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A Story from 1940

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This was the story I found in a tattered old diary. I don’t know who the writer was, and of course I’ve changed the names here.

I was lucky to be working for Mrs Anson, who was a widow and one of our town’s biggest businesspeople: she owned two shops and a half share in the pub.

She demanded a lot of me, as her maid and secretary on call for most of our waking hours. But I had a nice room at her house, good wages and was soon taken into her confidences. When a dishy young farmhand called late one evening I couldn’t help knowing he was her secret beau. The sounds that came from her room were no concern of mine.

“Young men! ” she frankly exclaimed the next morning as I made her bed without commenting on the wetted sheets, “They’re more trouble than they’re worth. Cheryl, if you take my advice you’ll steer clear of boys – until you’re ready to marry Mr Right, of course.” But she wasn’t giving up on her new boyfriend. She smiled as she told me, “I need to teach Doug a few things, Cheryl. He took me by surprise with his ebullient but, umm, premature passion on our first night. You should have seen the look on his face when I told him I wasn’t safe. Now he’ll do anything I say to avoid becoming a father, for instance wearing something on his penis thick enough to slow his ejaculation ’til a lady is ready to share the ecstasy.”

“Sorry, Mrs Anson, I don’t follow you.”

“That’s just as well, dear. So I’d like you to go to that funny little pharmacy round the corner, not the one we usually use, and ask for what they call prolongers or sustaining condoms. Can you remember that?”

“Not that shop run by the undertaker’s wife? In the lane behind the church?” said Mrs Tattersall, the know-all housekeeper when I returned with a plain package. “ They say she sells cheap condoms – so that later her hubby can offer the poor girls something much more expensive. Abortionist and undertaker, the two jobs go together, don’t they?”

“I’d rather trust these than the red rubber frangers that men buy at the barber shop,” Mrs Anson answered with dignity.

“Frangers! Rhymes with bangers,” Mrs T tittered.

“Short for frangible, n’est-ce pas?” French usually brought Mrs T to baffled silence, but today she was wound up with reminiscence.

“Oh, it used to break my Harry up when I called him Popskin Frankfurter. Our mums would tell us to wash with vinegar afterwards. But you had to be quick! We said half a lemon was better, as long as it didn’t slip out.”

I didn’t like this kind of talk, it was going too far in making fun of things I still thought romantic and maybe even sacred, even though I hadn’t tried them.

Six months later I had gone part of the way with Andy, across the seat of the farm truck that his boss let him use on Saturday nights. He was eager, and ebullient too I guess, but I hope he wasn’t being premature when he moved on from normal kissing to exploring as much of me as he could reach with his lips.

The next time Mrs Anson went down to Sydney she visited her corsetiere for the latest in the black silk and lace that she favoured. And she brought me a present, my first corsolette all in one piece of pink satin from the shoulder straps to the four garters to clip to my best stockings. “I’ll wear it for Sunday best, and maybe for special dates,” I giggled.

“Your date armour,” she laughed. “I bet your young man would have a hard time gaining entry.”

After a few more dates with Andy, I must admit we were going straight to heavy petting. And sure enough, one night he sheepishly brought out one of those thick rubber sheaths. At least he turned away to put it on, lest the sight of it in the moonlight scare me or something. We cuddled again, I almost burst out laughing at his rubber-encased sausage so heavy on my tummy. I had to touch it to make sure it wasn’t getting up to mischief, didn’t I. But his kisses and caresses were so sweet, as ever, my dear lover. He longed to slip it into me, I longed for that forbidden connection too. At last, I fended him off by saying archly, “Darling, I’m always scared to blow up a balloon. You know how they go pop?”

I kept stroking it, and suddenly he shuddered and I heard a funny “squelch… squelch … squelch!” inside that thingy. Just for a sec I was disgusted, then forgave him. He hid his face, must have been as embarrassed as me.

“Aww, no harm done,” I murmured as I ran my fingers through his hair and nibbled his ear, glad it was too dark for him to see how I was blushing. I hardly dared think of what that silly rubber gadget now contained. Although, as Andy calmed down and it became loose and baggy on him, I did wonder cheekily about what might happen if it spilled. Would the spermatozoa (I know that word from the medical book, but still can’t pronounce it) still be alive after it had cooled? What if a woman was so crazy for a baby that she poured them into her womb before her cruel husband could pour them all down the sink?

But a week later I was actually took his male organ right into my mouth for a moment, as long as he promised to behave himself. That was after I’d dared him to lick what we called the ‘man in the boat’ (he took forever to find it, it’s not as if he had very far to search!). It was past 11 when I got to my own bed that night, still glowing but starting to cringe at what we’d done now. Was I getting to be as bad as Mrs Anson?

The other fragment seems to date from a year later, when Cheryl and Andy were engaged but he has to leave. Of course, there was a war on.

We couldn’t have the lovely church wedding I wanted, but were lucky enough to have a rushed ceremony the day before Andy’s embarkation leave ended. Even if we hadn’t, I’ll admit (since no-one might ever read this) that I would have given myself to him as his bride and taken the ring on trust.

“I want to have your children,” I said to him more than once that evening. We both wanted a big family when the war was over. And we didn’t dare say it, but we both thought: what if he doesn’t come back?

My face was flushed, I was excited in a way that made me sure I had an egg waiting for my husband. I was ready to take the plunge, while we had the chance. Oh, this would have been so perfect if he didn’t have to leave now.

We had the use of a room, the wedding guests were all next door finishing off the drinks. Yes, even I had been drinking, and on the point of tears again and again – whether with happiness or sadness I still can’t decide.

“Darling, I want your baby. Now. So you’ll have us to think of, us to come back to.” I knew my man, and I knew this was an offer he couldn’t refuse. An offer of life.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to manage?”

“I’ll be fine, dearest. I have to leave my job with Mrs Anson, anyway. I’ll go back to my parents’ place and wait for you to collect me. Or us. Next year, the war can’t go on longer than that, can it?”

“Cheryl, my own sweetest heart,” Andy murmured as he carefully undid my white dress, “Ï want this to be perfect for you.”

“It’s perfect ‘cos you’re mine.” I wasn’t used to strong drink, and laughed when I stumbled in getting undressed. Andy had drunk more than his usual limit, and he was getting a little clumsy too. We both fumbled for what seemed like hours with the clips and hooks of my undies, as our hearts pounded. At last we were cuddling naked on that big double bed.

“Remember the first time I did this?” he asked and gave me a throbbing kiss between my legs. I threw my head back, stretching like a kitten as he carefully found my most sensitive part with his tongue. Only he started laughing, and that tickled. Now I was impatient to feel him inside me; I knew it wouldn’t hurt ‘cos all those times we’d petted in the truck had already taken care of my maidenhead.

“Honey, it’s my turn to do that to you,” I said. I knew he had to be harder before he could penetrate. I kissed his bare organ and took five of his seven warm inches into my mouth. Excitedly, I felt it firm up and twitch against my tongue. Well, this couldn’t be a sin, not now we were married. I embraced my husband’s penis with my lips, my mouth, my whole being, and already dreamed of the precious baby we both wanted so urgently.

“You’re my future, Cheryl. Whatever happens.” There was so much we couldn’t say, but needed to. I thought of the crops of crosses that sprouted in France after the last war, of the lists of gilded names on the little war memorial in my home town. No, not Andy, please Lord. I held the future of our family that my love had entrusted to me, as I slowly licked the head of his penis and caressed his balls.

Suddenly Andy tensed and strained as if he was desperately trying to hold something back. Then I felt a warm squirt of something like runny, salted porridge. Oh, I could have died of horror! Was this my husband’s precious seed? No, it mustn’t be! I wanted to scream, but had the presence of mind to keep him in my mouth as four more big squishes followed. We’d lost the chance now to make love like we’d hoped and planned. Perhaps we never would, now.

I almost wept as I looked up at his flushed face, he was so disappointed and embarrassed. Maybe there was time to start again. But we were both tired and emotional, and Andy was already out of bed. I did some quick thinking as I took two steps toward him, praying that he’d understand although I couldn’t speak without spilling our precious load. I gave him my most imploring look as I pointed to his mouth, then to my womanly parts. Then I embraced him tightly and pressed my lips to his in a deep kiss. Mercifully, his tongue stayed out of the way as I passed that all-important mouthful into his.

Coming up for air, I squealed “Andy dear, don’t swallow!” For a dreadful moment I thought he was going to spit it out. “”No! It’ll be alright! We can still, you know, get it in. You understand?”

Then I lay back on the bed with my thighs wide apart, and held Andy’s head steady as he gave me that familiar deep kiss to my birth canal. My heart missed a beat when I felt wetness dripping to waste in the bedding. But somehow my hero huffed and squeezed some right inside as I stroked his cheeks encouragingly. Then there was nothing left to say as I lay still to give his seeds their best chance to make it all the way. Just our hands clasped gently.

I don’t know how their story ended, but hope so much that Andy came safely home to Cheryl and their child. (The pictures are mine, I don’t really know how these people looked).

Sunday afternoon

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I’ve just found out how to correct the date on blog posts so that they keep local time for eastern Australia. It’s late winter here, and after family visits yesterday and church this morning the cold wet weekend is almost over.

Can’t babyseeds can be the most unpredictable, contrary, mischievous, exasperating things – just like the cute bundles they grow into? They seem to take root when least expected. But when a couple most want a baby, that’s just when they won’t behave. I guess that down the ages folks have been using the most embarrassing tricks to either keep those wrigglers out, or help them to where they’ll do the most good. Tricks that often remain the most secret of family secrets. There’s a story on this theme that I hope to finish tomorrow, from the viewpoint of a young woman of my grandmother’s generation in a small country town (Australian, of course).