It was late summer 1940 and the German raids were becoming less frequent. It was gradually dawning on the pilots of Fighter Command that they might just have won, or be starting to win, the battle for daytime air supremacy; although German bomber raids by night were, and would remain, a challenge.
Flying Officer Glen Brown was snatching a break in the Officers’ Mess at RAF Westhill, which had been the South Downs Flying Club before the War. The Mess itself was an old country house; not particularly distinguished but comfortable and with memories of better days. Someone paid for monthly magazines, such as The Field and Trout and Salmon, to be delivered to the Officers. Glen was enjoying the escapism of The Field – he was reading an article about wild-fowling and wondering whether he would ever again go shooting on the Severn estuary with his father and brothers; assuming that they all survived, of course. He became uncomfortably aware that someone was staring at him. He turned and saw his Flight Commander, Flight Lieutenant Charles Hay, watching him expressionlessly.
Oh fuck! I’ve done something wrong. He’s working up to tearing me off a strip. Glen continue to peruse The Field. Let Charles make the first move. Suddenly, Charles wasn’t there; Glen was alone once more. Several of his brother Officers were outside, relaxing in deck chairs, scanning the sky from time to time with binoculars. That was all. Still no sign of the Germans (which was most odd).
Glen decided not to join them, but to stretch out of his bed for a snooze. He had a room on the first floor. Oddly, on this occasion the door was unlocked; perhaps the cleaners had forgotten to lock it. He let himself in.
“Hullo, Glen. I wanted a quiet word with you!”
Charles was there, sitting on the window sill and leafing through Glen’s photograph album. He seemed very relaxed and did not look about to ‘tear Glen off a strip’; on the contrary, he gave him a sunny smile.
“Quite a looker, aren’t you? When was this taken?”
It was a photo of Glen and his mates in the school water-polo team, taken just before the war. In that year they had swapped full-body bathing costumes for black trunks.
“1938.” said Glen.
“You haven’t changed much!”
Charles put down the album and moved towards Glen. He was shorter; about five feet, seven inches at most, but very handsome and had a head of dark wavy hair. He now raised himself on the balls of his feet, put an arm round Glen and kissed him. Glen was not shocked; he had been at an all-male Public School and it was not the first time that a slightly older boy, or young man, had made advances to him. Charles’s direct approach was disarming; no messing-around. Glen said:
“Well, I am surprised!” But on reflection he was not; not really. Handsome Charles did not appear to have a regular girlfriend; although he usually managed to produce a presentable lady at Squadron dances, she often turned out to be a cousin or someone he’d known socially; not a sweetheart.
“Don’t act the innocent. I want you, I want it and I want it now. And I reckon that you’ll enjoy it too!”
Charles started to unbutton his tunic. Soon after that, he was naked. His body was muscular. It was also very tanned, apart from a small, lighter, area round his crotch and ass. Glen recalled that Charles’s pre-war hobby had been sailing yachts; sometimes in the Mediterranean. He had had friends in the south of France. He obviously wore the bare minimum, at any rate in summer. And on some occasions he must have sunbathed naked.
“Hurry up, Glen! Remember that this time next week we could both be dead!”
Oh what the hell…
Glen stripped too. Although he was slim and athletic, he had not done much sunbathing. His body and long limbs were pale and rosy. Charles looked appreciatively at him. He ran his hands expertly over Glen's body and briefly touched his asshole.
“Wow. Got some Vaseline?”
“Yep!”
“Right. Let’s do this!”
Charles made Glen bend over, rimmed and fingered his ass, making him gasp, then slid first one, then two and finally three, slippery Vaseline-coated fingers inside him to stretch his man-hole.
“Crikey!!”
“There’s more to come. Ever been fucked before?” asked Charles.
“No. You’re the first!” (Glen’s sexual experiments had been limited to two boys jacking each other off and very occasional oral sex.)
“Well, we are both going to enjoy this!” Charles entered Glen.
A few second later: “Aw fuck!!!” Glen had lost his ass-virginity. It was a shock. He had crossed a boundary.
“Keep your voice down!” muttered Charles between grunts and gasps.
Minutes later Charles was deep inside Glen, thrusting away. Glen did in the eventt enjoy it. It hurt but it felt great. While Charles was doing this, his arms were round Glen, who was handling his own cock. Charles brushed Glen’s hand away and grabbed the cock himself. When it got hard, he flipped Glen onto his bed, spread his legs and entered him again, this time even more eagerly. He thrust rhythmically; they both gradually approached their climax. Glen jacked himself off.
After they had washed themselves, they lay on Glen’s bed, smoking post-coital cigarettes. Charles spoke:
“How was that? Now, tell me truly: is there going to be a next time?”
Glen smiled. “Yes; whenever you like!”
Charles grinned and kissed Glen again. “Good man! Let’s start tonight!”
They began sleeping together in Charles’s room. Charles explained that, even if Glen were spotted leaving his room at an odd hour; provided that he were fully-dressed and clutching a notebook, anyone he encountered would assume that they had been having a late-night briefing, debriefing or strategy discussion. Those could happen at any hour of the day or night.
This was dramatically demonstrated when, in the middle of a torrid late-night soixante-neuf, there was a series of thumps on Charles’s locked door; Wing-Commander Stuart, the Base Commander, wanted to discuss some important information just received from Bletchley. Glen had to hide, naked, inside Charles’s metal wardrobe; it was starting to get cold at night; he shivered, desperately suppressing the urge to sneeze, while his two senior Officers discussed tactics. When Wing-Commander Stuart finally left, Glen climbed happily into the warmth of Charles’s bed and they grew amorous again.
They grew more adventurous too: sometimes it was possible to coincide a couple of day’s leave, although they would leave and arrive back separately. Occasionally Charles took Glen to Buckler’s Hard on the Solent, where a Commando friend of his, absent due to the war, had a sailing dinghy. Charles was then in his element and showed off his yachting skills.
“Those trunks don’t cover much!” chuckled Glen, who was wearing shorts. “Where d’you get them?”
“In France before the War! I prefer this design.”
‘This design’ was definitely French: a small pair of pale RAF-blue triangles which had a side-tie. They contained Charles’s genitals but failed fully to cover his ass-cheeks, the lower parts of which were exposed to the elements. Charles continued:
“I bought several pairs. I’d like you to wear these too, when we go boating or swimming.”
Charles was as good as his word: one day Glen found two swimming triangles: one black and one red, in his sock drawer. He tried one on; it looked great, although he did not immediately wear it in the swimming pool that RAF Westhill had inherited from the Flying Club. That would take courage! He could imagine the comments of his fellow-fliers. Later, he would do so regardless. He was growing more confident by the day, as he settled into the role of Charles's lover.
“Do I get to fuck you too?” Glen asked one day.
After a pause, Charles replied: “Yes of course. D’you need any guidance?”
Glen laughed, “I hardly think so. You were pretty thorough!”
In the event, Glen acquitted himself manfully and a bit roughly. Charles, who had a tight ass, felt sore for a day or two afterwards.
“Ever thought what you might do after the war?” Charles asked one day.
“Nope. And I might not survive to see the peace anyway.”
“One should always make plans. If only because to travel hopefully may be even better than to arrive.”
“So what shall you do?”
“I've already worked it out. Build or buy an ocean-going yacht and sail her to the South Pacific. I always had a fancy to visit Samoa; I loved Stevenson’s Island Nights Entertainments. Why not come with me? I don't want to lose you. It’d be too sad for words to think of leaving you behind!”
Glen was moved by these words, but he cautiously said: “If we both come through this war intact, of course! But a voyage to the South Seas isn't a career plan."
"Look," said Charles, "You must understand that I came into the RAF almost straight from school; I already had a civilian pilot's license. I'm nearly twenty-five and I'm a DFC and Flight commander. But I missed out on boyhood and youth. I grew up too fast. I want to be a boy again and have adventures. I’m certain I shall survive!" said Charles.
As he was a very good fighter pilot, the holder of the Distinguished Flying Cross and with an enviable score of enemy kills, his confidence was to some extent justified.
Except that in the event he was killed in 1943. Glen survived and got married. He named his elder son Charles, although it was not a name in his, or his wife’s, families. He never got to see the South Pacific, except as a stage show, but he never forgot Charles, whom he rarely mentioned except to old RAF comrades, nor did he cease to fantasise about what might have been. Sometimes he dreamed about him and jacked himself off, but he never mentioned that, either. And occasionally he would dream of sailing, even all the way to Polynesia.
