A True Yankee
Well, ahem...just read it.
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This happened in the spring of 1944, when I was but a young lass of 19 years old. I'd been with the Land Army for a year now, helping to tend the farms while the boys were "out there", which meant that growing up as a young woman was quite the experience. We did do things...small secret dances, just us girls, dolling up, using whatever clothes we could find and drawing stocking seams on the backs of our calves for that proper lady look, but it wasn't much the same thing, especially since we weren't really supposed to go to the pubs, and even if we did, you'd only find a few lame farmers who'd been deemed essential for the home front, or...well, their fathers...and getting leering looks when you are a young vixen of 19 is a...course of nature.
It was in the spring of 1944 when the huts sprung up and the Americans appeared.
Oh, how we looked, me, the other lasses, how they drove on their Jeeps and trucks down the country rode, a car after car! Nobody had seen that many cars since the war started, because petrol was always short. I'd driven my fair share of tractors by then to know we were using some of that precious fuel the German were so keen to send to the bottom of the Atlantic with the tankers they kept talking about on the wireless.
The Americans had shiny cars and dark helmets and they came in truckloads and settled into a camp we officially weren't supposed to know about, but gossip travels fast in a village, especially during wartime, when news were scarce and anything that broke the routine was taken in with interest.
I heard it from Marjorie, me roommate.
"Soldiers!" she said. "Yankees!"
Well, we'd all seen them since we were all out in the fields...but she sounded so honestly eager that how could a girl resist? She was giggling and swirling her tail and generally enjoying herself, imagining such an arrival of so many young men. We had no idea why they were there, or that in a few months they went over to France to do what is now universally known as that big great operation they did, but back then, we only knew that more Yankees had arrived from the States and they were here to help poor Britain out of this misery.
Blimey, it was already on next Friday when we went out to town again. The entire Land Girls camp was in a frenzy. Everyone was trying to curl their head furs or find any scraps of nice-smelling soap or even a drop of perfume that might be forced out of an old dusty bottle hidden inside our increasingly empty vanity cases. Mine was pretty and pink and had a little mirror inside it, and while I didn't have perfume, I had just enough nail polish to paint them pretty.
We put on our skirts and blouses and we were one giggling bunch by the time we reached the pub on our bicycles, such an illicit trip as this was, we'd almost crashed into a ditch on our way there.
It was marvelous fun. It was lovely. There was music playing and the Americans had brought new records and even a gramophone and anywhere you looked you saw uniforms and young men chatting and smoking and chewing gum and offering sweets and chocolate and every was having a jolly time. A jolly good time. There was dancing going on and the smoking old men looked with envy how the Yankees showed some Land Girls a good time.
I was swept off me paws quickly, and so was Marjorie. Hers was a handsome bear, so big and tall compared to her little frame, but she was blushing and giggling. Mine was a wolf. He was quiet and shy and young, maybe my age, maybe a year old. I can't remember exactly, I do know that he told me.
His name was Henry and he danced and offered me a packet of cigarettes and he was so kind and shy that a girl didn't have a choice but to fall in love a little, in the way how you fell in love with a picture of a nice lad on a magazine before the war, when you sometimes even saw them pictures in color.
Henry was no film star but he was shy and everything a girl could need, and when we were smoking, he wanted a snog and yes, I let him, and I let him put his paws on my waist, too, even though my mam had always told me not to let boys put their paws anywhere that wasn't my own paw.
There was an old crumbling stable behind the pub, from the time when horses were ridden to the pub, and it had been a garage for an old car the publican had before the war, but that was long gone, so it was cold, and empty, for most part. I'm not even sure how, in the darkness, and in the intense heat of the moment, we even found the pile of old sacks that was to act as the centre stage of a girl's very big moment.
He fumbled with me breasts and tried to open my blouse but my buttons were too small and it was took dark, so he just touched them otherwise, and moaned against my neck when he couldn't really reach them besides squeezing them in his rough wolf paws. I was a rather innocent lass at the time, but even I figured out what it meant when something hot pressed onto me belly. This man was what would later be called horny, and when his fumbling paws got tired of my breasts, they slipped under me petticoat.
There's a lot of things we wore down there back then and he tore onto me knickers when he pulled it all down, and his pants went down, and he pressed his muzzle desperately against me neck when he ground himself on me, leaving hot stains on my clothes and on me.
By God then it went in.
Maybe it was his first time, too. It could have been, being young and neat-looking, maybe he never did anything like that before, that was done in abandoned stables behind pubs after a shared American cigarette.
My legs were up somewhere and it felt funny and my tail swiped everywhere, maybe sending bellows of just in the air since we were both snuffling as much as we were panting and something that felt like a straw was stinging my arse every time my body rocked back and forth on the pile of old sacks.
My Yankee pounded me like an old sac of potatoes, the kind I hauled to the back of a lorry all day sometimes, and how could've girl known that there were other ways to go at it, too? He was thick and stubby and it hurt a bit for a while before things were wet enough and then there was only the knot to worry about...oh yes...don't think I was innocent enough to know about that, what was throbbing against what is sometimes called my lady petals by furs who are strangely obsessed with their clackers.
Mine did good things for me that night, including giving me an orgasm with a man while his fingers fumbled on that fancy spot that all girls like being fumbled on, while he squeezed his knot and sent hot wolf seed inside me.
We panted together for quite some time afterwards and just held one another, unknowing what to think about the experience. We made a half-hearted promise to write, and he gave me another packet of cigarettes, and chocolate, and then both of us knew that we would have to go.
We smoked another cigarette together and then I cycled home, feeling squishy and exhilarated at the fact that I'd been initiated into the secrets of womanhood, even if such knowledge was disapproved of, and surely I would have gotten such a talking if anyone ever found out.
Well, Marjorie did, of course, the moment I stepped into our shared room at the Land Girl place, and she was in bed already, with curlers on her hair, staring dreamily at the ceiling and rolling a fag on her fingers.
"Ye didn't!" she yelled at me, and I blushed, poor vixen.
"Wotcha mean?"
"With the dark pretty one?"
I sat on my bed with me legs crossed and looked at me knees and she made the question again until I nodded. Marjorie laughed, so brightly she always did.
"Yer loose woman!" she laughed and meant it happily.
Then she rolled over on her bed and pulled something from underneath it...a glass bottle of something black, with a red cap, and a white label.
"Here," she said, "come and get it."
"What is that?" I asked curiously at the offer.
"Ye wash with that, make sure you don't get anything unwanted in there," she spoke with conspiratorial wisdom while I held the bottle in me paw. "Got that from me George."
Maybe that was the name of the bear...if my Henry wooed me with cigarettes and chocolate, Marjorie's bear had gotten her favors with the gift of some real Yankee Coca Cola.
I went to the loo with it and washed meself with lukewarm Coca Cola on my still tingling pussy and it sizzled and tickled in there, and I was sure I'd smell even more funny afterwards, but whether it was the Coca Cola or not, at least there were no ill effects of the sort that give you a bad reputation...and that meant that in 1945, when everyone was demobbed, at a train station I met the nicest fox called Charlie...and that's another story, and maybe one I could tell to me grandchildren.
Not this one, though. This one's for keeping me cheeks rosy.
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Well, thank you for reading...if you survived this far! Do tell me how you liked it :P