I'm not sure whether Jez told anyone about me. I got a few funny looks from men in uniform out in the streets, but only about two weeks later his unit was shipped to North Africa and I never saw or heard from him again. He may have been killed at Tobruk or El Alamein, or he may have sailed through the War unhurt. I never found out, and frankly I didn't care.
After that, I realised that not all men were as good in bed as Frank. I tried two or three, including one I knew to be married, and they were all as disappointing as Jez - some more so. One fellow, I think he was called Vincent, seemed revolted at the idea of licking my fanny, so he lasted no time at all.
Then a girl in my office whispered that they were looking for female agents for a secret force that Churchill had created a year earlier. She was going to apply, and wondered whether I'd be interested. It all sounded very exciting and fun. Yes, it was obviously going to be dangerous, but in those days, just going out at night was dangerous. A bomb could drop on you at any moment. We applied together, and were called for interview at the War Office.
The other girl wasn't accepted but, for some reason, they seemed to think I had the right stuff. I was shipped off to a place near Southampton - all very hush-hush - and they trained me for several months in Morse Code, unarmed combat and weapons. They even taught me to drive, in left-hand drive vehicles - the type I was likely to encounter in France. It turned out that I was a very good shot, and I could also fell men bigger than me with a few kicks and punches. And I realised that, if I couldn't beat them into submission, I could maybe fuck them into submission.
George, a strapping fellow with a scar on his cheek from - he said - shrapnel at Dunkirk, turned out to be almost as good a fuck as Frank. We weren't supposed to fraternise with the opposite sex, but honestly - we all knew that the chances of survival once we were dropped into occupied France were little better than ten percent, so we were determined to live in the moment. I remember one day, we were sent out on an orienteering challenge, given a map and a compass, blindfolded and dropped somewhere random in the New Forest. We were told to rendezvous with the rest of our group at a particular pub by nightfall. But George already knew the area well, having been born in Ringwood, so he suggested he and I rendezvous at a different spot he knew. He gave me the map reference, and when I arrived, he was in a little hut with the stove lit. And he was stark naked.
It wasn't long before I was, too, and we were in a very enjoyable 'soixante-neuf. Back in those days, they used the French name - now it's just sixty-nine. That day, George introduced me to it. Later on, he introduced me to several other interesting things, including anal sex. Now I get the impression that you young people think you discovered the joys of sodomy in the 1990s, at least as far as heterosexual arse-fucking was concerned. But one night, when we were off duty and George and I were supposed to be improving our French, we got through quite a lot of whisky and George taught me some Greek.
(On the recording, you can hear Dolly giggling and pouring herself another drink.)
That was what they called it in those days; Greek. When I was a whore, it was one of my specialities, and I made a lot of money with my arse. But George was the first, and he talked me into it when I was drunk. I remember that we'd found an attic room in the disused mansion that the SOE used. It had an old, rather creaky bed, and we could bar the door in case anyone came looking for us. He started by licking my fanny and working a Vaselined finger up my arse, while I sucked his cock. And I was amazed that I came really quickly like that. And then he did it again, but with two fingers, and that felt uncomfortable at first, but then I came so strongly that I nearly bit his cock. His was quite long but rather slim. I enjoyed being fucked by him because, although he wasn't nice and thick like Frank, he could penetrate right up and beyond my cervix, and that gave me sensations no other man had achieved.
After my third orgasm, he said "I think you'd like it if I fucked your lovely tight arse, Dolly."
And I said "Oh, I don't think so. My bum's very tight and it'll hurt."
"Not if I take it slowly and carefully," he said. "Why don't we give it a whirl. If you don't like it, I'll put on a rubber and fuck your fanny. Would that suit?"
Well, it felt scary but exciting - much like everything else I'd done in SOE training. I said something like "Well, all right. But promise you'll stop if it hurts?"
He promised. And then he got up and worked three fingers up my jacksie - sorry, that's what we called it in those days - with lots of Vaseline, which felt cold and weird and a little bit painful. And then he lay on top of me and started working his cock inside me.
And of course, it hurt. Yes, my dear, I don't know whether you've ever tried the delights of the Greek way, but the first time is often rather trying, shall we say. I asked him to stop. I begged him to stop, because my tight little ring felt like it would tear apart, but he said "just wait until I'm properly inside you. Then it'll feel much better."
Like a fool I trusted him, and it was actually quite painful for about a minute, and I was crying. And then he got inside, maybe two inches in, and stopped, and told me to relax. Now, my dear, if you've ever had a cock up your arse, you'll know that 'relax' isn't something you can do easily when it feels a bit like the most severe constipation you've ever experienced. I gasped and sobbed "You bastard, George. You promised."
He reached around me and cupped one of my boobs, and his other hand slid under me into my fanny, his finger rubbing my clit. "Wait, sweet Dolly. Just be patient," he said. "Everything comes to she who waits, and if you just wait, you're going to come. I promise you that." He kissed and licked the back of my neck, as I sniffed and bleated. All I could focus on was the pain in my backside. I now knew what they meant when they said that someone or something was a pain in the arse.
But he didn't thrust, and he didn't pull out. He just waited patiently with his cock just inside my rectum until he could sense that his clit-play and nipple tweaking were getting me randy again. And, my dear, it was quite remarkable. If your boyfriend gets his cock inside your sweet, pert little bottom, and you think you don't like it, hold still while he frigs your clitoris for a while and it's surprising how being filled in the rear starts to become more appealing. As soon as I started moaning with pleasure, he pulled back a little, and it was really strange. What had hurt so much at first - all that stretch and stimulation inside my virgin little ring - started to feel very sexy indeed. Then he slid deeper in, every time pulling back to tease that tight ring a little more. I guess it may have taken him all of around five minutes to work up to the point when I felt his hips on my bum cheeks, and to experience this enormous hard thing deep in my arse, but by then, I was so excited that I knew I was going to come. It only took him a few more thrusts, slow, deliberate and deep, to teach me how much I would enjoy being comprehensively and deliciously buggered. He told me that feeling my arse squeezing his cock as he shoved it in deep was probably the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced. For me, it was an epiphany. I'd discovered from my time with Frank that I enjoyed being fucked, but I now knew I liked to be buggered as well.
Two days later, the CO called me in to say that he was disappointed in my conduct. Though my marksmanship and unarmed combat skills were first-rate, my Morse Code was poor and my French - especially my accent - wasn't good enough. He also said that that there were rumours I'd spent more time on what he called my 'love life' than on my purpose in being an SOE agent. He was, of course, right. George and I would sneak off every chance we could get to fuck, and I'd often climb into my bed, in a room I shared with another girl, trying to hide the trickle of semen dribbling out of my arsehole.
Then, after another week, we did our parachute training. On my first jump, I landed badly and broke my leg. I spent the next six weeks recovering. Meanwhile George and two of the other girls were parachuted into France and, as we discovered later, picked up by the Gestapo as soon as they landed. They were tortured and executed. The entire operation was a fiasco. After that, even if my French and Morse had been good enough, there was no way they were going to send me on an operation until they'd worked out what had gone wrong.
And I was heartbroken. George had been my second real lover. We'd kissed passionately the night he left, me with my stupid leg still in plaster, and I had an awful premonition that we wouldn't meet again. When we found out that the operation had been compromised and they'd been captured, I sobbed all night. The next day, even before my leg had healed, I asked to be transferred back to the Air Ministry and, given my injury and my poor results in other areas, permission was granted.
I convalesced at my parents' house in Beaconsfield. Mummy was very attentive, Daddy seemed concerned, but I couldn't tell them what I'd been doing or how I'd been injured, except that it was doing something very 'hush-hush'. They seemed to think I'd somehow been very heroic, but all I could say was that it wasn't really, and that members of my team had been killed doing what I should have done. This just made them even more alarmed about my safety.
After a couple of weeks moping at my parents' house, I begged to return to some sort of work. High Wycombe took me back, initially typing before I was promoted, much to my surprise, to run the typing pool. I only did this for a few weeks before they reassigned me again. I don't think I was a very good manager back in those days - I was barely nineteen and as green as grass. Because some of the girls had been transferred to London and they needed help, they moved me to plotting duties. The training was rapid and intense. I was still a little unsteady on my feet, as the plaster hadn't long come off my leg, but I still had to stand for several hours at a time, pushing little frames with numbers and letters around a huge map.
