Authors note: In some senses, this is a prequel to Late Starter but is a story in it's own right.
My story starts in 1939. I was born in 1940, so 1939 marked the last time my parents had sex, before my father went to war. He served in Italy and North Africa. Thankfully, he returned safely. Scary for me, as a large muscular man was now living in our house. Somebody I'd never seen. Even Betty my older sister, only vaguely recalled him. A couple of years later, my sister Joyce arrived. There was a big age gap between all of us. I suppose that happened a lot around the war. Not ideal for a child wanting to play. Nor for a young adult wanting someone to talk to, about growing up.
Also, not something I could talk to my mother about. She was born in 1910. The Edwardian era. Growing up in the 1920s and 30s, may seem like a social whirl of parties, drink and sex. It may have been for the rich. My parents were in service, a gardener and a maid. At that time, a wife's duty was to obey her husband. That probably meant laying back and letting him get on with it. Not much enjoyment for her. Betty was religious. No idea where that came from, as neither of my parents were. Joyce was still a child, seven years younger than me.
An uneventful childhood. We lived in a council house, in the home counties of England. The area now swallowed up by the urban sprawl of London. Back then, it was semi rural. A short walk to school. Not much to do other than that.
A little about me. My name is Fleur. I've no idea why I got the flowery name, unlike my sisters. I'm short, taking after my mother. However, I have a better figure than either of my sisters or my mum. At least at the moment. Pretty if I say so myself. My brown hair just short of reaching my shoulders.
When I left school, I got a job, with what was then called the Air Ministry. A lot of young women my age, doing administration. None of us with any experience of men. From time to time, some serving Air Force women would pass through. The banter and language was, to some of us rude, to others absolutely disgusting. Time spent with their male counterparts, probably accounted for some of it. My friend Dotty and myself were fascinated. We learned a lot of new vocabulary. None of which we could use at home. Also, what men wanted to do, what it was acceptable to let them and how to stop them. Not to mention more about sex than you could shake a stick at. Some of which sounded revolting, some even painful. But we had no idea if any of this was true, or they were just winding us up.
It was about this time, that I started experimenting with some of the things I had learned. If men wanted to do them, what would they feel like. I compared notes with Dotty. We rubbed our breasts and nipples. I was pleased with the results. Mine became quite hard and long. Dotty's a bit smaller but both of us liked the feeling. We graduate to stroking our bottoms, alright but nothing special. Touching our vagina's was a game changer. We had always been told that it was dirty. Far from that, it felt nice. Dotty mentioned, that she thought she had found, what the Air Force girls called the bean or button, at the top of her vagina. A few days later she reported an incredible feeling. It took me a little longer but at 19, I had my first orgasm. Late by the standards today but back then, not unusual.
Rock and Roll had been around for a few years. Where we lived, traditional jazz and skiffle were what was available, in the back rooms of pubs and village halls. It was at one of these events, that I met my future husband, Duncan. Tall and slim. Well, tall compared to my tiny 4' 11", at 5' 8. Almost everyone we knew was slim. We grew up with food rationing, it was hard to be anything else. We danced a lot. As I had been taught to expect, he was like any randy young man. He would brush the side of my breasts as we broke our hold. His hand would slide down onto my bottom, feeling the edge of my knickers. Unlike when I had done it myself, having my bottom stroked gave me a thrill.
We went out regularly, not just dancing but to the cinema. Things here, in the dark, moved on a a stage, He would drape his arm around my shoulder, his hand finding its way to my breast. Small in stature, my breasts are a good size, 36c. Actually larger than both of my sisters who are taller and bigger built. He would erect a nipple, which made me breathe heavily and excited him. His other hand would stroke my thigh. That was as far as we went at this stage. He would kiss me goodnight, holding both of my buttocks. I would go to my room and give myself an orgasm.
Dotty was more adventurous than me, or her young man was more pushy. He had got his hand inside her knickers, in the back row of the cinema. A week later, she had rubbed his penis inside his trousers. Her hand had got sticky and he had squirmed in his seat. I took a leaf from her book and did the same, the following week. This was naughty and exciting. We carried on like this, pushing things further, as time went along. I was the first to have an orgasm caused by someone else. A Saturday night watching a really bad sci-fi film. I let out a bit of a shriek. Thankfully, not really noticed by anyone else. Most of the audience were making out, rather than watching the film.
We became aware from what we were touching and what we heard that like our breasts, one man's penis wasn't the same as another. Duncan was about six inches long when he got hard. From what she said, Dotty's boyfriend was bigger. Whatever size, the sticky stuff we wiped onto hour handkerchiefs, had a strange musty smell. Hopefully mum wouldn't notice, when she did the washing.
Dotty's relationship didn't last. He got carried away and tried to push things too far. She started looking around the dances again. Attitudes were changing but it would be a few more years, before things really got swinging in the sixties. We decided to get married. The ceremony took place late in 1960. Dotty as my bridesmaid. Wedding in the local church, reception in the village hall. Some music, dancing and a buffet. Money was tight. We would be living in a tiny cottage. at the end of Duncan's parents garden.
Our wedding night was spent there. I don't think it was great for either of us. My hymen parted, there was a bit of pain and some blood. I'd been warned about this. For him, a few strokes and he filled the condom. Early the following morning, we drove off to our honeymoon. A few days in a hotel on the Devon coast. This was a lot more relaxed.
We spent the days on the beach or walking round town. Duncan is a keen photographer. He takes pictures of everything. Bands at our local dances, the local countryside and anything else that takes his fancy. Even before we married, he used the box room in the cottage as his dark room. He took plenty of shots when we were out.
