Georgia's English Rose (2 page)

I lay on my bed, a tingle growing between my
legs together with a powerful urge to touch myself. To touch myself
in the same way as Georgia was obviously doing. I didn’t know why I
wasn’t touching that spot. It wouldn’t be the first time. All
through school I had touched myself. All the girls did. Well,
almost all. Masturbation was common enough no-one thought anything
about it. We teased each other, asking if anyone had tickled one
out today. Common enough for some of the girls to do it in front of
each other. Not me… but sometimes I wanted to.

It wasn’t mere shyness but also because I
felt things too deeply. For most of the girls self-satisfaction was
a passing phase, growing up, their sexuality blossoming. They
needed to find a release and touching themselves was one easy way.
In a few years they would meet nice boys, marry and hopefully find
other ways of achieving pleasure. I simply didn’t think about
boys.

I sighed, hoping Georgia believed me asleep,
rolled onto my side until I faced her bed. I slitted my eyes,
opening them just enough to see across the gap to her bed. Georgia
also lay on her side, looking back across the gap and my heart
hammered in my flat chest. Did Georgia know I was awake? I lay
still, trying to make my breathing slow and calm.

Georgia’s eyes opened, staring across the
gap. Staring at me, an almost pained expression on her pretty lips,
her eyebrows pulled together in a tiny frown. The bed shook gently.
Georgia’s right leg lifted. Her shoulder, which showed above the
blankets, moved rapidly. The blankets worked loose as she moved and
displayed the front of her low cut nightdress, that American
nightdress I remember shocking me when Georgia first pulled it on.
It fell to below her knees, but cut low enough on top for her
breasts to almost spill loose, not that it made a great deal of
difference, the material sheer enough to display everything lying
beneath.

Now Georgia’s abundant breasts trembled and
quivered in sympathy with the movement of her arm, her deep
cleavage shadowed. I felt a sudden warmth but tried to keep my
breathing steady and my eyes closed to a slit. My hand resting
against my belly wanted to move down, wanted to fumble into my old
pajama bottoms and I willed myself to be still.

Georgia’s movement sped up, her breathing
growing harsher and she lifted her free hand and pushed the back
against her mouth, trying to suppress the sounds escaping her. Her
eyes glittered above her hand, her shoulder rocking faster as her
fingers worked under her nightdress.

I was sure I smelled the scent of Georgia’s
sex drifting across the space between the beds. I let slip a soft
sigh, trying to make it sound like a snore, hoping to convince
Georgia I remained asleep. Georgia looked like she didn’t care
anymore, her entire body moving now, her leg lifting and dropping
back, the rough blanket rising and falling with it. Her hand
pressed back harder against her wonderful lips and she gave a
little whimper, trying hard to keep the noise in. Her arm stopped
moving and went rigid. Her eyes fluttered, still staring across at
me, then rolling back a little. Another cry slipped between her
lips and she dropped her hand and I saw her bite her bottom lip in
a failed attempt to still the noise. Georgia shivered violently,
her whole body shaking, and the old springs on her single bed
creaked and bounced in sympathy. This went on for almost a minute
before Georgia let out her held breath and relaxed.

I watched as Georgia re-arranged the
bedding, pulled her nightdress down under the blankets, tugged the
blankets over her shoulders. She looked across at me for a while
longer then rolled onto her back.

I waited, watching Georgia’s wonderful
breasts heave and grow still. Listened as her breathing smoothed
and grew hushed. Georgia rolled again, turning away. I lay still,
aware of my hand against my belly, fighting hard to keep it there.
My fingers wanted to creep down and touch that wonderful, sensitive
area between my legs, where I just knew I would find myself
wet.

Two days later we both had a
long weekend pass. Georgia and I arranged to travel to Berkshire
where I had invited her to my parents farm. I told Georgia she must
come and find out what real English country life was about. She had
only ever seen London, where her father was based, and the small
area around the camp we were allowed out to, heavily defended and
thick with troops. As soon as I offered my invitation Georgia
laughed and agreed at once.

The morning of our departure Georgia was her
usual loud self, shivering in the cold of our small room but still
not putting any more clothes on. She leaned over the tiny sink to
brush her teeth, the sheer nightdress hiding little of what lay
beneath, and I lay in bed waiting my turn and watched guiltily the
curvaceous shape of my roommate.

Our train was packed with troops even as we
travelled far into the countryside. The whole of the south of
England was temporary home to thousands of soldiers recently
returned from mainland Europe, the majority evacuated from Dunkirk.
They teemed and trained but as yet no one knew quite what to do
with them. The Germans sat in northern France, as close as twenty
miles from the English coast, and everyone waited for them to
attack. As July moved into its last weeks and the weather stayed
fine bombers flew over the English Channel and pounded London and
the southern ports.

Georgia and I were glad to get a break, even
if only for a few days. Studying that glowing green line running
across the round screen gave me headaches, made worse because so
much depended on our identifying the height and track of
approaching aircraft. Our hushed instructions, passed on, might
result in the death of pilots on both sides, ours and theirs, the
deaths of young men no older than Georgia and I.

The train pulled into our station and we
pushed our way through the soldiers lining the corridor, expecting,
and receiving, many inappropriate helping hands before we could
step down onto the platform.

Georgia readjusted her uniform and did up
the buttons that had been loosened. “Goddam troops,” she said. “My
fanny’s got so many bruises I don’t think it’s ever gonna be the
same.”

I giggled, amused at Georgia’s use of the
word fanny. In England it meant something else. Georgia was
referring to what she called her butt. But my fanny was at the
front, and luckily no one had pinched that. However, my bum, like
Georgia’s, had attracted the attention of a dozen hands. It seemed
the troops were equally considerate when it came to backsides.
Round or skinny, large or small, all were equally worth a fondle.
Men were such pigs, but I couldn’t blame them. At any moment they
might be ordered back onto boats and sent to die.

We caught our breath as the train whistled
loudly and pulled away in a cloud of steam.

“I think we may have to walk,” I said.
“Daddy said they don’t have much petrol, what with rationing and
everything.”

“Gas?” Georgia asked.

“Yes, gas,” I said. I was slowly becoming
bilingual, and now almost never misunderstood what Georgia meant. I
think she was getting to be the same, but she still enjoyed teasing
me.

“Is it far?”

“About three miles, I’m afraid,” I said.

“Let’s get marching then. Lead the way,
girlfriend.”

A shiver run through me when Georgia called
me girlfriend, even though she meant nothing by it. We picked up
our small cardboard suitcases and I led the way from the station
and along the narrow main street of the village. It was mid
afternoon and the single pub was closed. The village dozed, still
and peaceful. It was difficult to imagine there was a war on, but
if you looked indications lay everywhere. The butcher’s shop had
little on display in the window, a sign on the door stating meat
could only be purchased with a ration book. The windows of all the
houses were criss-crossed with tape to alleviate the effects of
bombing, although if the Nazis started bombing this far out we were
all pretty well lost.

Georgia took everything in and said, “When
we get to your folks place are we going to get anything to
eat?”

I laughed. “Of course. Daddy runs a farm.
There’s always a little extra no one knows about.”

“Good. ’Cause I’m starving.” Georgia linked
her arm through mine as we left the village and started into the
countryside. I liked the way Georgia’s arm felt, the way her
shoulder brushed mine as we fell out of step and then came back
together.

We walked a half mile before turning onto a
smaller road. After a hundred yards we heard an engine, and a
moment later a motorcycle and sidecar came over a rise ahead and
slowed suddenly, skidding to a halt beside us.

“Nutkin!” a voice called and I screwed my
eyes up to see the tall figure more clearly.

“Michael?”

He swung off the motorcycle and closed the
gap, lifted me off my feet and swung me around, gave me a big kiss
and then deposited me back on the ground.

“Who’s your friend, Nutkin?” he said, openly
taking in Georgia’s pneumatic figure. “Introduce me, quick, before
I die of unrequited love.”

I laughed. “Georgia, this is my brother
Michael.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Georgia said, and
offered her hand. Michael shook it, looking disappointed nothing
else was on offer.

“A Yank!” Michael said, delighted. “Pleased
to meet you back, Georgia. Really pleased.”

I rolled my eyes. My brother had grown up a
lot since I had last seen him only four months earlier. I guessed
the war did that to people.

“Dad sent me to pick you up. I’m here on
leave and as the RAF is paying for my fuel I thought I’d lend a
hand. Hop aboard, girls.” He took our suitcases and stacked them in
the space at the back of the open sidecar.

Georgia and I looked at each other.

“You take the sidecar,” I said. “I’ll ride
pillion.”

“Suits me.”

Michael offered his hand to steady Georgia
as she stepped into the narrow sidecar, openly watching as her
skirt rode up to show a length of creamy thigh. Although Georgia
tried to sit elegantly she ended up with her skirt riding even
higher. Michael made no attempt at gallantry and grinned as he
caught a flash of her white panties.

“Are you always going to be this much of a
gentleman, Michael?” Georgia said.

“I expect so,” he said, then, “Climb on,
sis,” as he straddled the seat and fired up the engine.

There was no easy way so I tugged up my
skirt and climbed onto the seat. Fortunately Michael was looking
forward, but Georgia got a good eyeful. I experienced that tingle
again, wondered what I was going to do about it. I imagined tonight
I would have to give in and use my fingers on myself before I
exploded or melted.

Michael swung the motorcycle across the
narrow road and I had to grab him tight around the waist as he
roared off. My feet lifted free of the rests and I felt myself
tipping back. Michael laughed at the top of his voice, his hair
flicking back as wind rushed past.

He rode too fast, of course, the same way he
did everything. Michael was training to be a fighter pilot and I
just hoped the Nazis were ready for him. A wave of deep sadness
rolled through me because despite Michael’s bravado, despite the
spirit the whole country showed, deep inside we all feared the
worst. One small nation perched on the edge of Europe while
Hitler’s army sat encamped across the rest. From the Russian border
to the French coast, from Norway to the tip of Italy, fascism held
sway. So I would let Michael look at Georgia’s panties, let him
play the fool, because we might all be dead before the year
ended.

I leaned forward and rested my head against
Michael’s broad shoulder, broader and stronger than I remembered,
and smiled into the coarse material of his uniform as I hugged him
around the waist.

Mother was waiting when
Michael drew up in front of the house. I climbed from the pillion
and Michael offered a hand to Georgia, who took it and let him pull
her up and steady her as she stepped out. Her hair was tangled and
unruly from the journey, but she was grinning.

“That was some journey, Michael.
Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he grinned back.

“Squirrel,” my mother said as we hugged.
“And this must be Georgia. Welcome.” She hugged Georgia as
well.

“Do I get one of those?” Michael asked.

“You had your hug yesterday,” Mummy said,
but she kissed him on the cheek.

“I was thinking of Georgia,” he said.

“You behave with our guest, Mikey, or you’ll
be going back to camp sooner than you thought.”

We chatted as we went indoors and Georgia
said, “This doesn’t look much like the kind of farm we have in the
States. Where are all the steers?”

I laughed. “We’re mostly arable. We have
some beef cattle but they’re in the top field. Daddy has barns near
the river, but he likes to come home to a real house.”

“What an amazing place,” Georgia said. “Are
you rich, Lil?”

I looked down and shrugged my narrow
shoulders. “We’re comfortable, I suppose.”

Georgia laughed. “You English and your
understatement.”

In the big kitchen we drank tea and ate
freshly baked cake and then Mummy said, “You had better call me
Alice, Georgia. Mrs. Delamere sounds rather formal, don’t you
think?”

“Sure, Alice,” Georgia said.

“I thought you girls might want to clean
up,” my mother said. “I put the immersion heater on so you can have
a bath. But do you mind sharing the water?”

“Of course, Mummy,” I said. I was used to
sharing bathwater with Michael, taking turns to go first. “I’ll
show Georgia the bathroom. Are we in my old room?”

“I’ve put you in the guest room if that’s
alright with you two. I thought you might like to double up
together and there’s only your old single bed in your room. Is that
fine with you, Georgia?”