A Royal Screw

This is a story told to me by one of my neighbours, an old man called Charley, who told me this tale in the year 2000 during the 55th anniversary of VE day. We were watching the celebrations on his television - we had an open bottle of Glen Morange between us. It was when Queen Elizabeth, along with the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret came out onto the balcony of Buckingham Palace. The commentator started to talk about the day fifty five years before when King George with his queen and two daughters the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret had stood on that same spot.

"That was the only day the Queen ever had any freedom." Charley said. I looked at him expectantly, because Charley often prefaced one of his reminiscences with a comment. "After they had done their royal bit on the balcony she slipped away and joined the crowds in Piccadilly."

Just after that the television commentator told the same story. Charley grinned at me, but he doesn't know the whole story, very few people do, maybe only me and her.

Surreptitiously I reached into my jacket pocket and turned on my little Dictaphone, with Charley in this mood I knew there might be a story worth recording. While I was doing this Charley poured himself another shot of malt and turned the sound down on his television.

I was down in London on a forty-eight from my squadron

Charley had been a mid-upper turret gunner in a Lancaster bomber

when the Germans chucked the towel in. Of course we had known for weeks that it was coming any day, targets had been getting fewer, there had been hardly any fighters, and we had to take great care not to drop our bombs on our troops, the Yanks or the Russians.

Even so it was sudden, one night there was a blackout, now there was none. Of course the war wasn't over the Japanese were still fighting. But what was important to all of us was the moment and at that moment we were still alive. I had survived the European war, it would take months to get out to the Pacific, and as I said at that time we lived for the moment not for tomorrow.

It is important when you listen to this story that you understand the changes six years of war had made.

(Charley had explained this to me before, he was one of my living history resources and always emphasised the importance of understanding the wartime culture and values).

Life for both servicemen and civilians was very unpredictable. The mate you were having a drink with might walk out into the street and get caught in an air raid, or a flying bomb might hit him.

Then recently there had been the V2 rockets that no one had even seen – just a massive explosion and people dead. The government had put a news blackout on the V2's but people talked, not even the government could hide the disintegration of a Woolworth's store.

Of course in the Air Force death was even closer. Every raid I would watch our planes going down in flames, our crew was lucky we survived. I was exceptionally lucky I survived two tours of ops, eighty raids and had started a third tour. On my first tour on one raid our kite took a hit, bomb aimer dead, pilot dead, front gunner dead. Gerry, Gerald Hanlon the flight engineer, took the stick and got us home, he got a gong for it.

(As usual Charley was reticent about his own DSO and bar and omitted to speak of his part in flying the damaged bomber home).

You don't plan for the future when death is so close. And to some extent the old pre-war morality had gone out of the window.

London was glowing on VE day people had been out partying all night long. I had drunk until I was sick and then begun all over again. If I recall rightly we, I had chummed up with some other air force types including a Yank air-gunner – waist-gunner if I recall correctly he was a Charles too called himself Chuck.

(Charley would ramble but eventually he would get to the point)

. As I was saying we spent some time in the Windmill, then in the late afternoon we went into Piccadilly Circus. Everyone else seemed to head to the same place, it was like a giant spontaneous street party.

We were dancing in the street, passing bottles around. Girls were kissing complete strangers and I don't mean just the showgirls and the tarts. There were lots of respectable girls who worked in the shops, offices and government ministries. It seemed like the whole population of London had crammed into the West End. Loads of people were dancing, the police were joining in, and of course human nature being human nature, couples were finding a little privacy and having knee tremblers in shop doorways.

Anyway back to me. I had this bottle of Gordon's Gin, don't know why I hate the taste of the stuff, but in those days you took what you could get. I got chatting to this little A.T.S. lieutenant, a right little cracker I thought despite her plumy accent, so I offered her a swig from my bottle. Swig! She knocked back quarter of a bottle in one swallow.

I reckon she had already sampled a few other bottles because she was none too steady on her feet, so I put an arm round her waist to steady her like. Even though she was an officer and I was only a Warrant Officer she didn't try and shake me off, so I reckoned I might be in there. I offered her another drink she accepted saying. "This is ahbsolutely deelightful, we don't orften get out into the middle of things."

Everyone was singing Roll out the Barrel when I let my hand slide inside her jacket so that it was cupping her breast. I remember two things struck me; she had lovely firm breasts; and her shirt was not made of army issue material, in fact it felt like silk.

As the song finished she turned to me and began kissing me on the lips. I could tell that she wasn't very experienced at kissing, she kept her mouth shut. She knew better by the end of that kiss, I thrust my tongue between her lips and forced her teeth apart. Our tongues met and duelled before breathlessly we broke apart. "So that is how you kiss, how ahbsolutely thrilling." She gasped before we began to kiss again.

This time I managed to tug her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt, now only her bra was between my hand and her bare breast. My other hand was on her back, and without fumbling I unhooked her bra. Her bare breast was in my hands, her small hard nipples rubbing against the palm of my hand. She parted her legs when I pushed my knee against her. In the middle of a noisy crowd we were dry fucking.

She nodded her assent when I whispered in her ear, "Let's find somewhere quieter."

Still holding hands we edged our way to the edge of the throng, no easy task in a melee like that I can tell you. We walked down Piccadilly towards Green Park, every deep doorway was already occupied, and some were occupied by two or three couples all shagging away like the clappers. There were even couples in the sacrosanct entrances to the Albany, (where all the toffs have their Mayfair apartments). That day it seemed like the whole West End was one mass Roman Orgy. I have always wondered what the birth rate for February 1946 was like.

As we walked down Piccadilly she kept taking a nip from my bottle, before we reached Green Park she was distinctly squiffy. Entering the park I tossed the empty bottle into some bushes. "Gorranother drinky?" She demanded slurring her words.

I fished in the deep pouch pocket of my Walking-out uniform jacket and produced another bottle of gin, some horrible no name blended stuff that claimed to be Plymouth Gin – the stuff that burns the lining of your guts, and is probably closer to aviation fuel than the stuff you buy today. She grabbed it from me, opened the bottle and took a swig. She wrinkled her nose. "Ugh ish shimply frightful – do people really drink thish?"

I guided her into the park, near Piccadilly the grass was a heaving mass of grunting uniformed bodies and giggling women of all shapes and ages. We went deeper into the park walking towards Constitution Hill, eventually we spotted a park keeper's shed that was half hidden by shrubbery. The door had a lock, a swift kick overcame that obstacle.

We made a sort of bed out of some sacks over which I spread my jacket. She lay down on it. "Come on Warrant Officer get on with it before they come looking for me." Even drunk her voice was one of someone who was used to giving orders and being obeyed.

I pushed her skirt up. The first obstacle was her garter belt. I fumbled with the fastenings before loosening her stockings. She must have had a rich Daddy or boyfriend because she was wearing silk stockings. Having disposed of the hosiery I began to pull her panties down - they might have been khaki, but in my experience silk is not army issue.

Maybe it was because of the alcohol she had drunk, I can tell you she was ready for it. Without any persuasion on my part she had opened her legs. I began to finger her slit and found that it was already sopping wet. I opened my fly-buttons and my cock shot out, I'd been rock hard all the way down Piccadilly.

"Come on my brave airman do it to me," she said.

It was only when I tried to enter her that I realised that she was a virgin. In fact she was the first virgin I'd ever had. Alice Grayson the NAAFI girl who had lost count of the men who had screwed her behind the canteen. Then there was my cousin's wife Elsie Tucker, who I had on my first leave, he had died – run over in the black out. Carol Knight the barmaid in the Feathers, she was always available to aircrew. So were a couple of others who had best remain nameless as they later married mates of mine.

Back to the park, I pushed and boy was she tight. I shoved again and still did not get in. She lifted her legs wrapping them around my waist. "Now try," she said. I gave a hard thrust of my hips pressing down and felt the knob end enter her. She gave a little gasp. I pushed again and felt myself come to a stop against what I guessed was her hymen. I hooked my arms around her legs lifting them up high, grasped her shoulders, pulled back a little bit, then gave an almighty thrust with all my weight behind it.

I literally felt my cock rip through the barrier as I slid right into her. When she cried out I stopped, a bit late really - the entire length of my cock was in her. "You OK?" I asked her.

Despite the tears in her eyes she smiled. I began to move, seeing her wince I tried to be gentle. I moved faster when she said, "Do it properly or I might not enjoy it." Clasping me to her she began to move her legs and hips, regulating my movements, driving me on faster and faster. I was trying to hold back – waiting for her to come.

I wasn't wearing a rubber and in those days before the pill sex without a rubber would inevitably lead to a pregnancy. Some people might say I was being a gentleman waiting for her to come so that I could pull it out and shoot my load over her belly. The truth is that I got to like the sight of a woman with my come soaking into her pubic hair. When Louise, my wife, was alive she had a thing for it too. She used to love it when I shot over her and rubbed the come in afterwards, she said it was the best form of after-play. – I think it's a little tidier?

Suddenly it happened she came, and she was noisy - she made an eerie noise a bit like a vixen calling for a mate. She clung onto me pulling me into her, for such a slim little woman she was strong, I really had to struggle to free myself and pull out.

My come was jetting from my cock as I pulled out, spraying over her thighs and over her belly. I looked down – my god she had been a bleeder. The tops of her thighs, near her cunt were stained red and glistening on top of that was my still wet spunk. Her thin light-brown pubic hair was speckled with the remainder.

"Thank you …" she paused before remembering she did not know my name.

"Charles, Charley," I prompted helpfully.

"Thank you Charley for being so considerate. You know it would have killed my father if I had … well you know."

I did not know, not then but I sort of nodded sagely. "I don't know your name either."

"Bet, just call me Bet," she said using her discarded underwear to dab herself dry and remove the traces of blood.

Meanwhile I was doing up my pants, wondering how I could remove the traces of blood from my uniform pants. "Can I see you again Bet?"

"I think not Charles, it is frightfully sweet of you to ask but it is simply not possible, but I promise I shall always remember you." She gave me a peck on the cheek.

We walked out of the hut, she turned to me and said, "Charles where I have to go is secret I cannot share it not even with you. So you go back to Piccadilly rejoin your friends and forget the last few hours." She gave me another kiss, on the lips this time turned and hurried away.

"And you let her go?" I asked.

"Different times, different rules, we were at war. We had been for six long years no one serviceman or civilian questioned orders or secrets"

The next day I was at the station catching a train back, I got to Kings Cross to find the train was cancelled so I had an hour and a half to kill. I went into the little Newsreel Theatre, of course it was all film about VE day. Then I saw my ATS Lieutenant, was I thick? It was her in her uniform. The Queen, Princess Elizabeth as she was at that time.

I was in shock. I was frightened too. Scared bloody stiff, say her father the King found out – I was sure it would have been the Tower at the least, a firing squad at the worst. I do not exaggerate when I say from that day, the day after VE Day, until VJ Day I lived in daily fear that I would be found out. I have never forgot that few hours and when she named her firstborn Charles I reckoned she hadn't forgotten her first lover either.