They say that war changes a man. True as that may be, it changed many more than the men lucky enough to come home. My wife Amelia was more changed than I. The worry for my safety and then for our son; it took its' toll on her.
Young Bertie was killed in the final days of the war; he had been a fresh young subaltern; conscripted, hurriedly trained and then thrown into the meat-grinder. He made us proud though, earning the Military Cross in his first action, a very rare feat. It sits on the mantelpiece, pinned to his picture.
Amelia was taken the following year. A great outbreak of influenza killed indiscriminately across Europe and beyond. I was lucky, in a perverse way; I never even had a sniff. But Amelia and Constance, our daughter, both caught it. Amelia had given all her strength in the preceding years worrying about me, and then Bertie too, and Bertie's death; the flu' took her in short order.
Constance, or Connie as I always call her, recovered. She was well enough to attend her mother's funeral, which was a quiet affair; we had already lost a lot of friends too in the last few years. It was us too alone now.
I was one of the few to remain in the army after the war. It was said that we had just endured the war to end all wars; but only by dreamers and blinkered ideologists. Those of us in the business of war knew it would come again. So I was given a job in Whitehall, helping to organise the new army; trying to retain the lessons of the last war for the next and continuing to deal with the ever present minor brush-fires across the empire.
We had a London house, plus a small pile in the country. When Constance finished her schooling, she came to live with me in the Smoke. I considered it no place for her; but she inherited my stubbornness and insisted. She became my companion, taking her late mother's place at formal occasions and the like, and running our small household.
There were occasional suitors; she had considerable beauty, well beyond even what a father only sees. She rebuffed all of them and it made me glad. The average young men in the capital these days were mostly quite unsuitable; most of them from reserved occupations or outright shirkers of their wartime duty.
Connie had the appearance of an angel; a body of fitness from ample sports during her schooling, unblemished fair skin, a smile of sweetness and eyes of understanding. Her hair was blonde and naturally curly; she wore it long most of the time, just like her mother.
My daughter reminded me of the angels illustrated on the early wartime posters, shown over scenes of our brave soldiers, directing and protecting them in their duty to resist the Hun. Of course those posters were just government tools to encourage enlistment, but I like to think of Connie and her mother too as angels protecting me when I'd been out there.
Connie and I had the same circle of friends for the most part. I know most daughters at the time would have cried of embarrassment to share friends with their parents, but Connie was forever at my side when I endured social engagements. We always dined and reposed together at home, I think sharing a sense of contentment with each other's company.
She had in most respects become my wife, I suppose, by that point. She became more so, subsequently.
I still had nightmares regularly. Perhaps nightmare is too much of a strong emphasis on a dream filled with terror. Indeed my dreams did include horrors, but it was more the rush and exhilaration of action; being so close to death and never being so much alive. Perhaps my mind missed it all.
My body didn't miss it. Numerous shrapnel wounds and three from bullets were all over my body. Thankfully I had avoided serious permanent injury, but I still suffered twinges and stiffnesses in the limbs occasionally. Connie's eyes were always upon me, and filled with worry when my step slowed or I stopped to take a breath.
I could understand her. Any sign of frailty, to her, could indicate my imminent demise, leaving her alone in this world. She would never quite believe my denials.
One night, I woke up suddenly; instantly realising I was bathed in sweat and sitting up. My daughter appeared as my vision cleared, she was standing at the end of my bed, holding a lamp and looking at me in petrified shock.
As the thunderous, murderous, exhilarating world I had dreamt left my consciousness; I was able to take in her presence. I told her I was alright. She swept down and hugged me tightly, sobbing suddenly that she couldn't bear to see and hear me endure such horror. I held her back for a while and then sent her back to her own room.
I smiled as I remembered the dreams. She had thought them horrors, but it was the action I vividly recalled in my slumber; nothing else compared; one really felt alive in the middle of it. The real horrors back there we had become accustomed to and they didn't bother me then or now. I missed Amelia so much more; her absence was what caused the anguish I regularly felt, and Bertie too. But I still had Constance.
I went into my water closet and had a wash then came out and put on a fresh night-shirt. As I climbed back into bed, Constance returned and said it might help if she accompanied me while I slept.
My daughter accepted no argument and stood her ground. I was tired so I let her do as she wished. Thankfully the bed was large and I had always slept on my own side, even these few years since Amelia had gone. My daughter took my wife's side. After she doused her lamp, I was instantly asleep.
I woke refreshed, as per usual, but feeling something I had not felt for a long while; the warmth of another human body against mine. Connie had moved across the bed in the night and was laying half over me. I could feel her breast pressed against me. Something inside held off any sense of propriety, or maybe it was just her unconscious-closeness, innocent; my child lying in my bed; even though she was a grown woman now; I loved her the same.
I laid there, just enjoying her presence. It was a Saturday and neither of us had anything prescient to attend to. He head was on my chest, her long blonde curls spread everywhere.
She woke slowly, taking in her circumstances. It felt like an eternity from when I felt her first stir to when she raised her head and looked at me. "Good morning, father" She said simply but contentedly.
I kissed her on the forehead. "Good morning, darling" I replied softly, "How did you sleep?"
"Wonderfully; and so did you, so quiet and steady; no agitation or excitement. I must sleep with you more often . . ."
"Oh, dear Connie; I do love you. But you are my daughter, not my wife, and you are a grown woman; you cannot be sharing my bed. It just isn't proper." I replied, concerned. I was concerned for propriety, but I felt the bliss of her close presence and I confess I did not want it to end, nor did I want it to not be repeated.
Her eyes mirrored mine, saying the same. "I so wish I could, dear father, to be beside you when you most need me."
We both rose and attended our toilet in our own rooms. But there was something now between us; not separating us, but silently pulling us together; a shared bed that suggested happiness of a closer kind. We were lacking in conversation over breakfast, something unusual.
I gave it no more thought until that night when I had climbed into my bed and it felt empty. But, I asked myself; was I missing Constance, or was it really Amelia? Part of me wished my nineteen year old daughter had not been in my bed last night. It brought back things I had missed and put out of my mind.
Not least the loneliness of a bed to oneself.
A few nights later and I woke up in the morning to realise I was not alone again. Connie's blonde hair was over my face and her body was pressed against mine, again.
Her explanation "You were shaking so badly and calling out that I tried to wake you, but when I couldn't, I hugged you and you went quiet. When I let go, you said 'no!' so I didn't leave."
It happened again less than a week later. But this time I woke, lying on my side; with her back to my front; both pressed together and my arms around her. Such an intimate, almost sexual position, I was disturbed that I could be in such a circumstance with my daughter. I then forbade her to sleep in my room.
Several days went by; then on a Saturday I went to the club for luncheon and Constance took in a concert with our neighbour's wife and children. I joked and drank with my comrades there and had a really good time, which extended into the afternoon; and with no prospect of it finishing I sent word home that I would be missing dinner.
Things got a little wild at the club as the afternoon turned into evening. We all drank well and the staff aptly decided on a buffet meal rather than a sit-down dinner, since we were not in the mood for formality. It felt like we had gone back in time; all of us had been in the thick of it in the last war, and some of the older hands had been in the South African war before it too.
Some of the games, old mess favourites, became a little too wild as everyone let out all the pent-up vivacity which society had stoppered since our returns from active service. I was drunk to a definite degree, but not embarrassingly so. As things quietened down in the late evening (or was it the early morning?), I hailed a cab from the club, back home.
I was distinctly inebriated, enough so that when my butler let me into the house, he offered to help me up the stairs. I dismissed him and hummed an old soldier's tune as I carefully climbed the stairs; which now gave a particularly mountainous impression as I embarked my climb.
Amelia was in bed, asleep and I managed to not wake her as I shed my garments, none too tidily and cleaned up before slipping in beside my wife. I reached out and stroked her golden hair; then feeling a rush of lust for my wife; as any man should, I took hold of her and pulled her against me.
She cried out in surprise until I clamped my mouth upon hers while my hands pulled her nightdress up. Her dainty limbs resisted half heartedly as I rendered her naked. I dived beneath the sheets and prised her legs apart to taste her.
My tongue found her sweet flavour between her intimate lips as I explored her most private of possessions. Amelia cried out and her hands were upon my head as I attended to my wife. They first pulled but then suddenly pushed me in and I found myself locked between her legs as she writhed and cried out repeatedly in ecstacy; though I could not make out what her words were.
She climaxed at least twice, secreting her nectar to me. My manhood though ached to be used; it was painfully hard.
I moved up her body, kissing her all the way and sucking on her delicious breasts in turn. Then as I reached up to her face, I looked her in the eyes and plunged my cock into her; an action sudden and deep.
She screamed more with pain than pleasure but the sensation of her tight sleeve clenching around my manhood blocked any further thought of that as I started to slide in and out of her. She was sobbing, crying even, but my pleasure was ecstatic inside her.
Amelia's sobbing subsided and she responded more appropriately to my efforts as I pounded into her. Now she exhorted me on, not crying but crying out for more, faster, harder. Then she climaxed, arching her back, and clawing at mine.
