Prisoners of Passion

Prisoners of Passion
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ISBN:  9781907976162
Author:  Nicole Dere
Word Count:  61,607
Format:  eBook

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A Desirable PropertyA Desirable Property
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Star SlaveStar Slave
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'First thing you have to learn in the army is discipline, my girl. Understand?' The thick voice sounded as though its owner was being throttled, an impression fortified by the spectacle of the fleshy, empurpled features, and the bug eyes.
   'Yuh - yes, sir!' Olly gasped, twisting round and squinting up through tear-filled eyes and the clouds of her dishevelled red hair, from her position across the corpulent brigadier's knee. Her satin knickers were wrapped around her ankles. Her shoes had long gone, flying off when she began the restrained little kicking movements she knew would rouse the fat old pig even more...


When three not so innocent girls exchange the gym-slips of the exclusive Medes School for the uniforms of the ATS, they are eager to do their bit. But they soon lose both enthusiasm and virginity at the hands of the perfidious Lt Postlethwaite who, to avoid public disgrace, hands them over to a French peasant farmer. Tied in a barn to serve his pleasure, the girls find themselves moving from frying pan to fire when they next fall into the hands of the advancing German army.

As the tide of war turns in favour of the allies, the girls wait dubiously for freedom, but it appears they are not to escape so easily from the life of servitude to which they have become accustomed...

A glob of thick black engine oil dripped onto Feely's brow, and she stared in hatred at the filthily congealed mess of metal and pipes a few inches above her nose. She longed to reach up and tuck the stray hairs about her grimy face more securely into the tight-fitting cap, but she scarcely had room to wield the big spanner that was locked onto the obstinately unyielding nut of the sump drain. She was lying on her back on a thin wooden trolley under a military truck. She was filthy, her hands coated with grease and oil, her face hardly less so. The baggy overalls were liberally besmirched, and even the old khaki cap was stained. The cold from the concrete floor beat up through the thin layer of wood so that every bone and muscle ached, in spite of the ugly, thick, scratchy flannel underwear. This was the severest winter in years. Several times the water pipes in the camp had been frozen solid, and she thought now with tears stinging in her eyes of the luxurious bathroom at home, the limitless hot water; Sarah, the maid, standing by with fluffy towels fresh from the radiator to envelop her when she rose from a leisurely soak in a miniature snowstorm of fragrant lather.
   The ablutions here were even more primitive than at The Medes. Tin baths in a row, to be shared by more than twenty girls. It wasn't the lack of privacy that bothered her; she was used to that after The Medes - in fact, some of the girls from less privileged backgrounds made far more fuss over having to be seen naked by their colleagues. But it was the lack of comfort; the bareness of their surroundings, the scummy grey water you had to leap in and out of, unless lucky enough to catch the first bath.
   The unremitting coarseness of their contemporaries was appalling, too. God knows, the ménage were aware of their sexuality, but these working-class girls were so drearily obsessed - and so unoriginal, so crude and limited.
   Another blob of oil dripped onto her. 'Fuck,' Feely muttered softly, then felt herself blushing. She was becoming as gross as her fellow Amazons. She had known of the word's existence, of course, but until coming here she would never have dreamt of using it, could not conceive of its ever passing a female's lips.
   This wasn't what they had envisaged at all, Feely acknowledged grimly. They had thought in terms of smartly tailored uniforms, officer status. Somehow, it had never occurred to them that they would be expected to endure the unappetising life of the OR's. Other Ranks, as the army termed them. They had visualised themselves sitting behind the wheels of staff cars, whisking officers back and forth, wining and dining with the handsome younger staff officers, dancing at the Ritz and smart clubs up in town, then across in Paris for more of the same. And maybe other, more interesting and private assignations, in comfortable hotel bedrooms. All of the trio were virgins, though technically, Feely sometimes wondered uncomfortably if they still qualified to use the term 'intacta', given the freedom with which they had explored one another's acquiescent bodies. But all three dreamed eagerly of surrendering their maidenhood, under the romantically right circumstances, and partner.
   The realities of Wallington Camp were depressingly different. 'Did I let that drooling letch of a brigadier smack my botty for this?' Olly had declaimed tragically that first night in their new abode.
   'As long as that's all you let him do,' Feely muttered dryly, and Olly squealed in righteous indignation.
   'How dare you? My virtue's still intact—'
   'If not your cherry,' Possy cut in, and all three sniggered.
   But life was grim and laughs were few, Feely conceded, as she lay beneath the three-ton truck. Far from the apocalypse everyone had imagined, the war was a distant stalemate as they moved into 1940, and the worst enemy was the atrocious weather. It wasn't as if they could seek the private consolations the trio had habitually shared, for their existence was so public. A barrack room full of narrow creaking metal beds, and shared ablutions. Even the lavatories had double half-doors like stable stalls, so that knicker-wrapped ankles were on view and anyone with a mind to could peep over the top and watch you wipe your bum!
   Then there was the work itself. Why on earth did they need to learn to march in step, to swing their arms and stick their chests out, and execute all the other endless drills in the mind-numbing cold, in order to drive dishy officers about in smart limousines? And to learn all about the workings of these disgustingly filthy, smelly vehicles and their unfathomable mechanical mysteries, until their fingernails were broken and blackened, and their hands and faces were black as coal and they stank like grease monkeys? It was only pride, the pride of Old Medians, that kept them at it. That, and the fact that if they quit they might well end up in a military prison which would be worse even than Wallington Camp. They prayed fervently each night for the next twelve weeks to pass quickly, and to succeed in the passing-out exams that came at the end of the course.
   Feely's gloomy thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a violent tugging at her heavy boots, which were sticking out from the underside of the truck. The suddenness of this event caused her to jerk reflexively, and she smacked her forehead painfully against the metal inches above. 'Hell, Possy! Is that you, you clot? What—'
   She tried to slide the trolley and propel herself out from under the vehicle, but another pair of solid boots prevented her from doing so. She squinted down her body to the narrow slot of daylight, saw the gleaming objects which were impeding her progress, and the stiff gaiters with the gleaming brass buckles. They were standing on her insteps, causing her feet to turn outward in a quarter-to-three stance that was grotesquely reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin. 'Sergeant Cameron,' she squeaked indignantly.
   The gruff, disembodied northern voice drifted down to her. 'Bloody 'ell, Keynes! 'Aven't you got that sump drained yet, you idle little slut?'
   'You've no right to talk to me like that, sergeant,' she answered, but her tone was weak and quavering. More like the lip-quivering little girl she felt like inside when faced with her instructor's blunt, aggressive masculinity. She squirmed, tried to move, felt the strain on her limbs as he easily held her feet trapped beneath his.
   'I'll talk to you any fuckin' way I want, slag! I don't know if you realise it, Keynes, you snotty little cow, but you're within an ace of bein' thrown off this course altogether. You're fuckin' hopeless, you know that? And if you get kicked out, you know where you'll go? Not back to mummy and daddy, you stuck up bitch, but to the cookery course at Caterham. Where you'll scrub pots and pans and peel spuds for the rest of this fuckin' war, my girl!' There was a grunt, and his ruddy face appeared in the narrow gap of daylight as he crouched low and peered in at her. Though his feet had moved, she felt his heavy hand pressing firmly on the baggy overalls, just above her right knee.
   'Just checking. I thought you 'ad one of your la-di-da lesbian mates under there with you.' He laughed coarsely.
   'Would you take your hand off my knee, please, sergeant?' Feely said. She strove to be icily calm, but her voice trembled even more. Instead, the hand slid up her leg, almost to the top of her thigh, and she stiffened in shock. She gave a little gasp.
   His voice dropped in volume, thickened in heavy lechery. 'Listen, you stupid cunt. I can make or break you. Haven't you twigged that yet? It's up to me whether you get through the course or not. They all take note of my say-so, even Major Phillips. You play along with me, Keynes, and you're through, no worries. I guarantee it. What do you say, slag?'
   Feely gasped again, jerked, and banged her head again. His hand had slid up to the conflux of her thighs and belly. It cupped the curve of her vulva. She felt its pressure through all the thick layers of clothing. The palm rubbed, pressed against the soft flesh, and to her horror she felt the electric thrill of arousal moistening her labial divide. His fingers were hard, rubbing the length of her narrow fissure, and she shivered, her thighs stirring, closing tight against his invading hand.
   'Please, sergeant,' she whispered tearfully, hating herself for her feeble tone, and for the betrayal of her throbbing sex. 'Someone might come.'
   The syrupy chuckle was like another of his obscene caresses, and she shuddered at its note of male triumph. The tears trickled down her dirty cheeks to lodge in the wisps of hair at her temples.
   'You just lie still, my girl. Don't you worry your pretty little head about that. I've taken care of it.' When she felt his hands at her work-stained boots, she expected to feel herself hauled out from under the lorry, but to her astonishment he left her as she was, with her upper half still hidden under the vehicle. Without hurrying he untied her laces, eased off the great boots, then peeled off the grey service socks.
   'Fuck me, how many bloody clothes you got on, then?' He had discovered that, under her army socks, she was wearing a pair of her own long woollen stockings, a relic of more innocent, happier days at The Medes.
   He reached in towards her, and she felt his thick fingers fumbling with the buttons of her overalls, opening them up at her midriff. All the strength seemed to be draining from her. She no longer found any voice to protest, but lay limp, snivelling quietly like a child. The fingers had found a way in, now they plucked at the waistband of the khaki serge trousers, negotiated the fastening, parted them at her belly. Remorselessly he plodded on, like a surgeon cutting through the outer layers. The shirt was hauled up, then the flannel vest, out of the sturdy elastic of the knickers, also flannel, the army issue winter bloomers, passion killers as the girls rightly dubbed them.
   Except that Sergeant Cameron's passion seemed immortal. Trembling from head to foot now, possessed by a sensation that was strangely, shockingly familiar, which seemed to spread from the damply beating core between her legs, she lay there, unresisting, as the sergeant headed determinedly for that very core, which throbbed evermore damply the nearer he approached his goal. Another gasp, and her warm belly spasmed against the cold touch of a hand on her bare skin. The hand slid down, fingers extended like the groping limbs of a spider, until he was rooting through the small patch of springy curls covering her mound. Teasingly, the fingers plucked at a few tendrils, stretching them, lifting the skin beneath, then the heel of the hand pressed heavily on the little swell of flesh. Involuntarily, she grunted, and her belly lifted in response to the pressure.
   The fingers swept on, to the upper folds of the dewy cleft itself, played with the tight fold, parted it, splayed it open to slide into the slippery slopes thus exposed. She drew her knees up, moaned softly, her hips wriggling, entirely controlled by those wicked fingers. 'I - I'm a virgin,' she wept, moving rhythmically to his stimulation. 'I've never—'
   'I bet you haven't,' he said roughly. 'You must've been missin' your lezzy chums then, eh? You're wetter than an Aldershot pisshouse on a Saturday night.'
   'Please, sergeant,' she blubbered, squirming violently, her stockinged feet drumming on the damp, chilly floor.
   'Please what?' he grunted, his own excitement achingly apparent, bulging out his trousers. His forefinger hooked, slid deeply through into the funnel of her vagina, whose muscles seized upon the intruder ecstatically. 'You're fuckin' tight, I'll give you that,' he breathed...

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