I like the loving wives category but it can be difficult to come up with something different and the comments are often ruthless. I try to explore alternate realities or situations with angst.
I do spell and grammar checks and proofread but bound to miss some. If that bothers you too much maybe think about reading something else.
Please check the tags, don't read it if it's not your thing. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy it, they are free and they are just stories.
Best Wishes, Satin.
This is one of three stories set in England during WWII. These are intended as erotic stories without comment to the morals or otherwise of the actual people alive at that time. They are an exaggeration of what could happen and not intended to be realistic.
Britain was at war with Germany and the axis powers. It was a time of major upheaval; men, women and children endured extreme hardship and distress in one form or another; few people escaped the rigors of life in wartime. The country had to endure bombing raids, including the threat of gas attacks. Starvation was a real possibility and rationing of food began in 1940. Meat, sugar, butter, cheese, and eggs and even clothing were rationed. Over a million children were evacuated from towns and cities and had to adjust to separation from family and friends. London was attacked on 57 successive nights and there were heavy raids on other major cities and ports.
Women and children between the ages of 14 and 17 were in full-time employment, many covering work vacated by men who fought across the globe. Children reaching 18 were conscripted, the boys into the armed services and girls to women's auxiliary services, the land army or taking on other essential war work, including working as mechanics, engineers and on munitions.
All three stories are set in an imaginary English village of Little Woodhill. Each story can be read separately.
***
Margaret Prestwick or Peggy to her friends was the Baker's wife, until the Baker her husband John joined the army at the onset of war in 1939, so suddenly she was the Baker. As far as she knew he was still in North Africa fighting Rommel. It wasn't just baking any more, rationing flour and goods made life more complicated, and there was precious few supplies to make anything other than basic bread.
At 37 years old and 5ft 7 inches, she had a curvy figure but was strong enough to need dough for hours on end. They had two children rapidly heading towards their teenage years, but there wouldn't be anymore. An emergency hysterectomy after the birth of their second child, meant the big family she longed for would be limited.
Her pretty face was framed by long auburn hair; it was usually worn up in a mass of hair pins. In many ways she was unremarkable, she was quietly popular and well liked. Everyone thought she was a great mum to her two children. On the rare occasions when she did get dressed up, she suited the common 'A line' dresses; which was just as well as rationing of clothes severely limited the choices available, she tended to wear court shoes with 3 inch heels for most activities.
After the disaster of the war in France and desperation of the Dunkirk evacuations, in the summer of 1940, the Battle for Britain began. Throughout the summer the Royal Air Force fought the much larger and better equipped Luftwaffe for air superiority. Polish, Canadian, Czech and pilots from other countries supported the significantly outnumbered British.
The RAF Wing Commander in the local sector was desperately worried about the morale of his ever younger pilots, and trying to rotate his meagre resources to maintain an effective fighting force. He could rest pilots for a single day, not long enough to return home and he didn't want them going to London with the risks of both too much alcohol and the continued air raids. The reality was these 'few' men were the countries only hope of avoiding a Nazi invasion.
The Commander's sister Clair lived in a nearby village; he asked her if the pilots could spend some time there and experience a taste of home life. Claire in her role as Chair suggested to the Woman's Institute that they could invite the airmen to the village to sample some home-made cooking.
Peggy was horrified by the statistics Claire quoted, the life expectancy of the pilots was terrifyingly short. The thought of her own family and friends being in that position was horrifying, her own son aspired to be a pilot. The average age of new recruits was only 20, and the average training time was just two weeks. Hundreds of fighter pilots were already dead and there was no time to mourn for fallen colleagues. That meant some of the new pilots had very limited experience and minimal flying hours.
The Women's Institute built on Claire's idea and thought they could after the young men 'a home form home' for a day. There were discussions about offering a day of activities, time in the village pub, some home cooking, a night in a comfortable bed and a decent breakfast before returning to duties. The Institute thought it was the least they could do, everything these days was focused on helping with the war effort. They set to work, making arrangements both efficiently and enthusiastically, dividing up the tasks needed and as ever pulling together as a community.
Plans were made for an afternoon of sports and games on the green; a football match was bound to be a popular activity and would enable the village kids to get involved. That was to be followed by a dinner dance in the village hall for the adults, while the kids got the excitement of camping out overnight with the scout and girls brigade leaders. Peggy's son and daughter, Robert and Susan were delighted to have the opportunity of an adventure with their friends. The pilots would be billeted throughout the village for the night and return home the following day; Peggy agreed to take in one of the pilots.
The sports and games were great fun, as was dinner in the hall, then the pilots enjoyed a few beers in the local pub, it was like a slice of English life before the horrors of war.
***
Peggy's Story:
I met the young man I would be hosting at the dinner; David was 20, very handsome and extremely polite. He was staggered at the food we'd managed to create by pooling the meagre ration coupons and said it was just like what his mum used to cook.
Later I noticed he looked on nervously from the side-lines. So I asked if he'd like to dance?
He stumbled in reply, "I not a great dancer."
I smiled and said, "Thankfully that doesn't matter one little bit... come on!"
I dragged him onto the floor, we got a cheer from his colleagues and I could see his flush of embarrassment. It had been so long since I had danced myself but it all came back to me and I helped guide David along. It was fun and he was very respectful, I encouraged him to hold me properly and placed his hand on my waist. He picked up the dancing quickly in the way young people do and relaxed. I was pleased to see him enjoying it and had to admit I was having a lovely time.
I thought briefly about dancing with my husband John, but tried to put that memory to the back of my mind and focus on David. Then I noticed it, just a quick glance; he had just looked down at my breasts! I was shocked and unsure how to react, I guess it was natural for a young man to look and it had been very brief, the rest of the time he maintained eye contact. Quite a lot of eye contact actually... and he had such beautiful blue eyes. I became very aware of our hands touching and the times my breasts made brief contact with his chest.
Our conversation flowed easily, assisted by all of the activity and music. It was lovely to let my hair down and have a good time, trying our best to forget the war for just one night. As we walked to my home, David talked about missing his family. I made some tea when we got in; as we started drinking it, I could see tears in his eyes.
"What is it David?"
"I just want to thank you for tonight, it felt really special, I miss home and family so much and this was like a time out. It was nice to forget why I was actually here. Now it's all come rushing back to me and I'm thinking about what tomorrow holds in store!"
His words died off and he's eye took on a distant stare, before he returned to the moment, "To be honest I am scared, I don't want to let anyone down, I've only had 28 hours in a spitfire and have no combat experience."
I held his hand and tried to comfort him, "All you can do is your best, everyone is afraid, it's natural. It's how you respond that matters."
He apologised and quickly recovered, "I am sorry, I wouldn't have admitted that to anyone else, you're so easy to talk to and so kind. I am a good pilot and I will do my duty!"
"I am sure you will David, what you're doing is so very brave, I am certain you won't let anyone down and your family will be very proud of you."
