With the fires of a Nazi base in occupied Norway behind them, special agent Starling Silver is faced with the close company of four brave - and lustful - GIs. When their needs become apparent, it swiftly becomes more than Starling can resist... even if she wanted to.
Warning: This story's five thousand words contain graphic depictions of anal sex, fellatio, Allied fraternization and a proper British spy keeping a stiff upper lip - among other things. Strictly for mature audiences.
"Ma'am," Dog said, "I just want to say right now that I ain't never been with a lady before and -"
Starling reached over to touch his lips, tapping lightly with the faint callus of her trigger finger- a well used part of her otherwise delicate hands. "My good Mr. Yank," she said, "I know an exaggeration when I hear one." She trailed her fingers down then, between the now-badgeless lapels of his fatigues, over the buttons, slipping over the belt and unfastening it with a well practiced motion, drawing the cloth between the slightly dingy metal clamps.
Able said, slowly, "Wait, are you saying that you're..."
Baker said, astonished, "She's going for it, holy mackerel."
Charlie kicked lightly across the aisle at Baker's shin. "Don't lie, you could tell it."
Starling said, "Oh could you now?" her tone growing rather more flirtatious even as inwardly she felt that hint of shame which had so impaired her work in previous years, but which now simply added a certain frisson to the work she so often undertook - and this, at least, was to be a labor of love. She only unfastened the lower button, reaching inwards and letting out a little murmur as she felt the hot skin beneath his undershirt, running down further...
"My God, what is it they give you for underpants," Starling murmured, even as she leaned further onto Dog. The men glanced at one another as the British woman shifted, her broad hips rising upwards as she placed one knee on the padded bench and lean downwards...
|File size:||90 KB|
|Age Range:||18 Years|
About the Author
From the wild lands of central New Jersey, Dana Bowman now writes throughout time, space, and dreams, freed from the constraints of puritanical morality.