Fucked By A Fly-Boy

By | October 21, 2008

Friday, 07 July 1944, Arnold MO, USA

Harry finished checking the last firing pin and placed it carefully in its transport crate, with eleven others. He nailed the lid shut. The final nail, ¼” longer than the others, came to rest against the end of the last firing pin. The pin bent, minutely.

Saturday, 02 September 1944, “The White Horse” Pub, Norfolk, England

Lieutenant Cavallo and Sergeant Archer scanned the pub for friendly faces. “What’s her name?”, asked Cavallo nodding towards a petite dark haired girl in WRAF uniform across the bar.

“Gillian, I think. Why d’you ask?”

“She’s kinda cute.”

“Oh, you’re after a little R & R again. Cavallo, the captain’s gonna have your ass if he thinks you’re causing moral problems again.”

“I never heard any of the girls complain.”

“Yes but their wing commander did.”

“Hmmm”

Sunday, 03 September 1944

Lieutenant Cavallo clambered into the co-pilot’s seat ready for pre-flight checks. The leather of his flying jacket began to warm slightly in the summer sunlight streaming through the cockpit window, giving off an aroma both familiar and now inextricably bound up in his mind with air combat.

He took a moment to look outside at the airfield, sixteen other aircraft stood beside this one, a brand new B17, fresh from Seattle. He hated new aircraft, glitches to iron out, and a whole new personality to learn. Just like a new woman he smiled to himself. And then there was what to call her.

And on top of that a daylight raid against retreating German troops. One trip to hell, he just hoped it was a return ticket.

Thirty minutes later the B17’s tyres left the runway on it’s way to France.

Five hours after that the aircraft taxied to a halt, chin turret blackened by flack but otherwise intact. The crew breathed a collective sigh of relief and headed for the White Horse.

“Gillian, isn’t it?”, asked Cavallo, leaning in a little closer to the object of his desires.

“Yes, and what is your name Lieutenant?”, though she already knew.
“Cavallo, Carlos Cavallo. Say, would you like a drink?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”, replied Gillian, “I know what you do now, what did you do before the war?”

“I was training to be a lawyer. And you?”

“I worked in London, as a dancer.”

“That would explain your, er, well you look so …”, the normally unflappably confident New Yorker found himself tongue-tied and a little embarrassed. He actually felt something for this girl, not just the usual stirrings. To cover his discomfort he asked,” … West End?”

“Almost, the Windmill”, Gillian waited for the usual reaction.

“Oh that type of dancer”, said Cavallo knowingly.

“No, not that kind of dancer. Fully clothed. For your information the topless girls aren’t allowed to move. You’ve obviously never been”, she replied with a certain satisfaction.

“It’s on my to-do list”, said Cavallo.

“Anything else on your to-do list?”, she asked, wrinkling her nose as she smiled, doing her best to look innocent. And failing.

Several hours later the landlord of the White Horse had to almost physically throw the couple out. His loud clearing of glasses and meaningful coughs worked on everyone but Cavallo and Gillian, who seemed enraptured by each other’s life stories. To make things worse they had become so caught up in each other they stopped drinking an hour before last orders.

They walked back to the base, hand in hand and kissed 100yds from the MPs guarding the gate. Their kisses told each other they wanted more. Cavallo’s hand wandered to her pert bottom, but was quickly moved back to Gillian’s waist. “When will I see you again?”, she asked. “Three days, same time, in the White Horse? Gi…”, he replied. “It’s a date. But stop calling me that.”

They re-entered the airfield a couple of minutes apart.

Wednesday 06 September 1944

Gillian heard the wing take off from her barracks. She could not watch the planes leave. She’d seen too many aircrew take off never to return and now that one of those men had made a connection with her she dreaded what today might bring.

Cavallo felt rather than heard the first AA round burst next to the tail of the B17. The slight vibration in the stick told him he’d lost a piece of the tail. The pilot, Tanner, barked at the gunners to watch out for the fighters which he knew would soon be on them.

A few minutes later the plane’s machine guns started to chatter as two ME109es took up station behind them.

“Fire in engine 1, shut it do…”, began Tanner. Cavallo looked across to see Tanner clutching at his arm. “I’m OK.”

But a gurgling scream over the intercom from one of the waist gunners told him that he wasn’t. Cavallo left the plane in Tanner’s hands and ran down the narrow catwalk in the bomb bay to the waist gunners. The gunner was dead, slumped at against a rib in the airframe. Shit, he couldn’t even remember the guy’s name, he’d only joined the crew on the last mission. Looking out of the gun port Cavallo saw an enemy fighter streaking towards him. Grabbing the .50 calibre gun and swinging it round on its mountings, Cavallo fired.
The firing pin in the gun jammed. Cavallo yanked at the cocking lever to eject the shell. The extractor slammed the cartridge into the breach. The shell exploded. Cavallo felt a searing pain in the side of his head and then felt no more.

Gillian was already making her way to “The White Horse” when she heard the Cyclone engines in the distance, she began to shake uncontrollably. She ordered a double G & T on her arrival and sat at “their” table waiting for Cavallo to walk through the door.
Minutes passed, then hours. Slowly the aircrews rolled through the doors. Each new face eliciting increasingly intense and agitated stares from Gillian. Finally a face she knew, “Sergeant, any news of Cavallo?”. “They took some damage going in, had to dump their bomb load over the North Sea but they should have landed about now.

Gillian ran out of the pub and back to the base. She sped past the bemused MPs at the gate and straight towards the Cavallo’s B17, it’s tattered tail silhouetted against the moon.

“Over here.” It was Cavallo, in the shadow of the WRAF barracks. Gillian ran into his arms.

They kissed with a passion that banished the war from their thoughts. It made the angst Gillian felt disappear and made her think of only one thing. Having him.

He led her into the barracks, to the medical room. He tossed his flying jacket into the corner. Gillian followed his lead, casting aside her clothes. Within a minute they were both naked, except for Gillian who did not have time to remove her suspender belt and nylons before Cavallo took her in his arms and almost threw her onto the examination table.

His hot insistent tongue convulsed in her mouth. Then it travelled to her ear, making her squirm and laugh. His dribbling erection pressed against her stocking-clad leg was a constant reminder of his intent. When his lithe tongue, caressing lips and nibbling teeth encountered her neck she moaned.

Her pussy tingled, it’s moistness increasing by the moment. Her juices flowing so freely that her anus was already wet.

His hands were kneading her breasts, pinching nipples, almost too hard to stand at times. His passion dammed up waiting to be released, released into her.

She stroked his arms, his back, his neck. Ran her fingers through his close-cropped black hair. His mouth then travelled down across her stomach and between her legs. He lapped at her clitoris. She came almost immediately, never having experienced this before. He on the other hand obviously had. He lapped her gushing pink slit. She squirmed under his tongue’s caresses.

Her fingers gripped the top of the examination table behind her head. She was holding on so tightly her knuckles went white.

The glorious sensation between her legs stopped. She looked down to see Cavallo knelt between her legs, cock pointing skyward. He dropped to all fours, his hands either side of her and pushed his cock against her swollen mons. She felt his plum part her lips and his thick member slowly fill her aching sex.

She felt the resistance as he reached the back of her, then felt herself stretch slightly to accommodate him so their pubic hair entwined. He began to move inside her slow, short strokes at first, deep inside. Gradually he increased the speed and length. Gillian came like she had never cum before, intensely, violently. She found herself grabbing at Cavallo, yelling at him to fuck her like a tart.

After what seemed like hours, but must have been only a few sweet minutes, he came, her name on his lips. They held each other until the chill of the room penetrated their warm post-coital cocoon.

~~~

Thursday, 07 September 1944

First thing next morning Gillian was called to her CO’s office. The normally rather abrupt woman asked her to sit in an uncharacteristically faltering voice.

“This is a little unconventional, but I thought you’d like to know from me rather than find out on the grapevine” she began.

“I’m sorry I don’t understand?”, said a bemused Gillian.

“Lieutenant Cavallo …”

“How do you know about us?”, asked Gillian.

“Please, let me finish. I know you two had started to see each other. Base gossip is very efficient. So I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Lieutenant Cavallo received severe injuries on the raid yesterday. His aircraft made it back but I’m afraid he was badly injured. Our Doctor pronounced him dead when they landed last night.”

Gillian, ran from the CO’s office, tears burning her eyes. Her mind struggling to understand. He couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t, she’d been with him last night. She ran to his plane, the nose blackened and holed with shell holes.

There, in the morning sunlight, picked out in red and white lettering she saw the aircraft’s name.

“Gigi”

~~~

I wrote this story earlier this year because of a fellow blogger’s banner artwork. It was one of those moments where a story just happens. That sort of story doesn’t appear out of nothing, it’s more that a convergence of ideas and thoughts become an inspirational nexus, creating the writing naturally and almost fully formed at the first draft.

I’m very fond of the story for all sorts of reasons. Strange but true.