A YANK IN THE OUTHOUSE
It's odd to be sitting here in the Florida sunshine as a great grandmother and
to remember that I never even met my first American until I was almost eighteen.
That was when the big war was being fought in Europe. I'm an old, old lady now
but I still remember that windy April afternoon when I ran an errand to Mill
Cottage and everything that happened to me there.
My home was in a small rural village in England and I was waiting to be
drafted by the government for work in a munitions factory. It was something I
was looking forward to because most of the factories were in the cities, and I'd
never been to a city. My father was a farm laborer who'd spent his entire life
in our village. The only break in his dawn to dusk chores was when he acted as
warden in the village church every Sunday. Perhaps it was because he was such a
well respected member of the Vicar's flock that I became a Sunday School
teacher. Not that I minded, as there was very little else to do while I waited
to be sent away. There were no more dances, no more church socials, not with all
the young men away fighting Hitler and all the older people having to work twice
as hard to keep things going. The village had become a stagnant little backwater
and now even my girl friends were leaving to help make tanks and shells.
I sometimes wonder how long it would have taken me to wake up to real life
if I hadn't run that errand for the Vicar. Anyway, I did, and Mill Cottage
turned out to be an instant education by courtesy of our American allies and a
pair of English courtesans. And all because the Vicar wanted to ingratiate
himself with Mrs Harrington by sending her a bottle of home made dandelion wine!
Mrs Harrington wasn't a villager at all, nor her friend who lived with
her, Mrs Walsh. They were a couple of snobby upper class London wives who'd only
moved to the countryside to escape the blitz. They were far richer and more
sophisticated than any of us, they wore fancy clothes, their children were in
private boarding schools and their husbands were stockbrokers or something.
Whatever they did for a living, Mr Harrington and Mr Walsh only came down about
once a month to visit their wives. I think perhaps they were quite enjoying the
war as temporary bachelors. Mrs Harrington and Mrs Walsh, on the other hand,
were clearly pining for London and were only kept away by fear of the bombing.
Which all seemed like good reasons to me why they didn't deserve anything as a
gift, not even a bottle of dandelion wine. Another good reason was that I was
the one who was going to have to pedal out with it to their home at Mill
Cottage, three miles away from the village.
Transport was always a problem in the war. Very few people owned cars, and
in any case civilian fuel supplies were so tightly rationed there was none to
spare except for the most necessary journeys, so anybody with a bicycle and a
pair of strong young legs was always being asked to run errands. Mostly I didn't
mind, but I knew just as well as the Vicar that the only reason he was asking me
to run this errand was to curry favor with our local ladies of substance.
Perhaps he was hoping there might be a handsome subscription from them
eventually for his church restoration fund. Yet, young and naive as I was, I
didn't think he had much chance of getting any cash from either of those two, no
matter how deep their purses. Not that I knew anymore about them than the local
gossip, though there was plenty of that.
In a village as small as mine a couple of women living on their own caused
a lot of loose talk, most of it nonsense, I thought. They were good looking
women though, that was true enough. They were much of an age, in their early
thirties I suppose. Mrs Harrington had brilliant red hair, which she let grow in
a long pony tail all the way down to her waist and always wore rather flamboyant
earrings. She was tall and trim and apparently played tennis and golf very well.
The dashing air of self confidence in the way she walked around the village
always had the men looking after her swishing skirt and the long legs underneath
it. As for Mrs Walsh, she was a little shorter and full figured who wore her
blonde hair in a high combed style. Both of them dressed like models, even in
wartime, right down to nylon stockings, an almost unheard of luxury then.
Perhaps there was some truth in those rumors about fancy cars belonging to black
market crooks being seen parked near the cottage.
Which was really why I decided to deliver that lousy bottle of wine.
Because I was curious about whether anything out of the ordinary did go on at
Mill Cottage. Not that I was likely to be any the wiser after I'd been there of
course, but at least it was an excuse to go and knock on the door. The back
door, of course. I knew the ladies wouldn't want a farm worker's daughter
knocking on their front door as if I was their social equal.
Having decided to do the job, I found myself heading out of the village on
a blowy April afternoon with tree branches flouncing around in a cold wind which
was blowing straight into my face. By the time I got to Mill Cottage I was so
fed up with the whole stupid business that I just wanted to turn around and get
an easy ride home before the wind changed direction. I wheeled my bike down the
small gravel drive at the side of the cottage and then stopped in surprise at
what I saw.
Parked up behind the cottage, completely out of sight of the road, was a
small car quite unlike anything I'd ever seen before. It was square at the front
and back, painted olive green, with a raised canvas hood and a long radio aerial
sticking up at the back. Obviously it was a military vehicle of some kind. There
were white stars on the sides and I realised it must belong to the American
army. Apart from anything else the steering wheel was on the wrong side. Then I
remembered a picture I'd seen in the newspaper, with General Montgomery riding
in a car that looked like this. A joop, or a jeep, or something like that was
what it had been called. I didn't know anything about American cars. In fact I
didn't know anything at all about Americans, except from what I'd seen on the
films and newsreels at the cinema. All I'd ever seen of them in real life were a
few big planes flying overhead with these same white star badges on the wings.
Of course I was very curious about what the joop was doing at Mill
Cottage. A large metal box with yellow lettering and numbers on it was wedged in
between the two front seats. I thought perhaps it might contain bullets, which
seemed even more likely when I saw that the lid was closed with a padlock. Then
I took a second look and realized that the hasp was hanging free. Anybody who
wanted to could lift up the lid and look inside the box.
There was nobody in the back yard, nobody at the closed back door, no
flutter of movement at any of the cottage's curtains. All that was needed was
for me to lean inside and flick open the top of the box, and if anybody came out
I could say I was just wanted to see the inside of the joop. So I leaned in and
opened the lid, to find that what I was prying into was a treasure chest of
off-the-ration luxuries.There were packets and packets of cigarettes in strange
soft packets which had a picture of a camel on them. I wondered why, because I
didn't think there were any camels in America - I'd never seen any on the films,
anyway, There were bars of chocolate, there were jars of coffee, there were the
protruding necks of four bottles.
I lifted one of them out far enough to read the label - genuine Haig
whiskey! So much for the Vicar's dandelion wine as a home front comfort. Yet the
most impressive thing of all to me were the cellophane wrappings with nylon
stockings in them. Now I knew how Mrs Harrington and Mrs Walsh were able to wear
real nylons whilst the rest of us had to make do with seams painted on the backs
of our legs! And perhaps the three boxes of contraceptive sheaths mixed in
amongst all these luxury goods supplied a clue as to why they were getting such
Of course, even in my remote little village, we'd heard stories about how
US serviceman were incredibly rich, with access to all kinds of fancy supplies,
and how successful they'd been in spreading them out amongst the lower sort of
girls in return for. . . well, in return. But this was the home of two
respectable married women. It couldn't be that they were playing fast and loose
with the Yanks, surely?
And just as I was turning that question over in my mind I heard a woman
laugh from somewhere nearby. Bewildered, I looked around and realised that the
sound come from the wash house on the other side of the small yard. Smoke was
rising out of the chimney, which suddenly seemed very odd, because I knew that
Mrs Harrington and Mrs Walsh had a woman come in on every Monday to do their
washing and that day wasn't a Monday.
This is were I have to give everybody a little bit of an history lesson in
how domestic chores were done in the old days. Before electricity and washing
machines came along the usual thing in most English houses was to do the laundry
in a 'copper'. A copper was a very large circular sink - made of copper coated
metal - big enough to hold a week's houshold laundry together with several
gallons of water. Coppers were usually built into the top of a large square
brick fireplace about waist height. Except in the larger houses it was always
put into an outside building, with a hand operated water pump next to it. The
housewife's job was to keep working the handle on the pump to fill the copper up
with water, with occasional breaks to tend to the fire underneath it, until the
copper was half full and the water as hot as possible. Then the dirty laundry
went in and the whole lot was stirred around many times until it was considered
washed. Afterwards it was taken out and everything rinsed in a wooden cask. And
after that - well, I'll tell you about those arrangements by and by. Anyway, the
one thing you didn't usually hear in a washouse was anybody laughing - there was
too much hard work done in them for that. So I found it hard to believe our two
high society ladies could be doing their own laundry, and even harder to believe
they could be enjoying it.
The wash house door was closed. Of course, normally, if I'd have just
opened it and walked in, because it wasn't like going into a house uninvited.
Most wash houses were usually shared by several houses anyway. This time though
I could justify it to myself to be rather cautious, as Mill Cottage already
seemed to have a guest, or guests. I was therefore perfectly entitled to take a
cautious peek through one of the wash house windows before I disturbed anybody.
At least that was what I told myself as I sought a way to satisfy my burning
interest about what was going on in the place. So I walked around the small
building until I found a small window misted up on the inside. So misted up that
it was impossible to see through.
It was an infuriating situation because it was clearly the only window in
the wash house and it was ideally situated, on the far side from the cottage and
facing a high hedge row at the back of the cottage garden. Nobody could see me
standing there, but I couldn't see anything either. If it had been an ordinary
sort of window the situation would have stayed like that. Only it wasn't an
ordinary sort of window, it was one of the old fashioned type made of lots of
small diamond shaped panes of glass set in lead strips. Old fashioned and
flimsy, and one of the panes near the top of the window had been knocked out. If
only I could just lift myself up a foot or so ...
Looking around, I saw several old bricks at the bottom of the wall,
stacked together and almost completely hidden from sight by overgrowing grass
and nettles. I plucked out three of the bricks, carefully, but still got stung
on the wrist by a nettle in my hurry. With the bricks put back on top of each
other and with my right foot resting on the top one I was able to lift myself up
high enough to put my eye to the gap in the window.
The copper was set in the very middle of the wash house. A steady fire was
burning in the grate underneath the copper, with a gently rising cloud of steam
above it, and a considerable pile of firewood still waiting to be used. There
was a table, a plain old wooden table, near to the fireplace. On the table was a
Well, naked except for a green towel draped over his bottom as he lay on
his stomach on top of the table. On top of the table and on top of some more
towels which had been spread across it like table clothes. His hands were
resting near his head, the bent arms showing great bulges of muscle on the upper
biceps. His face was turned away from me but it was easy to see that he was in
the prime of life and physical condition, at least six feet tall, and heavily
tanned from the sun in a very un-English way. Another alien thing was the way
his black hair had been cut right down almost to his skull, top and sides.
If I was astonished by the sight of the American, as I supposed he must
be, I was even more astonished at seeing a woman leaning over him, rubbing her
palms over his shoulders and neck muscles. It was Mrs Harrington, smiling as I'd
never seen her smile before, Mrs Harrington wearing a white bed sheet wrapped
around her like a Dorothy Lamour sarong, and the sheet so damp it seemed to be
sticking to her like a second skin. In fact it was obvious she had nothing on
underneath the sheet at all!
This was like something the Vicar often preached about in church, about
Soddom and Gomorah and all the world's wickedness. And here in his own parish, a
married woman indecently dressed was putting her hands on another man! Yet if I
was shocked I was fascinated by the scene, scarcely daring to breathe. Even
better was to come though, because Mrs Walsh came around the copper carrying a
tray in her hands, a rectangular wooden tray with one small drinking glass on
it. Incredibly, she was wearing nothing but a sheet as well, a blue one this
time. The only thing which seemed to be holding it up over her breasts was a
clothes peg visible in the quivering cleavage between them.
The next thing that happened, astonishingly, was the sight of Mrs Walsh
getting down on both her knees at the head of the table and holding the tray up
to the man as if she was acting the role of a slave girl! He laughed and said
something to Mrs Walsh I couldn't catch, but she stood up again. In response he
raised his other hand and my eyes bulged when I saw the huge shiny pistol in it.
I'd never seen one before in my life except in gangster films. The Yank pointed
the pistol at Mrs Walsh and she stood still. Then he said something else and Mrs
Harrington took her hands off his shoulders and walked around behind Mrs Walsh.
Then, and not believing it possible, I saw her reach up in front of her her
friend and pull the clothes peg free, letting the sheet slide down over Mrs
Walsh until she was standing in front of the man completely naked from the waist
Mrs Walsh held the tray underneath her well shaped breasts and gently
lifted them up on it with the glass carefully balanced between the pale skinned
mounds. She was watching the American as if unsure of his reactions. In the
meantime Mrs Harrington stood there grinning, holding the blue sheet around the
other woman's waist. Then she let it fall down to the floor and Mrs Walsh was
standing there without a stitch on. If somebody had fired off a shot gun
directly behind me at that moment I don't think I would even have turned my
head. Yet this was still only the beginning.
Mrs Walsh slowly knelt down in front of the Yank again, being very careful
not to spill the glass. Without any hurry at all he put down the gun on the
table, reached out with his thumbs and forefingers and brazenly tweaked both of
Mrs Walsh's bared nipples jutting out over the edge of the tray!
Her hands were trembling. I knew they were because the tray was, and I
knew the tray was trembling because both of the breasts piled up on top of it
were quivering like newly set jellies. Mrs Walsh was staring down at her own
vibrations and at the fingers playing on her with a kind of pursed mouthed
concentration, apparently determined on keeping the glass from spilling over. As
for Mrs Harrington she leaned forward over her friend and squeezed the Yank's
biceps as if to encourage him. Then I saw her bend forward a little closer as
though he was telling her to do something. She nodded, smiled again, reached
down with an extended finger between her companion's breasts and apparently
dipped it into the glass. Then the Yank released his grip on Mrs Walsh and Mrs
Harrington immediately applied her long fingernail to the very same places,
apparently smearing each of her friend's nipples with a drop of liquid from the
Talk about exciting! I was watching all this in complete disbelief. I saw
Mrs Walsh wriggle further forward on her knees and lift the tray higher towards
the Yank's face. He had the pistol in his hand again and pointed it down towards
her legs. Then he leaned forward and started to lick on each of the nipples in
turn as Mrs Walsh apparently struggled to keep the tray level, struggling even
more as the man slid further forward yet on the table and took a mouthful of her
right tit into his opened mouth. The tray began quivering again and Mrs Walsh
surprised me by suddenly laughing out aloud in the same way as I had first heard
My impression was that the pistol wasn't a real threat, more a kind of
symbol of power. Neither of the women seemed to be in real fear, I was sure of
that. They were playing out roles which they were willing to do and the gun was
there as a kind of stage prop. Whatever was going on there was no doubt that
both of them seemed totally unabashed in doing whatever the Yank wanted them to.
It also seemed just as certain that one or both of them were soon going to get
treated in the same way as married women were treated all the time. I certainly
hoped so because I really wanted to watch that! I was also hoping that it
wouldn't be long before it happened because my eye was watering already with
squinting through the small hole and my right ankle was aching from balancing
awkwardly on the bricks. Still, it was well worth it because now Mrs Walsh had
put down the tray and was holding each of her nipples in turn up to the Yank's
mouth, dribbling a few drops from the glass onto herself each time, apparently
as a way of encouraging him to keep on sucking both of the jutting tips.
It was simply so obvious how excited she was, obvious not only because her
teats were sticking out so much, but by the way she was offering them to him
with an almost abject eagerness to please, as if she was a puppy lying on her
back surrendering to the authority of the pack leader. When I remembered how the
pair of them strutted around the village with their noses in the air - well, I
would have given a fortune to have some kind of a magic crystal ball or
television set at home which would show this scene over and over again. Not that
I'd ever seen a television set, of course, but I had once met a man who said
he'd watched one in London before the war.
Soon there was something better to see than any television. Mrs Harrington
went back to the side of the table, where she had been before, on the opposite
side of it to the window I was looking through. She calmly reached down and
pulled the towel off the man's bottom. As she was neatly folding it I stared at
the sight, the paler rounds of flesh in the middle of the long stretches of well
tanned skin. Then she put her hands on each of the taut buttocks and stroked
them with her palms, just as she had done to his shoulders. The Yank stirred and
moved around, then apparently lost interest in Mrs Walsh's bosom, glancing back
and lifting his bottom up an inch or so off the table. The reason why was
probably because Mrs Harrington's right hand had slid out of sight, down between
the top of the legs, and the only place those long fingernails could be now was
around his balls. It was like getting a bull aroused for a tupping session with
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