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The Merlin Factor. Chapter Fifteen.
Topic Started: Dec 17 2015, 07:25 PM (102 Views)
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The Merlin Factor. Chapter Fifteen.

Fear into Love.



England: Hornchurch, Essex, 1940.



It was barely light when we started up.
Algy's machine looked as bad as it sounded and Algy looked even worse than that. Smoke belched back from its exhausts and there was an ominous clattering squeal from somewhere deep in its innards. He held his head and peered out at me through the cracks in his gloved fingers.
..."All right, Algy?"...pop... ...
"Think so. Sounds like a knacker's yard in 'ere"...

Danger Man moved off, his shimmering prop pulling the scratched and dented machine around the perimeter. You had to hand it to the ground-crews: They routinely performed miracles during the hours of darkness. Did things that were probably impossible, resurrecting dead machinery into something that could haul itself back into the air again for yet more punishment. Danger Man's machine sported a salvaged undercarriage from some defunct write-off, while the underside of his aircraft still bore the dents and scrapes of his wheel-less landing. Mine too had a new undercarriage, a new hood, new prop, new aileron and even the rudder was back in order. Incredible. I'd also taken the opportunity to sign out a new parachute, since I was leaving anyway. By the time I got back, maybe they would have forgotten all about the condition the old one was in...

We lifted off together into the first rays of a blood-red sun, climbing away through the haze and settling down on our course, cruising along to the north-north-east. Liner.
We took it very easy; no sense in tempting Algy's machine to start doing something nasty. No sense at all.

...kshk..."Heads up, fellers. One-o' clock. Here comes the cavalry!"...pop...
A stirring, heartwarming sight. Twelve Spitfires slanting across the sky in echelon, sun glinting from their canopies, slightly below us, heading in the opposite direction. The replacements, probably. Trading places with us. They could keep it, and the best of luck to them. They were past in a moment. Gone. Probably that Canadian gang who'd moved in to Coltishall when we'd left. Volunteers all. What a crazy bunch. I couldn't imagine anybody volunteering to die in somebody else's war. But Danny had said, just last night, that it was no longer just our own, private war. It was getting to be everybody's war. No one could afford to sit back any more and watch while little Adolf did as he pleased. It had gone beyond that now. If the devils overran us in these islands, the whole world would be for the high jump. There could be no turning back. Not now.

We passed close to Mildenhall, gazing down at big, black Stirling bombers scattered around the perimeter, enormous and high off the ground. All but one. It lay flattened and charred, off the end of one of the runways, a strangely blurred-around- the-edges shape, that chilled and saddened. I wondered briefly if any of her crew had lived through it. Another group of widows and orphans. Just another tragic little group among the growing army of bereaved.

Coltishall answered immediately when Danny called them up, clearing us to land. The station looked spotless, very green beneath a fine drizzle that had begun somewhere north of Thetford. We let down gently, Algy nursing his tired old bird down onto the long, brand-new, east-west runway. I let out a long sigh of relief, cutting the switches, leaving the formalities to the little group of erks that scurried around busily tending to the Spitfire's needs. A familiar face materialized at the wing.
"Mornin', Sah! Nice to 'ave you back, Sah!"
"Ernie! My God, Ernie! Don't you ever take a bath?" He was as dirty as ever, ingrained grease filling all the wrinkles in his broad, wide open face.
"Busted water main, Sah. Nuffin' I can do 'bout it, Sah." He was grinning, reaching in to help me with the straps.
"This ain't the kite you left 'ere with, is it, Sah?" How like Ernie to allow me the honor of telling him about the new Mark Twos, when he already knew more about them than I ever would. I shook my head. No. Not a chance.
"Mark 2, Ernie. My third. Terrific kite. Almost good enough to win the war with."
The fitter shook his head, surveying the machine's sorry condition.
"Bit of a mess, innit, Sah? 'ad some bovver 'ave you, Sah?"
I considered him, longing to make some special kind of contact:
"Well, there I was," I grinned, "upside down, and nothing on the clock..."
And so it went. The dirty old magician. Grimy ressurector of old and cranky machinery. He slapped his thigh and laughed long and honestly at the feeble time-honored joke. Ernie Short, no less. He chattered on, an old, familiar, comfortable Dad. It felt wonderful to be back. It might have been home.
"Got some new kites, Sah. Nine of 'em. Flew in last night. They got ladies flyin' 'em now, Sah! Would you credit it?"
Ladies? I enquired. My God!
"Very odd, I says to our Archie. Very odd, says 'e. Lady ferry pilots, mind you. Dunno wot this war's comin' to, I don't..."
Were we that low on pilots? Good heavens. Things were changing. No doubt about that. Too strange...

I checked with maintenance and took receipt of yet another new Mark 2, leaving the old one with them as surety. It was still usable, as a spare at least. Lots of lovely, expensive parts. We were getting six new pilots some time soon, six know-nothing sprogs, but until they showed up I was free to leave the station for some relaxation. I didn't waste a moment. The first bus along took me up the road to North Walsham where I changed and made off towards Aylsham, thence to Gunton Park.
"Bin dewn Sowth 'ave ye Sairgeant? Ow's it bin dewn thar? Sort uv roogh d'yew reckon?"
The red-faced, ancient conductor manufactured his strangely accented questions as we twisted and turned through the rural flatlands.
"Oo, arr. Wouldn't fancy thet, loike. Get roight scart jus' roidin' the bos, oi do. 'Ad a narsty broosh wiv one o' they bleedin' Joonkers t'other day. 'magined 'e'd 'ave a little tergit prahctice on us, loike. 'Nuff ter scairt yer 'alf ter deaf it were!"

He dropped me off at the post office and I wandered down the long, straight road, through the twin gatehouses and into the damp, muddy park. The house lay another half mile in, past the lake and it's little, derelict mill. I found myself trembling as I rapped upon the shiny brass mermaid knocker. It seemed to take a long time but finally I heard approaching steps. Click-clack. Those heels again. My groin squirmed automatically as the handle turned and I stood there, blushing and breathless, face to face with her.

She stared at me, silent, her mouth open, slack. Her hands went to her breasts, clutching at her heart. A tear slid down her cheek, soaking into the white cotton of her blouse. I didn't know what to say, tried to smile, tried to think. She made a funny choking sound and threw herself at me, pressing her soft breasts into my chest and hanging on for dear life. Sobbing, trembling, forcing her knee between my legs and kissing my ear...

We stood like that for moments. Breathing. The fragrance of her scent and face powder swam around me like some anesthetic gas, weakening, disorienting.
"Johnny," she whispered. "Oh, my darling, darling Johnny. I heard the news last night and they said your squadron had almost been wiped out. Oh Johnny..."

She broke down, shuddering and sobbing, clutching me like I was the only thing she had left in the world. I stroked her head, patted her back, feeling clumsy. It was the kind of thing I might do to a good dog.
"There, there, Auntie. I'm perfectly all right. I'm so very glad to see you...."
Suddenly I was crying too, cushioned against her soft bosom, sobbing like a child.

We made it, at length into her living-room, eased ourselves down onto the couch and lay in each others arms. Mostly silent. Mostly sad. Feeling.
"Oh dear," she said at last, wiping her eyes and attempting to smile. "Oh dear. I must look a terrible mess. You shouldn't see me like this."
She blew her nose, sniffing.
"You really should have called first. I'm really very cross!"
"I'm awfully sorry, Auntie Marion. Really I am." I felt like a selfish fool. "Please forgive my rudeness."
She stood up, smoothing her skirt, chest heaving as she strove to control her emotions.
"Go into the kitchen and make some tea, Johnny. I'm going upstairs to freshen up. You may bring the tea up in ten minutes." She hesitated. "I'm so very glad you're all right."
She brushed her lips against mine, turned and climbed the stairs.

When I knocked on her door and entered with the tea-tray, ten minutes later, she was wearing only her corset, gloves and those long, long boots. She was framed against the light from the window, a stunning, intimidating sight, flexing a supple bamboo cane in her strong hands. I gasped, nearly fainted at the very sight of her.
"Serve the tea, Johnny." Her voice had recovered. Firm and self-assured again. Her eyes were freshly made up and her lipstick was bright red against the paleness of her powdered face.

The room smelled of flowers and cloves. Feminine. Heady. She sat in a wing-chair, legs crossed while I served her tea from the silver pot. There was no sugar and very little milk, but the very warmth of the brew was luxurious.
"You were very naughty, Johnny, not to call me and tell me you were all right. I've been worried sick." Her words were clipped and authoritative. I eyed the cane - a new addition - wondering if she was really going to use it. She noticed my interest.
"Yes, Johnny. The cane is for you. Something to take your mind off the war for a little while. Drink your tea and undress. It has been a long time. Afterwards we will take a walk and then perhaps a bath."
She put down her cup, straightened up and strode around the room, hands on her hips looking very haughty.
"Come along! Drink up! I don't have all day."

My mind was whirling. Here we went again. It was ridiculous. I'd just come from murder and death, and here I was, once again being treated like a bad little boy about to be caned by this incredible, sexual, almost-middle-aged woman. My sex was eager and willing. My mind was appalled at the very idea. Why did it always have to be like this? Why was life so bloody complicated? Why couldn't we just smile at each other and say nice, romantic things? Why not? I laid my uniform over the back of the wing-chair, turned and saw Marion pulling her gas mask over her head. I gaped. What a - a - it was terrifying!

I groaned and sank to the carpet. Hands clutched in front of me as if in prayer. She strode over to me, grasped my treacherous penis and led me over to the bed. Her words were muffled behind the mask.
"Bend over! Put your hands on the bed. Quickly!"
The pain was awesome, rising and rising until I was shrieking like an oil-starved Merlin, writhing and knotted, shaking and tight. Aaaaaahhhhh...

She pulled me over her lap, whispering sweet words and massaging lemon-scented oil into my seared behind while I continued to gasp and sob in reaction to her expert thrashing. Why? The question echoed around and around my startled brain. Why?...

When she was done, she turned me around and guided my face down over her breast. She took it for granted I was willing. And of course I was. So very willing. The pain! And then the comfort. I loved her like nothing expressible in mere words. Oh how I loved her...

She dressed me slowly, as if it were some desperate ritual, her eyes never leaving mine. She had fetched a short length of white rope from a drawer and now knotted my wrists together behind me. She smiled at her handiwork, paused, rummaged around in the drawer again and returned with a leather dog collar, quickly buckling it around my neck. She removed her gas mask and put it away in its little canvas shoulder bag, patting at her hair. She turned to study me.
"There. A pleasing picture. Very obedient. Such a nice, obedient young man. We will take a short walk before lunch."

She led me downstairs by the leash she had clipped to the collar and threw a coat over her semi-naked body. My mind was blank. I couldn't even think. What if somebody saw us? What would I say?
We didn't walk far. A hundred yards up a little path to a pond to sit on a wooden bench. She tied the end of the leash to the wooden slats of the bench and then strode around me, admiringly.
"My darling Sergeant. You look so sweet. So handsome. So controlled. How do you feel, dear?"
I wondered how I felt. Couldn't really decide. I shook my head slowly.
"A - a bit sore, Auntie. Calm. Embarrassed."
"Embarrassed? Don't you like to be treated like this?"
"Well - now that you mention it - ah - I do find it rather - that is - well, it's a bit much, really..." She sat beside me again.
"Don't you like the way I treat you, Johnny?" There was concern in her voice now. Not nearly so haughty.
"It's not that I don't like it, Auntie..." I ransacked my befuddled mind for a way to put it into words.
"It's - well it's just that it's so - so humiliating to be treated this way..."
"But it's only a game, Johnny dear. A way to take our minds off the war. And you always get so excited. You know you do!"
She looked very uncomfortable now, pleading me with her eyes. I felt awful.
"You would excite me anyway, Auntie Marion. You are the most exciting woman I've ever known. You know that." It was true.
"But with this war. All this death. It - well, it seems wrong, somehow to be treating each other like this. I mean, why do you want to cane me if you love me?"
She looked at the pond for a moment, her forehead furrowed in thought.
"Johnny - has it - well did it ever occur to you that I might enjoy doing this to you?" I looked at her, wriggling my fingers behind me to keep the blood circulating.
"You enjoy tying me up and caning me?"
"Oh Johnny. I don't want to hurt you. Really I don't. I only do it because - because..." New tears ran down her face.
"Because I love you..." Her lovely face crinkled up and suddenly she was sobbing great heaving sobs.
"Because I'm so much older than you and I'm so very afraid that if I don't discipline you and keep you under control and - and make you worship me that you'll..." she suddenly seemed like a little girl.
"...that you'll leave me..." I felt my heart banging away inside me. Jesus!
"You'll find a younger woman," she sobbed. "I'll be left all alone again..." She clung to me like I might just evaporate.
"I simply couldn't stand it to be left all alone again..."
"Auntie. Please, Auntie. Would you untie me? I want to hold you. Please?"
She dropped to her knees in front of me and tore at the buttons of my trousers, popping them off into the bushes. I stared down at her, my neck tethered to the bench, my wrists bound behind me. She grasped my sex and squeezed it, her hunted eyes gazing up into mine.
"I'll give you anything, Johnny. Anything. My breasts, my bed. All the strength I have. All the love. All I want is for you to stay. To survive. To be mine."
She opened her mouth and swallowed me, sending me into a frenzy of passion. Suddenly it was as if I was diving down into combat, the impossible, inevitable crossing of my own secret frontier...

I stood back watching while Johnny gasped and shook, bound to the bench while this spike-heeled, full-breasted, mature woman sucked and pulled, grovelled and wept. Johnny's eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, eyelids fluttering, a low, animal whine hissing through his clenched teeth. Marion worked, really worked at reducing him to a twitching, groaning automaton, all the time flicking her eyes upwards to gauge her success.
With a low, almost agonized growl, Johnny stiffened, arched and exploded into helpless ejaculation while his sobbing love gulped and swallowed, sucking still, until both settled into a frozen tableau of unlikeliness, by the little pond, somewhere inside a muddy, rain-soaked Norfolk Park.

When I opened my eyes, she was gone. I sat there looking down at the torn crotch of my uniform, eyes flicking from here to there, looking for the buttons. I tried to stand but my neck was still tied to the bench, my wrists still bound behind me. Oh great. What now? Where the hell was she? I sighed and savored the last dying twitches of pleasure before they melted away into the glare of a warm sun that had just reappeared. What an incredible woman. But now I knew something I had only suspected before. She was suffering. I'd never thought that she might be under enormous strain herself. Never given it a thought in my selfish preoccupation with my own emotional state.
She was afraid of losing me. It was almost funny. As if I would ever voluntarily leave her! This new thing with the rope, the dog-collar, was just a manifestation of her fear of losing me. The boots, the corset, even the cane: a touching attempt to distract me from the fact that she was years older than I, to give me so much pleasure and stimulation that I would have no need to look elsewhere. Oh how I loved her. Poor, dear Marion. Oh...

She re-appeared, stumbling slightly on the rough ground in her monumental - now mud-spattered - heels, carrying a bunch of crimson roses. She knelt before me and laid them on the bench. "I love you, dear Johnny. So much that I don't know how to behave. You said to me, leaving the hospital, that you needed me. Well I need you just as much. Maybe even more. I hope you can understand that. You must. Please." She laid her head on my knees, sobbing quietly.
"Marion? Please Marion. Untie me?"
She didn't move for several seconds but then rose stiffly to her feet, mascara running down her cheeks and set about releasing me from the bench. I stood and held her, marvelling at the soft bulk of her womanly body, breathing in her scent while she whispered to me in a small, shaky voice.
"I'm so sorry, Johnny. So very sorry. I wanted always to be strong for you. To be able to let you come to me and be weak. It must be so hard for you to do what you do every day. Never knowing whether..." Her voice broke, ragged. "...never knowing... Oh, Johnny..."

Sweet, sweet femininity. Age would never take it from her. She was more than woman. She was sublime.

She did her best with the few herbs and spices she had left. A pheasant steamed on a warm china plate, shining under its coating of orange sauce - sauce made from long-dried and carefully hoarded orange peels - along with bright green broccoli and hot mashed potatoes. She apologized for the meal's simplicity while I tried to make her understand it was the best meal I had had in weeks. And it was.

We shared a few glasses of elderberry wine. Genuine Norfolk 1939 vintage. Bit rough. Not bad though. Not bad at all.
We tried to be normal, found it wasn't really possible, and somehow drifted into discussing whatever it was that made everything so difficult and unnatural.
"My late husband liked me to be severe." Her eyes went out of focus as she remembered those long-lost days.
"He was a good man. Strong. Witty. There was always a part of him that liked to be the little boy." She reached out and grasped my fingers.
"Do you mind me talking about him, Johnny?" She thanked me with her eyes.
"We met when I was eighteen. Married the year after. He was the first man I'd ever - ah - he was the first."
She took a swallow of wine, pressing her lips together at its bite.
"In fact he was the only man I was ever - intimate - with." She looked into my eyes.
"Come with me, Johnny." She offered me her hand. "I have something I'd like to show you."
She led me upstairs to the smaller staircase that led to the attic. It was a stuffy little room, full of cobwebs, unused for years. She opened a large steamer trunk and gestured at the contents. The case was full of strange garments and items. Straps, buckles, high-heeled boots, stiff corsets. I stared at the strange, disquieting sight, ashamed that I was becoming aroused at the very idea...
"You see, Harold was very interested in such things. He was the only man I had ever known so - ah - so intimately. I naturally thought that men - that men - liked to be disciplined by their wives. My mother, you know, was always the leader when I was young. Very strict." She smiled a sad, wistful smile.
"My father was a lot like you, Johnny. So eager to please my mother. Ten years younger. So much like you. And I mean, well, we women never discuss this sort of thing between ourselves. It is a private thing..." I hadn't even known she had had a husband. And now this. The sight of all these strange relics of her past made a little ripple run across my scalp. Frightening, exciting, secret.
"What happened to - ah - Harold?" She closed the lid to the trunk, hiding away her turmoil.
"He was First Officer on a Cruiser. We were so proud of it. Then he went off to Jutland with the Grand Fleet." She glanced up at me before lowering her eyes again.
"I still keep his uniforms..."
She didn't have to say more. I'd never imagined she might be a widow. Death once again. It was everywhere. I reached out and held her. Felt her shudders come and go. Her face seemed older tonight. A thousand years older. She was still beautiful.

Back in the living-room, before the great stone fireplace, we lay back on the couch. "Marion?"
"Mmmm?"
"My darling Marion..." I stood, knelt before her. "Dearest Marion, would you consider marrying me?"
Her eyes filled again, they were red and puffy by now. Her face crinkled and quivered. She reached out, holding my face in trembling fingers. She had to search for the words.
"My darling. My own sweet love. Do you know what you're saying? I'm so much older than you. So much older..."
"Marion, I love you desperately. I need you so very, very much. Please, Marion. Take me as your husband..."
She pulled me to her breast, smothering me in her warmth, running her fingers through my hair, rocking gently to and fro.
"Think about it, Johnny. For a few days. If you still want to, then ask me again. You must be very, very sure. For both our sakes, you must be sure."
"But I've..."
She touched a finger to my lips. "Shhh. Not now, Johnny. Shhh. We shall see. You can have anything I have to give without your being my husband. I mean it. Anything you want. I will be any way you want me to be. If you do not like me to be strict, then I won't be..." Her mouth quivered. "There is no need... There is no need to commit yourself. Maybe, after you've thought about it... Maybe then. We'll see."
She lifted my face to hers, kissing me softly and extending her tongue past my lips. Moist, wet, safe and comforting.

We did as much as we could fit into the time we had left, bathing together, making love, massaging each other to sleep, eating, walking and even, occasionally, laughing. Something had changed between us. Something old and dying washed away for good. Replaced by something better. Something too precious for words. I lay in her - our - bed, drifting off to join her in the sleep she had already found, on this, our final night. The station had telephoned and the new pilots had arrived. We were re-equipped and now, once again, duty laid its icy finger on my shoulder. The final night of reprieve. Sleep came hesitantly, by degrees, slipping infinitely slowly over my awareness until I hovered, balanced on the razor's edge of what was and what was yet to be...

*****

"Squawk!" said the crow, and then made space.
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