Blitzed

Chapter Three

A Weekend in the Country

Saturday, 1 March 1941

Stedham Hall, near Wilton, east of Salisbury

Neal opened his eyes and watched Jocko, the aviator, leaning into the side of the window well, his back to the well wall, his window-side leg bent, with the foot against the wall. His arms were crossed and he was gazing out of the window onto the winter gardens at Stedham Hall. Lean and tightly muscled, sandy-haired and as young as Neal, Jocko was smoking a cigarette and looking wistful. A nicely lengthed, if not particularly thick, erection curved up from a reddish-blond bush, highlighted by a beam of afternoon light coming through the window.

Neal was lying, stretched out and belly down on the bed in the guest room assigned to Jocko, a local Salisbury son of a family known to Neville Chambers’s family for centuries. Jocko was on leave from his squadron based at a Somerset aerodrome, where he flew a Hawker Hurricane fighter in the aerial defense of London from German bombers. Aviators like Jocko didn’t have a long shelf life, and they tended to seize their pleasures when and as they could get them. It hadn’t taken long at the weekend in the country farewell party for Irma Chambers for Jocko to identify Neal as a player and to take his pleasure with him.

He had just driven Neal with the same abandon that he flew his Hawker. Placing Neal on his belly on the bed, Jocko had used his belt to lash the young man’s thighs together, muttering that he liked a tight fit, and had mounted Neal’s ass, leaning over him, palming Neal’s shoulder blades, pressing the young man’s chest into the mattress, and penetrated him deep.

Neal had groaned and whispered a quiet “Yes, yes, yes” encouragement of welcome and acceptance as the handsome, sinewy airman had assumed a push-up position hovering over Neal and, teasingly muttering, “Krautland fucking England,” called out the thrusts as he accomplished them in German—eins, zwei, drei, vier, funf—and had risen and fallen on the prone young man’s body in an ever-faster cadence until he had cried out his La Petite Mort—his little death of a release. He had rolled off Neal’s back, released the belt, and gone to the window for a smoke.

At the window, staring out into the void, he muttered a somewhat bitterly delivered, “Und eins mal—and one more time the Germans screw the English.”

“And very good too,” Neal called out wearily from the bed, as he released is legs from the belt. “Wirklich sehr gut—very good indeed, Airman. You are an airman first class.”

Neal had never been fucked with such wild abandon while being bound. He was lying on his stomach on the bed, his right arm dangling over the side, his eyes watching the beautiful body of the aviator, a contradiction in messaging. Jocko’s body was slouching in a relaxed pose, but his eyes revealed the horror of a future of fire and a short existence, and his cock revealed a continuing need of release.

“You are still hard,” Neal murmured.

“Yes,” Jocko said to the opposite wall of the window alcove.

“Come back to the bed.”

“You will take me again? And so soon? Can we be away from the party that long, do you think?” Jocko turned to the other young man, a tight smile on his face.

“You look like you can do it again so soon,” Neal replied. Both of them knew the urgency in Jocko’s life—the need to pack everything into life as soon and as much as possible in the short time there was. Neal had thought he’d die on the beach at Dunkirk, wounded, unable to walk, afraid even to drag himself to the surf and the waiting fishing boats for fear some sniper would zero in on his still-moving body. He had been lifted and carried into the water and the boat by an ugly butcher’s son whom Neal had shied away from as from a leper before they’d hit the beach. Afterward, after having seen his short life float through his brain as he lay, lost, on the sand, he had been glad to let the soldier feast on his body, die his own little La Petite Mort on top of and inside Neal.

The butcher’s son had given very good fuck. It had been the beginning of the breaking down of Neal’s class prejudices.

Yes, life was too short not to grab all you could from it while you were able.

“You know I can do it again—that I want to be inside you again,” Jocko answered, but he didn’t move from his pose, waiting for the acquiescence, prepared to have to make do with what he’d already had. “But—”

“Yes, come back to bed,” Neal said. He turned on his back, spread and bent his legs, feet flat on the mattress, and placed a pillow under the small of his back. “I lay here, open to you—London opening its legs to your German bombs. Come drop one up my ass.”

Emitting a low growl in the depths of his throat, Jocko turned to the window, slid it open enough for him to toss his half-smoked cigarette out, and moved swiftly back to the bed, coming up on the mattress on his knees. His hands gripped Neal’s waist between them, and he raised the young man’s pelvis, his torso streaming back onto the bed, as the aviator’s knees pressed in under Neal’s buttocks.

Neal gave a little cry as the aviator’s cock brutally penetrated him, Jocko exclaiming, “Berlin calling!” He let his arms extend out to his sides in a total surrender cruciform position, and he arched his neck back, looking up, his eyes tracing the fancy plaster work in the ceiling of the guest room, while, grunting, Jocko pulled and released, pulled and released the young man’s pelvis in coordination with the frenzied thrusts of his shaft. “Eins, zwei, drei . . .”

Neal wrapped his legs tightly under Jocko’s buttocks and employed his well-used passage muscles to give the aviator as tight a fit as possible. The aviator deserved all of the pleasure he could wring out of life for as long as possible.

Taking another one for the comfort of the heroes of England’s resistance. If he was here to be a male whore for Neville Chambers, Neal saw no reason why he shouldn’t be a male comfort whore for one of England’s brave, doomed aviators.

Thrusting and stretching, picking up speed and thrust power. Raising his torso up into the aviator’s chest, Neal clutched at the man’s shoulder blades, digging his fingernails in, moving his hips in counterthrust to the pistoning of the redhead’s shaft. “Yes! Yes! Fuck me hard! You are a stud!”

And Jocko was and did.

They lay there, entwined, after the second fuck, both panting, breathing hard. Both with smiles on their faces, their hands busy, each memorizing the body of the other.

“I was lost there for several moments,” Jocko whispered. “Somewhere else altogether, some other time.”

“Is that good or bad?” Neal asked.

“That is very good. I wish . . . well, I wish I could wish. Tonight perhaps, in my bed again?”

“I think I’m engaged tonight,” Neal said. He didn’t have to feign the disappointment of having to say that.

“Sir Neville?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Will he have you down another weekend, do you think?”

“I hope so. If he enjoys having me tonight, I assume.”

“If I managed to get away then too, do you think—?”

“I think I’d like that. I think I’d like that very much.”

“I can give you a postal box to write to to let me know you’re coming. Is there someone else? Someone more permanent?”

“No, no one else,” Neal said. It was his first lie to Jocko, but he didn’t know it until he’d said it. As he’d said it, the image of Phillip Talbot floated through his mind. He hadn’t thought about Phillip as someone more permanent until now. It had just been the job. He’d been warned that it wasn’t to be anything more than the job with Phillip, and he had agreed. But maybe it was more. No reason to tell that to Jocko, though. Jocko had enough worry in his life as it was.

This, this with Jocko was special in a different way. The lives of British aviators in the war were marked in hours, not years. They deserved all of the pleasure, wanton or otherwise, that they could pack into those brief hours.

Later, after he’d cleaned himself off at the washbasin in the room, had dressed, and was returning down a long guest wing corridor back to the party, having given Jocko time to get there and reinsert himself in the conversation groups before Neal returned, Neal passed a half-open door and heard the unmistakable sound of sex—the baritone of a man and the higher pitch of a woman.

He glanced between the gap in the door. Sidney, the frivolous ass of a royal drifter, son of an earl and confidant of the German sympathizer Prince of Wales until the war dispersed that set, was lying on his back, naked. Chloe, Phillip’s Chloe, also naked, all milk-white, raven-haired beauty, was saddled on his hips, her torso reclining back, her palms pressing into his kneecaps, as she rose and fell, languidly on his cock and Sidney squeezed her breasts with his hands and thrumbed her engorged nipples with this thumbs. There was no question that the dandy was taking advantage of her.

* * * *

The Chambers family country estate, Stedham Hall, near Salisbury, had been a gothic-style pile-of-rocks abbey until Cromwell had seized it from the church and rendered its attached chapel in ruins. The chapel was still in ruins, which added a bit of charm to the otherwise austere façade of the many-roomed rambling building with enough guest bedrooms to accommodate a crowd.

When Phillip, Chloe, and Neal had arrived at the massive wooden entrance door they were greeted by a solemn-faced, nonspeaking butler, backed up shortly by the host, Sir Neville Chambers himself, who smiled at Phillip and Chloe and leered at Neal.

“This is Otto, our city butler, brought down this weekend to lend a hand. He doesn’t speak, but we’d be lost without him. Quite efficient really.”

And that was Neal’s introduction to the butler, large and glowering—and not speaking. Otto made a quick withdrawal as the hostess, Neville’s wife, Irma, a tall, statuesque, rather severe-looking woman, came to the entrance hall.

Chambers did the breezy introductions. “Irma, I think you know Phillip Talbot of the Foreign Office, and this is his young wife—Chloe, is it?—who we are just now hearing about. Our weekend is for her as well as you, as she too is leaving us, but only as far as Amesbury.” Turning to Phillip and Chloe then, he said. “Irma’s going across the sea, to Canada. She’s off to Southampton Monday to wait for formation of a convoy. Going on the Estonia. The German subs being what they’ve become as a danger to ocean shipping, a convoy will have to form to cross the Atlantic.”

“Oh, my, aren’t you afraid to go now?” Chloe asked. “Amesbury seems safe enough. Haven’t you left a crossing rather late?”

“I think I’ll be quite fine, but thank you for your concern,” Irma responded, perhaps a bit coldly. Neal was surprised to discover that she had a slight accent. German, was it? Austrian or Swiss, maybe, if he was being charitable.

“And this is the new young man in my office,” Chambers said to her. “Neal Singer. He has done quite credible work for us.”

“And will be quite a comfort for you while I am abroad, I’m sure,” Irma said. Neal wondered if perhaps she had a very good idea where her husband’s interests lay. If so, she didn’t seem to mind taking the dangerous trip across the Atlantic and leaving him to it.

“We mustn’t stay hidden here in the entrance hall,” Chambers interjected. “I think we are all here now. We mustn’t neglect our guests in the lounge.”

The Chambers disengaged and headed into a large room, where drinks and savouries were being served and in which enough people were circulating that Neal wondered if this country house, as large as it was, had enough bedrooms to accommodate them all. Manservants had taken their bags at the car when they arrived, leaving them with cards in their names identifying which bedroom they were in and the directions for getting there from the sweeping double staircase in the two-story entrance hall. The entrance hall, with a balcony on three sides above, was done in marble and dark wood wall paneling, and was quite impressive—intimidating even, to newly arrived guests, which probably was the intent.

Neal was about to follow the Chamberses into the lounge when Phillip put his hand on the young man’s arm and spoke to him in low tones. “Yes, that was a German accent you heard. Irma’s mother was English and her father, we’re told, was German. Irma was born here, but she runs with the Prince of Wales’s crowd, so it would be best to be quite circumspect around her. And I don’t think she’ll be a problem tonight. Chambers says they have separate bedrooms. and I hardly think she can be blind to his fetishes.”

“By the way,” Phillip added, “remember that Chambers claims his butler, Otto, is from Belgium, but we haven’t been able to vet that, so be on your guard around him, as well. Not being able to speak could be a case of not being able to speak without a tell-tale accent.”

It was evident as they entered the lounge that there were four groups of guests, of entirely different origins. There were men—mostly men but a few women as well—who were Chambers’s professional associates from the Information Ministry and the Foreign Office, along with a few men, like the Austrian Cardinal Heinrich, who had been displaced from their countries and were living in England under the sufferance of the Foreign Office and MI6, external military intelligence. There were a couple of military officers too, who Phillip identified as military intelligence, both MI5, internal counterintelligence, and MI6. This was the group Phillip moved toward, with Neal a few indecisive steps behind. Neal’s function here wasn’t really anticipated to come into play until the night.

Another distinct group, more raucous to the government servants’ whispering sedateness, was gathered around a grand piano, where a young, flamboyant dandy was playing theatre tunes and singing in a credible voice. These were the more attractive, younger guests and obviously had come to party. This was where Irma had headed when she left the entrance hall and it also was where Chloe headed now, her eyes having locked on the young man at the piano. He looked up and smiled at her and immediately segued into the popular Henry James song “You Made Me Love You.”

Phillip stopped and turned to Neal before reaching the government ministries’ gathering and whispered to Neal, “Chloe has gone to the German sympathizer’s group. Those are Irma’s friends, and the circle of friends who ran with the Prince of Wales before war broke out and he had to be more circumspect.”

Chambers had gone to a third group, less stylish, more countryfied and, surprisingly, looking more comfortable in the venue. “The local notables,” Phillip said before they continued on to the government group. “They won’t stay long,” he said. Neal scanned over these people, his eyes arrested by a handsome young man in a Royal Air Force officer’s uniform. Sensing he was being observed, the young man looked around and smiled at Neal.

There was a fourth group of guests, although not guests really, floating among the other guests. These were very attractive, young, and friendly women and men, who were drifting around, engaging with the other guests, and making them comfortable. To Neal’s eyes they stood out, and he relaxed. He was among his own now, and, although he went to the government group with Phillip, he didn’t stay long. He moved about the room, melding in with those chatting up the guests with a better reason to be here than marking time until the host fucked him.

Neal was cornered in a quiet area of the room by the refugee Austrian cardinal, Heinrich, a tall, very thin, rigidly straight, Nordic-looking man flashing several glittering rings on his hand, who got his attention by lifting an empty champagne glass at him and saying, “So, you are one of Neville’s boys?”

“I work for him in London,” Neal answered.

“He always has such beautiful boys. You are beautiful, you know. The beauty of a Michelangelo. I am an artist, the war not leaving much else for me to do. I might sketch you this weekend, Ja?”

“I’m not really a model. I work for Sir Neville at the Information Ministry.”

“You’ve never modeled in the nude? You must have a first at that, I believe. Perhaps this—”

“Oh, I see that you are out of champagne. I need another drink too. Here, let me get you refill,” Neal said, taking the glass being waved at him out of the cardinal’s hands and moving away. As he turned, he glanced across the room, where the handsome man in the RAF uniform was talking to one of the local residents, but was casting an amused look at Neal. Neal deposited both empty glasses on the tray of a roving servant, saying to the servant, “See the priest in the cassock over there? I believe he needs another glass of champagne.” Having done the minimum of his duty, Neal then did some roving of the room himself, trying to keep a good distance between the cardinal and himself. Somehow, though, Neal was afraid he hadn’t seen the last of the cardinal. If Sir Neville needed the cardinal for something, Neal felt he would be doing what he needed to do to humor the cleric. Perhaps there were other reasons to cultivate the prelate as well. He would have to winged it with that one.

At length Neal drifted into a huge dining room, connected to the lounge by open double doors and grazed a bit at the spread laid out on the long table set there. That’s where the young RAF officer found him.

“My name’s Jack. Jack Temple. Although everyone calls me Jocko and you can too,” he said, appearing at Neal’s elbow.

“Excuse me?” Neal said, surprised that someone was at his elbow. He turned to the other young man, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“I see you’ve met Sir Neville’s priest friend and that he’s already pitched you to model naked for him.”

“Yes, he has.”

“I’m sure you have no doubts about where he wants that to lead.”

“No, I don’t. And have you modeled for him, as well?” Neal asked teasingly. “You look to be someone who would impress him.”

“As a matter of fact, I have. But it was on my whim. He realize nothing from it. I’ve introduced myself,” Temple continued. “And you are . . . ?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I’m Neal Singer. I work for Sir Neville—in London, at the University College building. Are you attached to the Foreign Office somehow?” He gestured at the RAF uniform.

“Oh, no. I’m an aviator. Night patrol over London. Flying out of RAF Charmy Downs, in Somerset.”

“So, you know the Chambers from . . . ?”

Jocko laughed. “My family lives on the land neighboring Stedham Hall. We’ve known the Chambers family back to the time of King Arthur. I’m on furlough and so Sir Neville invited me for the weekend. My parents have evacuated to the north, and it was more convenient to accept the invitation to stay here than to open their house up. You say you work under Sir Neville. I assume that’s not the only thing you do under Sir Neville?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. Was I being too forward—at least too forward too soon? The look you gave me when you came in and what you are and what Sir Neville is, I assumed . . .”

“What I am?”

The officer stood back and dramatically framed Neal’s face with his hands and fingers. “Young and on the small side. Blond and handsome to the point of beautiful. Sir Neville has a history here. You are just too much what he wants for me not the think and assume.”

“I see.” Neal said and, wanting to return slice for slice, even though this aviator had surmised correctly, he said. “Are you asking from experience? Has Sir Neville had you?”

Jocko laughed again. “Hardly. You can see that I’m not his type—if you are aware of what he likes. I’m not small and blond and sweet. Also, we don’t match.”

“You don’t match?”

“We’re both give cock; we don’t take it.”

Oh. “But you both—”

“Do it with men, yes. Does the baldness of that language upset you or disgust you?” Jocko asked. “I’m an aviator in this thing with the Germans. I’m sure you’ve been around long enough to know that means I don’t have a long enough life expectancy to mince words or engage in a lot of circling foreplay. I was thinking of going down the hall, of taking a look at the trophy room—where there is more privacy. If I have upset you, don’t follow me. If you are interested, perhaps you’ll let me show you the family treasures.”

“You move rather fast and with assurance.”

“The assurance part depends on you,” Jocko said. “As far as moving fast, I statistically don’t have much time, certainly not the time for seduction of someone not sure of what he wants—of what he’ll take and give. You’re out of place here, Neal. Neville doesn’t bring young men like you to his weekend parties just because they work for him at the ministry. He brings them here to fuck them.”

“He hasn’t fucked me,” Neal said.

“That’s a surprise.” He took a long look at Neal. “But that’s what you’re here for this weekend, isn’t it? And you know it is. What you mean is that he hasn’t fucked you quite yet, soon to be remedied.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Neal answered.

“I don’t beat around the bush with someone I see who I want, Neal. I’m an aviator. Almost every night I go up in a fighter and battle German fighters and bombers over London. Do you know what percentage of fighters that go up every night return by the morning? Not many. Can you possibly understand why I don’t spend a lot of time seducing a young man I want to fuck?”

“I was at Dunkirk,” Neal said.

“Ah. Then I guess you do know how a man can stop assuming there will be a tomorrow in wartime. And that’s where you acquired the limp?”

“Yes.”

“It also means that you can make your decisions as quickly as I must. I’m going to the trophy room. Do you wish to go there too? Or don’t you have control over what you do and who you do it with?”

“Yes, I want to see the trophy room.”

They kissed and felt each other up inside the door into the trophy from the hallway.

“My room is just upstairs from here. Will you go with me?” Jocko asked when they came out of the kiss.

“Yes,” Neal answered without hesitation. And that’s how Neal wound up in Jocko’s room, giving himself to the aviator twice, while the party was still going on downstairs.

* * * *

Neal was reclining against the headboard of the heavy mahogany four-poster bed in the Stedham Hall guest room he was assigned to that night as he waited. He was naked, showered and powdered, ready. Phillip, in a dressing gown, was sitting in an armchair nearby, also waiting. At a light knock on the door, Phillip rose and answered the knock.

“Is he ready?” Sir Neville asked. He, like Phillip, was wearing only a silk robe, closed by a sash.

“Yes, come in,” Phillip answered. “I will leave and will check the hallways to ensure you won’t be disturbed.”

“You will encounter movement in the hallways,” Chambers said, with a low laugh. “Just ensure they aren’t interested in this room. But do stay and watch for a while.”

“You don’t mind?” Phillip asked.

“I like to be watched at least while I’m training the young man to my wishes the first time. I will let you know when you should leave. Sit over there. Free yourself and service you shaft as you observe. I like to watch that too.”

When Phillip was settled, Chambers came to the foot of the bed. “You are a beautiful young man, Neal,” he murmured.

“Thank you, sir,” Neal answered.

“You are giving yourself to me willingly?” Chambers asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Chambers unknotted the sash of his robe and let the robe flare open. He was in magnificent erection. “You will be able to sheath this?”

Neal took his breath in loudly enough for Chambers to hear. “I can try, sir. You are huge.”

“As big as you have ever taken?”

“Bigger.” Neal, of course, knew that was what Chambers wanted to hear.

Chambers laughed. “Young, small, blond, and beautiful. All that I like. Come down the bed a bit. Spread your legs. Roll your hips up and let me see your hole.”

Neal did so.

“Well, now, Lad, that is going to have to be made much more open than that.” He laughed, clearly happy about the task at hand. “Take your cock in one hand and stroke it for me. A finger up your hole, please. Open yourself for me.”

Neal complied and Chambers watched for a few minutes, stroking himself. After a few moments, he shrugged his robe off his shoulders and reached down and grasped Neal’s ankles and dragged the young man down to the foot of the bed. He flipped Neal over onto his stomach, wrapped an arm under the young man’s waist to bring him up onto his knees, knelt on the floor, grasped Neal’s cock through his thighs with his free hand, and buried his face in the young man’s crack.

The fuck, with Neal writhing and crying out and moaning, being genuinely taxed by the thickness of the robust older man’s erection, began with Chambers standing behind Neal and taking him in a doggy position while he slapped the young man’s buttocks red with his hand. This first fucking took time because of the thickness and cruelty of Chambers. It wasn’t that Neal wasn’t experienced in taking cocks; it was that Chambers didn’t give him quite enough time to manage the size of the cock—on purpose.

“Relax. Open to me,” Chambers intoned, his hands grasping Neal’s waist and his cock in a belabored bulb deep. “Let me in. Relax and breathe normally.” When Neal had settled down, Chambers gave him a couple of inches. Neal moaned and writhed under him but held steady and took it. The cock was taxing and Neal suffered. But having Neal suffer the first time was a large part of Chambers’s enjoyment and he gave the young man little quarter, waiting until Neal was “almost” open to what he’d been fed and then giving him a couple of more inches. They both knew this would only be an issue the first time and thereafter Neal will have gotten the measure of the man, but Chambers took his time because he wanted to enjoy Neal’s suffering from it. Eventually, Chambers was in in depth and Neal was adjusted to it and took the slow pumping and slaps on his buttocks like a trooper.

The fuck proceeded to Chambers sitting on the foot of the bed, feet on the plush Turkish carpet, and Neal sitting in his lap, on the cock, facing the older man, his torso cantilevered out over the carpet, and Chambers pulling him on and off the cock.

“You may leave now, Phillip,” Chambers said when he had finished. “It will be a time before I screw him again. I wish to pause for refreshments and savior him. He is quite satisfying. I do believe we are in for the night.”

“Very good, Sir,” Phillip said. He had covered the head of his cock with his handkerchief while stroking himself off watching Chambers cover Neal and had come in that. He folded it, rose and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket, buttoned up the fly of his evening suit, and left the bedroom. “I will be on watch in the corridor,” he said. Neal’s eyes followed the man as he exited and Neal was left alone with Chambers.

When Phillip reached the door, Chambers said, “Did you enjoy watching me fuck your boyfriend, Phillip? I know he’s your boyfriend.”

“Yes, I enjoyed it very much, Sir Neville,” he said. He was gritting his teeth and looking at the door rather than Chambers. He would not loose it now. This just was what had to be done.

For a second fuck later in the night, Chambers was on his back on the bed, with Neal on top of him, facing the ceiling, in the position of the crab, supporting himself on his palms buried in the mattress at the sides of the muscular older man’s biceps and his feet planted beside Chambers’s meaty thighs. Holding Neal hovering over him with hands gripping the young man’s waist, Chambers raised and lowered Neal on the cock.

As the fingers of the dawn’s light stole into the chamber, Neal was straddling Chambers’s pelvis, facing the doorway, and riding the amazingly still hard, thick, and long shaft. A riding crop had been discarded on the carpet next to the bed, having been used when Chambers roused Neal from sleep for the predawn riding of the cock.

Chambers was getting his money’s worth. Neal was docilely giving the older man whatever he wanted.

TO BE CONTINUED