated me. I arose the next morning with a splitting headache, my throat and belly sore from the vomiting, my body aching, and facing a tirade from my father for leaving the party without his permission. Part 2: Midge It was another two nights until I had a good night's sleep, from sheer exhaustion, and probably a week before I began to return to something like my old self. I didn't contact the police, civilian or military. There was no point: it would by my word against Roger's, and even if I was believed, which was unlikely, he was simply too popular, and too well connected, for anything to come of it. I would simply be dismissed as a silly little trollop who'd got herself into trouble and was trying to besmirch the character of an innocent man, and my reputation would be destroyed into the bargain. By mid-February, though, I knew I was going to have to do something. When my period failed to appear for a second successive month I could no longer dismiss it, and the bouts of sickness I'd started to experience, as a result of emotional stress. I couldn't possibly see our family doctor, a naval friend of my father, so I sat for three hours in the dismal waiting room of a Maltese doctor in Floriana until he had finished his normal surgery. As I knew he would, he confirmed my condition as the early stages of pregnancy. I was distraught, with no idea what to do. My father, I thought, would kill me, possibly quite literally, when he found out, and as a single girl I would be regarded by all who knew me with contempt. And, of course, my fiancé, George, would have to be told. I had heard stories of women getting rid of babies illegally in back street clinics, but I'd also heard horror stories of how many of them died in the process, and even if I wanted to risk it I would have no idea how to arrange it. A single clear thought occurred to me. I decided to confront Roger. It was he who had got me into this mess, and he would know what to do. It was stupid, I know, God knows what I expected him to say, but the following afternoon I left work as early as I could and hurried the short distance to his office. To my immense surprise Roger immediately agreed to see me. He showed me into his office with a broad smile, and I realised he must think I was going to offer to become his mistress. I had intended to be very cool and mature about the whole thing; in the event I blurted it out then buried my head in my face and sobbing. He remained silent until I had calmed down a little then, without a word to me, pressed the intercom on his desk and asked his secretary to come in. She was a Wren (a uniformed member of the newly-formed Women's Royal Naval Service), aged around 30. Standing glaring behind his desk, Roger nodded towards her then snapped at me, "Now, tell Ros what you just said to me." I was confused and upset, and I started crying again. With steel in his voice, Roger turned to Ros and growled, "This stupid little slut had got herself into the family way, and is threatening to claim I am the father." Turning back to me, he continued, "How dare you come here and try to blackmail me like this? If you go around telling people these sort of lies you'll get into serious trouble. And if this fantasy of your gets back to Mrs Ransome, you'll have me to answer to, my girl. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?" I stared at him in astonishment, incapable of speech. After a moment he gave a huge dramatic sigh and, turning to Ros, said wearily, "Get her out of my sight." She helped me to my feet and, an arm draped around my heaving shoulders, led me from the room. Before the door closed Roger called after me, "And just think yourself lucky that I'm not telling your father about this." Ros sat me in a chair and, gently stroking my shoulder, muttered, "God, he is such a bastard!" She said it so fiercely that I couldn't help wondering whether she had been another of Roger's victims. After a moment she stalked around her desk, pulled on her jacket, and said, "Come on, I'll buy you a cup of tea." Under Siege Sniffling and with puffy eyes I accompanied her to a local café where she ordered a pot of tea and a plate of cakes. As we sipped our tea Ros quietly asked me the details of what Roger had done. Once I'd told her, she said, "Christ, the dirty bastard deserves to be hung, drawn and quartered." After a moment's hesitation she said, awkwardly, "Look...you're going to need to decide what you want to do about it. If you decide to get rid of it I, er, well, I know someone who can help you. For a price of course." I was surprised that this nice English lady with the cut glass accent had such a contact, and wondered again about her history with Roger, but she didn't volunteer any details and I was too embarrassed to ask. She told me what the cost would be – it was manageable from my savings – and I said I would think about it and contact her. I did think about it, but decided against such a drastic option. The truth was that, whatever the consequences for me, I felt it would be morally wrong. I wasn't religious, and I believe in a woman's freedom of choice in such issues, but I simply couldn't bring myself to make that choice. It would have felt as if I was punishing the innocent life growing inside me for Roger's betrayal of my trust. Ros said she understood, and that she felt I was being very brave. She phoned me a couple of weeks later to ask how I was, genuinely concerned for me, which was very nice of her. I was starting to really worry though. I could tell from the way Carmela looked at me that she had guessed my condition; and as I entered my third month my father made a snide comment that if I took more exercise perhaps I would stop looking so unwell all the time and lose a few pounds into the bargain. Whatever else he was, he certainly wasn't stupid, and I knew it would be only a matter of time before he realised the position. I was genuinely terrified that he may imprison me in the house, rather than face the shame of his ruined slut daughter being seen in public. A beacon of hope briefly flared with the reappearance of my fiancé, George. His brigade were based on the other side of Malta, and were busily engaged in the island's preparations for war; I had last seen him in January, and then only for two hours. But in March he was granted 24 hours' leave and travelled the breadth of the island to see me. I developed a mad plan that once I explained my plight to him we could at least pass the baby off as ours, and however angry my father was he would have to agree to a quick marriage to stave off humiliation. We met in a café in Valletta, and it was a disaster. George refused to believe the truth of my situation. He accused me of being loose with my favours in his absence and trying to con him into taking on some other bloke's bastard. He called me some vile names and stormed out, leaving me sobbing as the other customers stared at me with a mixture of pity and contempt. After my confrontation with George I wandered aimlessly for several hours, with no idea where I was, and not a thought in my head. Eventually I found myself, late into the evening, leaning on a wall staring down into the dark, oily waters of the Grand Harbour. They looked so inviting, and it would seem so simple to...I snapped out of it with a jerk. No, that would be too easy; I was buggered if I was going to driven to that by the men who had betrayed me, my bloody father, and bloody George, and bloody, bloody, fucking Roger! The following day I received a very formally worded letter from George requesting the return of his ring. I was so furious that I stormed down to a local jewellers and sold the damned thing for a few lira. Then I wrote back to my ex-fiancé telling him he was a filthy swine, and where he could buy back his nasty cheap little bauble if it meant that much to him. After that I felt a little better, and telephoned Ros to ask if we could meet for lunch. She seemed to have been the only person who had been kind to me in months, and I was completely out of other ideas. At the café I told her how scared I was of my father's reaction to the news I couldn't keep from him much longer, and that I had to get away, somewhere, somehow. Ros was silent for fully a minute, staring into the middle distance and absently tapping her thumbnail against her teeth. Then, with a decisive nod she turned to me. "Right, I have a friend, a lady, who I think might be able to offer you a billet. Leave it with me, I'll call her this afternoon and let you know how I get on." I was on tenterhooks for the rest of the day. At home I sat on the edge of my seat, praying for the phone to ring. It finally did at about nine o'clock. Ros spoke quickly and briefly, almost as if she was afraid somebody might be listening in on the call. "Okay, it's fixed, be at the Sliema ferry slip at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow, ready to go", and with that she rang off. In my bedroom I packed as many of my belongings as I could into a small cardboard suitcase and spent a restless night tossing and turning in my bed. The next morning I left a brief note on my father's chair, saying I was moving in with a girl friend and would not be returning. Then, without so much as a backward glance I left his house. I never spoke to him again, and the next time I saw him was in 1952, in his coffin at Portsmouth, prior to his burial at sea. I arrived at the Sliema ferry terminus ten minutes early and sat on a low wall to await Ros. I jumped in surprise when, a few minutes later, a man's cockney voice said, "'Scuse me, are you Miss Bullamore?" I turned and saw a small man in his 40s in army uniform. When I nodded nervously he said "Mrs Rogers sent me to collect you; said Wren Collier had made the arrangements." I realised he must mean Ros, though I hadn't known her surname. Feeling slightly bewildered I allowed him to take my suitcase and direct me towards a military staff car parked by the kerb. The driver, who introduced himself as Corporal Palmer – "but you can call me Sid" – tried to make small-talk, but I'm afraid I was too distracted, staring out of the window as we drove north towards our mystery destination. In fact, the journey took probably no more than ten minutes, then we turned between an impressive set of stone gate pillars past a sentry who peered curiously into the vehicle. I realised I was in St Andrew's Barracks, a military facility where the wives and families of the Devonshires – George's regiment – had been ensconced while their men were away across the island. Before I had time to think any further the car halted and Sid opened the door. We were parked by a terrace of apartments, and at the nearest door stood a woman in her mid-30s, slim apart from an impressive bust, perhaps five-six tall, with shoulder length jet black hair, eyes that glinted with intelligence, a long slightly shrewish nose and a conspiratorial grin. As I emerged dopily from the car she held out a hand and said, "Hello, you must be Sandra, I'm Midge Rogers." Clearly a brisk no-nonsense lady she ushered me in, sat me at a kitchen table and shoved a mug of tea into my limp hands. Then she explained that her husband was a Warrant Officer with the Devons, that she lived there with her two sons, aged seven and nine, and that I could have the box room with a single divan in return for a share of the housework and a few other chores. Then, giving me an appraising look, she said, "Now, what about you? You don't know anyone here at the barracks do you?" I explained briefly about George but, with a dismissive wave of her hand she said, "If he's got no family here he's not likely to turn up here. Now, you obviously can't be Bullamore, far too well known on the island. How about this? You're Sandra Taylor, cousin Fred's wife, preggers and all alone in the world now he's been called up to the Desert Rats in North Africa. Yes, that should work." And so Miss Bullamore became Mrs Taylor. Midge sent her friend Sid off to buy me a cheap second hand wedding ring, I phoned my office to explain that I'd been called away to care for a sick relative, and that was that. I soon got into the routine of my new life. I helped Midge not only with her housework, but also with arranging a food rota for the families of 'other ranks', i.e. non-officers. I also became a civilian volunteer at the barracks medical surgery, helping with basic first aid, applying dressings and so forth. Midge's boys were delightful, I liked her husband as well when I met him, and she and I quickly became firm friends. We shared an interest in cinema, and she had a wicked sense of humour, and an endless supply of scurrilous gossip about other women at the barracks. I felt happier than I had in months, if not years. It was all too good to last, of course, and it came crashing down in flames on the evening of 10th June 1940. I strolled into the kitchen from washing my hair one evening to find Midge sitting at the table, staring in horror at the wireless set, from which a bombastic Italian voice rang. Though I didn't speak the language I recognised the voice as that of Benito Mussolini, the Fascist dictator of Italy, and from the way the blood was draining from Midge's face I had a fair guess at what he was saying. As the speech finished she confirmed my worst fears. "The fucker's gone and declared war on Malta, from midnight." Musso had been laying claims to the island ever since his troops had invaded Abyssinia several years earlier, but even though the war had now started in earnest on the European mainland, and even though Malta had been preparing its defences for months, the announcement still came as a dreadful shock. After Britain had declared war on Germany in September 1939 there had been months of inactivity. We in Malta had considerably less time to wait for Italy to launch its war on us. On the day after Musso's announcement I was getting out of bed at 7 a.m., after my best sleep in ages, when I heard the wail of the air raid siren. I thought it was probably another of the drills we had been getting used to but, still in our dressing gowns, Midge and I got the boys together and we stumbled to the shelter which had been dug out of the ground across the road from our billet. We heard nothing until the all-clear was sounded, but when we emerged we could see a pillar of smoke in the distance, and we learnt that this had been the real thing, an attack by Italian bombers on the Grand Harbour. Over the next few weeks the raids came thick and fast. We found ourselves in the shelter so often that we moved a few home comforts in there – deck chairs, blankets, flasks of water, tins of biscuits, and insect repellent as a defence against the swarms of sand flies which seemed to love the taste of human flesh. An anti-aircraft gun was posted very close to our billet, and the sound of it firing was deafening and terrifying. We used to sing jolly songs as loudly as we could to try and drown it out. Fortunately no bombs fell on St Andrew's Barracks, but the area around Grand Harbour, especially the historic communities known as the Three Cities, took a dreadful pounding. I really hadn't been looking forward to summer. The searing, dry Maltese heat was bad enough anyway, without being six months' pregnant, waddling round like a barrage balloon on legs, and the constant rushes to the shelter began to take a toll on my morale. One evening, after we'd taken cover five times in a single day, I was feeling hot, grimy and thoroughly miserable, and decided to treat myself to a long soak in the bath. Night raids were almost unheard of, so it seemed pretty safe. As I lay back in the warm water, I suddenly felt a draught, and my eyes flickered open to see Midge standing there – I'd forgotten to lock the door. Her eyes flickered over my bare breasts then, with a sympathetic smile she sat on the side of the bath and said, "How are you bearing up, old thing? I know this isn't easy for you." I shrugged and said it wasn't easy for any of us. Midge nodded then, to my surprise, picked up a sponge and dipped it in the water. Wordlessly, she then proceeded to wash my back with long, gentle strokes. It felt wonderfully relaxing, but my body began to react in a strange way. After all, this was another woman, just being sisterly towards me, yet my nipples quickly stiffened and my cunnie started to tingle. Without at first realising it, I actually slipped a hand between my legs and began to stroke one finger softly across it. As Midge continued to sponge me a glorious warmth began to spread right through my body. She slipped the sponge down my side then inched forward. Completely lost in the moment, I placed my elbows on the sides of the bath, giving her free access to my front, silently willing her to push on to my breasts. She did reach the first swell of my right breast – I actually felt her warm fingertips, wrapped around the sponge, press lightly into the meat of my boobie. But then she stood and, bending down to kiss me lightly on the forehead, said, "I'm off to bed now darling, goodnight." I felt a deep pang of disappointment as she closed the door behind her, and she had left me feeling so aroused that I fingered myself to a small orgasm, splashing bath water onto the floor. I lay awake until the early morning, thinking about what had happened in the bathroom, and trying to decide whether it had been an entirely innocent gesture on Midge's part, or whether she had been giving me a message. I knew, of course, that women did sexual stuff together – two of the teachers at my school had been rumoured to be at it like knives – but I had never experienced it, and the concept seemed strange to me: not bad, or wrong, just odd. The next morning Midge seemed completely her normal self, and I began to feel I'd read far too much into what had happened. I found, though, that I was noticing her in a quite different way: her long, graceful neck; her cleavage as she bent over in front of me to pick something up from the table; the fullness of her red lips when she smiled at me. Before long I felt sexual tension building up in me like flood waters about to burst a dam. Two evenings after the bathroom incident, I'd taken another bath – just a quick one – and was sitting on a sofa in the small lounge area off the kitchen. To conserve resources it was the only room in the apartment that we heated. I was dressed quite immodestly, in only a towel knotted above my boobies and ending at mid-thigh, but the boys had gone to bed some time before. I was half-drowsing when I felt the sofa give and looked up to see Midge sitting next to me, very close. She smiled and began to stroke my hair off my forehead. At the touch of her fingers my body instantly started to tingle. Leaning even closer towards me, she whispered, "You know Sandra, you really are very desirable", and then we were kissing. I honestly don't know who took the lead, but out lips pressed together and I took her cheeks in my hands, pulling her on to me. Her tongue flickered against my lips and I opened them to admit her. Her tongue felt much smaller and far less aggressive than Roger's, and tasted very sweet in my mouth. I felt Midge's hands tugging at my towel, then I emitted a gasp of surprise as it fell from me. She broke away from our kiss, and I watched in amazement as she cupped both hands under one of my breasts and, dropping her head, took my nipple in her mouth. Immediately a trail of fire raced from my chest into my belly, and from there to my quim. All thought driven from my head, I groaned with lust and cradled her head in my hands, massaging her scalp with my fingers. One of her hands finger-walked across my chest to the other breast and I pushed my body at her, revelling in the sensations caused by her lips and tongue on one nip and her fingers on the other. After a few minutes – I think I'd cum once just from what she was doing to my boobies – Midge licked her way down my ribcage, and across my big belly, tickling my navel with her tongue. My breath was roaring in my ears, fast and deep as my arousal intensified. Midge slipped to her knees on the floor and, as she kissed her way across my dense pubic bush, placed her hands on my bottom and urged me forward. Without a moment's hesitation I shuffled to the very edge of the sofa. She moved between my legs and murmured, "God you're pussy's as beautiful as you are." I actually whimpered as she licked my inner thighs then, a moment later, a tidal wave of pleasure washed through my entire frame as her tongue stroked the length of my quim. I came almost instantly, with a shudder that wracked my whole body, before slumping back on the sofa as my lover fed on me. She stroked my clitoris with a thumb, licked deep inside me and, behind her tongue, fucked me with the fingers of her other hand. I wouldn't have believed anything could feel so good and, tweaking my own nipples to increase the pleasure, I lost track of how many times I orgasmed. I had to clamp a cushion between my teeth to muffle my groans and screams of ecstasy to avoid waking the boys. Eventually I felt my drained body could take no more, and I actually begged her to stop. She rose to sit on the sofa again, her face glistening with my love juices, and throwing my arms around her I kissed her deeply, sucking the taste of myself off her divine tongue. Naturally we spent that night together in the bed Midge would usually have shared with her husband. It had been my intention to pleasure her as she had pleasured me, and I sucked lovingly on her plump boobies as she purred with joy. But before long my exhaustion got the better of me and I fell asleep, my lips still attached to her nipple. I awoke at first light with my back to Midge, her body curled around mine, her breasts pressing against my back, one arm draped across me. I turned over and slipped a hand between her legs. I was surprised to find that her pussy was completely shaved of hair. Her eyes didn't open as I slid a finger inside her, but she smiled and attached her own hand to my quim. She felt on fire around my finger, and I quickly found I could fit three fingers into her, with my thumb on her clitty. We both began to moan and Midge pressed her lips to mine, stretching across my big belly, allowing us to voice our passion into each other's mouths as we exploded together. Just as we flopped onto our backs, fully spent, the air raid siren sounded. For the first time the two of us rushed to the shelter giggling like schoolgirls, silently giving thanks that the bombers hadn't arrived ten minutes earlier! After that first time I was on fire for Midge. We spent nearly every night together (I always returned to my room in the early hours, to avoid the boys seeing me emerging from their mother's room), and there were times during the day when I could barely keep my hands off her. Her wicked sense of humour didn't help: sometimes in the shelter she would surreptitiously tickle my hand and forearm, sending tremors straight to my quim; and once, as we sat in deckchairs and the boys played snakes and ladders a few yards away, she threw a blanket over our laps and slipped her hand down the waist of my skirt and into my knickers. It took a supreme effort of self-control on my part not to give the game away as she frigged me to orgasm! On our third night together, after Midge had again feasted on my pussy, I whispered, "Darling, I want to lick you too." I knew it wasn't straightforward, with my swollen belly, but after a second's thought Midge rose and straddled me, her bottom gently resting on my chest, bringing her cunnie to within inches of my mouth. With a degree of nervousness I gripped her bum cheeks and pulled her forwards. I couldn't see my target in the dark but the aroma of her arousal filled my head, inflaming me, and I stretched out my tongue, until it touched her burning flesh. Midge squeaked at that first touch and, pulling her even more firmly onto me, I ran my tongue the full length of her slit then wormed it between the lips. She tasted wonderful, salty and spicy, and I quickly warmed to my task, moaning even as I licked at her. She gripped the iron headboard of the bed and squirmed on my face, muttering "Oh fuck, yes, of Christ". I don't know how long it lasted, but several times I felt her vaginal muscles clench around my tongue as she bucked and growled before settling back onto me for more. Finally she dismounted me and pulled me into her arms as we shared a long, sweet kiss. Under Siege Part 3: Jim One hot night in early August I awoke in the middle of the night with what felt like dreadful stomach cramps. I was just wondering whether I had eaten something bad when I felt a particularly strong stab of pain and realised with horror that I was peeing myself! I groaned with a mixture of pain and embarrassment. Midge sat up beside me, switched on the bedside light and, with her greater experience, assessed the situation instantly. "Oh God, junior's coming early. I'll get the doc." Within a few minutes there was a loud rapping on the door and Midge, who had hurriedly dressed, admitted the doctor. In my work assisting at the barracks surgery I had got to know the elderly regimental doctor, McKinnon, quite well. It was not he, however, who burst through the bedroom door but Doctor Hope, a young Yorkshireman who had been on the barracks only a couple of weeks, and who I barely knew. A pale, freckled, fresh-faced redhead, he looked barely older than me, and my nervousness immediately increased. However, he gave me a cheery grin and said "Don't look so worried, I've delivered more babies than you've had hot dates." He gave me a wink as he said that, and even though I knew it for a lie I couldn't help smiling. (I discovered later that he had been involved in several deliveries, but they had been on his father's farm, the babies had had four legs and said moo!) He made no comment on the fact that Midge and I had obviously been sharing a bed and got to work calmly and efficiently. Midge obeyed any orders he gave her, and within an hour, bathed in sweat, I was holding my own baby boy. Doc Hope asked me if I'd got a name for the baby yet. I realised I hadn't given it the slightest thought, and I couldn't think of a single man I might want to call my baby after – except possibly Mr Churchill! I asked the doctor his first name and, with some surprise, he told me it was James. And thus was James Winston Taylor born. It took me a couple of days to recover my strength, and Midge and I just cuddled up in bed, which was lovely. There wasn't space in my room for a cot for little Jimmy, so we told the boys their mother and I were swapping rooms. From then on it was Midge who scuttled across the corridor each morning before her sons woke up. I wrote to my father, telling him he had another grandson and where I was living, but I never received a response. I also told Ros of course, and she made a trip out to coo over my baby. A few days later a Royal Navy envelope arrived with £100 in fivers in it. There was no accompanying message, and I never found out whether it was guilt money from Roger, a result of Ros embezzling office funds or, most unlikely, from my father. Making love with Midge was far easier now that Jimmy had been delivered. A few nights after his birth we 69ed for the first time. I found a new level of joy in that, stroking Midge's pussy lips and fucking her with my fingers as I buried my tongue deep in her hole. I had trouble concentrating though due to the sheer waves of ecstatic pleasure firing through my body as she did the same things for me. Doc Hope became Jimmy's doctor, and with that, resuming my work at the clinic, and diving frequently into the bomb shelter, I got to know him quite well. And to like him. He was actually 28, only five-feet-seven tall but with a muscular frame, perpetually jolly, and possessed of a dry sense of humour – it sometimes took me a second or so to realise something he'd said was a joke. He had a fund of amusing stories about his life back in Yorkshire and in the regiment, and he often charmed and entertained me, Midge, other ladies while we awaited the all clear. He was single too. I must admit that it did occasionally occur to me that, were I not sleeping with Midge, it might have been nice to get to know the personable young doctor a whole lot better. We had sort of become acclimatised to the air raids on the island – to the extent one can acclimatise to death raining down from the skies – and to be frank the rather inefficient and cautious Italian pilots had caused relatively minor damage. That all changed, however, with the involvement of the German Luftwaffe, who announced their arrival in the most dramatic of fashions. It was the second week of January 1941, and I was just returning from visiting a friend at the barracks who had given birth about the same time Jimmy was born. I hadn't taken him with me and was just crossing a road in the darkness of late evening when a jeep came flying around a corner, headlights blazing. I froze like a terrified rabbit and, amid screaming brakes, the vehicle shuddered to a halt two feet short of hitting me. Furious, I bustled round to the driver to give him what for. Sitting behind the wheel, looking shocked and even paler than usual, was Jim Hope. As an officer he would normally have had a driver, and I asked him what he was playing at. He blurted, "Sixty-odd naval casualties over at Imtarfa (this island's main military hospital). It's all hands on-deck." Without a moment's thought I told him to hang on, ran around the front of the jeep and clambered into the passenger seat. Jim gave me a questioning look and I snapped, "I might not be able to do much, but if it's as bad as you say..." He nodded and slammed the vehicle into motion, throwing me back into my seat. We hurtled along the badly made roads of Malta, the poorly upholstered jeep bouncing into the air, turning my bottom black and blue as I clung on for dear life. Shouting over the roar of the engine Jim explained that a flight of Stuka dive bombers had appeared out of nowhere over the Med and pounded the aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious, the pride of the fleet. She had suffered huge damage, with over a hundred dead, but had managed to limp into Grand Harbour. The living casualties had been ferried in every available vehicle to Imtarfa. When we arrived I asked a receptionist to phone Midge and let her know where I was. Then the horror of the situation hit me. People were bustling about as if it were Victoria Station during the rush hour, and the entire place reeked of an ungodly mixture of antiseptic and scorched human flesh – many of the ship's casualties had been caught in fires. Then there was the sound – the clanging of trollies, the desperate shouts of medics, all drowned out by the screams of men in agony, most of their skin blackened by the inferno. I felt as if I had walked straight into the bowels of Hell, and I wanted nothing more than to run from there and never return. I was brought out of my stunned state by an imposing staff nurse who grabbed me by the arm and ordered, "You, take this bottle and swab that chap's skin. Jump to it." I did as I was told and rushed over to a trolley where a dark human shape was lying, most of his uniform burned off. The poor man's face was so badly burnt that it was impossible to tell what he had once looked like; I expected him to scream as I applied the Gentian Violet to his skin, but in fact he just groaned and turned his head to the wall. We were at it all night, with barely a moment's rest. When I joined Jim outside the front door of the building shortly after dawn I was exhausted and filthy, the nice dress I'd worn to visit my friend ruined. Jim looked just as bad. Wordlessly he offered me a cigarette and I took it, even though I didn't smoke. As he lit it and I drew the smoke into my soiled lungs I burst into a huge bout of coughing. Jim chuckled and patted me on the back, which slightly relieved the atmosphere. Jim was in no fit state to drive, but thankfully one of the local army units gave us a chauffeur. Within moments of sitting in the rear seat we were both asleep, slumped together. When we reached my front door Jim gently kissed me on the forehead and mouthed "Thank you." I dragged myself out of the vehicle – to see a furious looking Midge standing on the front step. I thought she had seen and misinterpreted Jim's kiss, but in fact she had never received my message, and had spent the entire night sick with worry as to where I was. She bawled her pent up emotions at me before we collapsed into each other's arms in tears. I went to bed in my underwear, not even bothering to wash, and slept through to the evening. For the first and only time I even ignored an air raid warning, taking my chances in my bed. It was yet another attack on Grand Harbour, one of the most intense as the Nazis tried to sink the wounded Illustrious. The following day, while I was working at the surgery, Jim Hope thanks me again for going to Imtarfa with him. He seemed uncomfortable and, with very forced, casualness, he asked me if I might be free for dinner one night. Feeling myself blush I asked him for a rain-check, an expression I'd picked up from some American movie. I would have loved to say yes, and all day I thought about searching him out and saying I'd changed my mind, but I would have felt I was betraying my darling Midge. That night in bed, my head buried in her boobies, I told Midge about Jim's invite, and that I'd turned him down. She gave me an odd look and asked why. I was surprised at her reaction, and when I explained she said, "Bless you, darling" and cuddled me closer to her. Then she placed her lips beside my ear and spoke softly to me. "Sandra...I love you, and I love what we do, but we both have to recognise there's no future in it. The war won't last forever and, God willing, my Bill will come back to me. I'm very fond of him, in his way, and my boys need their father. Your Jimmy needs a father too, and Doctor Hope's probably the best catch on the whole island. I know of at least two lovesick wives he's already turned down for a bit of the naughty, so you'd better move quick, he might just say yes next time!" I kissed her warmly, but I still felt a traitor as my heart fluttered at the thought of a date with Jim Hope. So a few evenings later, after a day remarkably clear of air raids, Jim and I were driven into Valletta, for dinner at a superb restaurant. Midge had helped me get ready, and I felt sick with excitement, chiding myself for being a silly goose. Jim looked very smart in his dress uniform, and I was reassured to realise that he was clearly nervous too. We soon relaxed in each other's company though. Few restaurants on the island were still open, and most of the other diners were military couples, one or two of whom I recognised. As we sipped our post-meal coffee Jim reached across the table and took both my hands in his, making my heart flip-flop. With a warm smile he said, "Sandra, I'd like to do this again sometime. I realise we can't be more than friends, that you're spoken for, but our being friends would mean a lot to me." For a moment I thought he was hinting that he knew about me and Midge – in truth, he probably did – but then I realised with a shock that he, along with just about everybody else, thought I was married to a Desert Rat! Thinking quickly, I said, "I'm going to let you into a secret, Jim. Fred's left me. Midge and I have been keeping it quiet because it's rather embarrassing, but he wrote to me just after Jimmy was born, and told me he's taken up with a girl who works in the NAAFI (a British military mess) out there. I'm divorcing him – he's not contesting it." Jim said how sorry he was, but he looked anything but! When we returned to the barracks we got out of the car at the gate and walked in the pleasant evening, arm in arm. Just short of my billet, by mutual consent we ducked into a dark alleyway and, giggling like naughty children, began smooching against the wall. Within moments I felt the erection in Jim's trousers pressing into my belly. I was just about to reach my hand towards it when he jerked away from me and said, "I think I'd better go, before things get out of hand." It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I'd be happy for things to go too far, back at his billet, but I wasn't sure how that would be received. In bed that night Midge insisted on me telling her everything about the evening, then sucked my cunnie to relieve my sexual frustration. She rocked with laughter when I told her about Fred's adultery. From that night I stopped wearing my wedding ring. Midge casually mentioned the position to a couple of carefully selected ladies, and within days the entire barracks knew about it and I was overwhelmed with sympathy! On my second date with Jim we smooched for even longer in the alleyway, and I did dare to stroke his cock through his trousers. He gasped in surprise but didn't pull away, though I still ended the night sleeping with Midge. On our third date, two weeks after the first, Jim had the driver drop us directly outside his billet, and invited me in for coffee. The place was considerably smaller than Midge's family quarters, but quite homely. Removing his jacket and shuffling his feet awkwardly Jim asked me if I did want coffee. Daringly I draped my arms around his neck and murmured, "Actually, darling, I'd rather just go to bed." With a huge grin he scooped me into his arms and carried me through an adjacent door, laying me gently on a neat single bed. We both kicked off our shoes and, between kisses, undressed each other. When Jim had me down to my knickers and bra I scooted down the bed and slipped his boxers down his legs. I had never seen a man's penis in the flesh before and it looked quite fearsome, long and thick, backed by a bush of ginger hair and with a pendulous scrotum. In my darkest fantasies I had often wondered what it would feel like to suck a cock, and I decided there was no time like the present. Jim sighed "Oh yessss" as I slipped my lips over the tip and slid them down his length. It felt like soft velvet wrapped around an iron bar with a rubber tip. I wasn't sure I could get it all into my mouth, so I wrapped my hand around the base and shuffled it back and forth, and cupped my other hand around his balls, gently massaging them. I felt Jim pulling my backside around towards him, then my panties being pulled down my thighs. A moment later a familiar warm feeling flooded into my belly as he clutched my bum cheeks and buried his tongue inside me. I was amazed, because Midge had told me she had never met a man who was keen to do that. Jim clearly wasn't as experienced or skilled as her, but as he sucked and licked me, a finger tweaking my clit, I was more than satisfied, and slurped on his cock with renewed energy. He came first, his hot salty spunk shooting against the back of my throat, but it was my turn moments later, gasping and panting onto his dick. He carried right on licking at me, sinking back into the bed and pulling me with him so that I was sitting on his face. After I came a second time I rolled off him and shuffled round until we were face to face, mouth to mouth. As we kissed I asked him where he'd learnt to do that for a woman. He grinned smugly and all he would say, wiggling his eyebrows, was "You'd have to ask the widow Hunter about that." I quickly removed my bra then we kissed and cuddled for a while, Jim kneading my boobs, I stroking his dick back to hardness. When I felt it couldn't get any stiffer I whispered, "Would you fuck me now please?" With a chuckle he replied, "Oh, I think I might just about manage that." He turned me onto my back then, glancing between my legs, murmured, "Oh yes, I remember that sight." It took me a split second to realise he meant from when my Jimmy was born, and I playfully slapped him. He reached over to his bedside cabinet and pulled a condom from the drawer then, quickly donning it, he rested the tip of his cock against my slit. Thinking of the rough way Roger had assaulted me I rested a hand on Jim's arm and whispered, "It's been a while. Be gentle." He entered me carefully and we made love tenderly, pausing frequently to kiss and stroke. Jim screwed me teasingly, varying speed, strength and depth, sometimes pulling almost all the way out and pausing for seconds on end, making me snort with giggles before he surged back inside me. Towards the end he switched to fast regular strokes, and I wrapped my legs around him, riding him from below like a horse. His big meaty prick felt so good inside me and I think I came twice before he finally filled his condom with a huge groan. He pumped into me three or four more times then sank down beside me and took me in his arms. By the time I left Jim's billet, in the half light just before reveille, I was in no doubt that I was deeply in love with him. For a week or two I slept both with him and with Midge; but the more time I spent in Jim's bed, the more uneasy I felt about also being with another person. Midge understood, and we went back to being friends. Just two months after our first night of lovemaking Jim and I married. Our affair had become an open secret around the barracks anyway. One of the other ladies kindly leant me her wedding dress and Doc McKinnon was delighted to be asked to give me away. On the big day Midge helped me get ready. Kneeling before me, straightening out my dress, she asked me if I was nervous, and I admitted I was terrified. With an evil glint in her eye, she said, "I know how to relax you." Before I could stop her she had ducked her head under the dress, pulled my panties aside and sunk her fingers and tongue into my pussy! The old familiar feelings surged through me and I sank back on the bed and sighed with pleasure as she brought me to two quick orgasms. Then her face gleaming with my juice, as it had the first time, she kissed me deeply and whispered, "Have a good life sweetie – he's a lucky bastard." After the end of the war I never saw Midge again, although we always kept in touch. She wrote to me in great detail about several reckless affairs she had in the different locations to which her career soldier husband was posted, usually with younger men. Finally, in 1960, she fell in love – with the wife of a major in the regiment. The two of them eloped together; the gutter press learnt of it and it was a scandalous front page story for a few days. They lived happily ever after, as the saying goes. After my marriage to Jim I never so much as looked at anyone else. Malta survived its siege, and after Italy surrendered my husband was posted there, which was a worrying time for me. When he was demobbed in 1946 he became a partner in a medical practice in his beloved Yorkshire Dales. I had decided to formally train, and I spent 40 years' as his practise nurse, between pregnancies. Jim Junior is blessed with his father's movie star looks, while Jim and my daughters, Alice and Julia, have their father's red hair. All three have my blue eyes. Jim and Alice are both doctors, and Julia is a teacher. We have seven grandchildren and two great grandchildren, so far. Jim developed into a superb oral lover, and over the years we probably spent more time with our heads buried in each other's laps than we did fucking. He and I now live in a lovely cottage with roses around the door on the edge of the town of Selby. We hope to survive long enough to celebrate our 70th wedding anniversary next year. Jim spends most of each day sleeping now, while I potter around my little garden, but I'm still every bit as much in love with him as I was all those years ago.