Preface

 

Martha Bell was the name, cute her game; or so it was said by those that accompanied her early years. Others had alternative words and different notions. Some spat with envy or jealousy; others sighed desire or hissed loathing. But every lad noticed her. And every girl hankered for that je ne sais quoi she bore so naturally.

Martha was cute, of that there could be no debate. Coy? That would have reasoned intent. A tease? Never. Precocious? Only in the sense she liked the attention. Sexually promiscuous? Martha kept her skirts long and her legs together. Sensual? Plainly, yes. Provocative? In a sexy way, definitely.

Strangely, many girls liked her too. They didn't see what the boys drooled over. They were oblivious in those days to what screwed a boy's spotty, sweaty, lumbering post pubescence. They were ignorant of how those bits in his pants tortured his psyche, confused his expectations, and played havoc with the direct path to juvenile simplicity. For boys were as girls, torn between games and 'games'. Urges both thrilled and disgusted. Thoughts wandered impolitely through a tangled forest of innocence. Delirious fancies danced provocative, enticing, beckoning at the hot, and sometimes too close to the perimeters of passion. They neither understood nor could be proved guilty of their sins. But sin they did.

The corps of ever glum, dowdy, corpulent and aggressive wolves hung there in the wings ever ready to pounce. Young, middle aged and even elderly succumbed to her sweet fragrance and her casual innocence, she never seemingly conscious of her allure.

So that was life, her life where Martha played it straight, where she bewitched all, where she flaunted her natural charisma in a manner that no male could ignore. In fact as she closed on her eighteenth, and thought about the world before war, it wasn't only the chaps that hung on her allure.

And through that minefield of early life, Martha bowed to desires beyond that in biology books. How her mind conjured weird and rather wonderful sensations. How it ignited the chimera of dreams, dastardly devils playing dreadful acts with half clothed and naked bodies. Vile merchants from over the water, marching through that façade of innocence, firing her groin, lancing her crotch; luring intimate fingers there to play.

Sudden visualisations appertaining to implements and susceptible bottoms did little to assuage her suspicions. Other's bottoms feeling the vicious cut of weapon held a fascination for Martha too. She began to realise that life's passage might involve a bit more than the missionary position. She also understood that other monsters still lurked in the catacombs of her libido, that she could only guess at. But there in those nightly excursions of the mind, they hovered, suggested, begged recognition.

Martha managed eighteen with neither mark nor exposure, or boy's hand in her knickers, or excessively squeezed bra. She ventured forth blissfully uncertain of her true persuasion. She had dodged and avoided the consequences of her natural sexuality. So many hands had worked the sweating hard length of shaft, thinking on her. Fingers dipped moist slit with her on their minds. So much slimy ooze had wet bedding and palms alike, soothing that which they didn't really comprehend, easing the pressure, lightening the balls. So many hearts ached, their loins in turmoil. So what did Martha Bell possess? Witchcraft? The body of a siren? The looks of a Hollywood actress? No. Back in those days of imminent war, the rank and file of life were too poor to concern themselves with enhancements and body gripping attire. The likes of Martha donned a cheap cotton summer dress, ankle socks and boots. She tied her hair in a tail, and left her hazel eyed, high-cheek, lean looks scrubbed, and unadorned by tacky mischief.

Martha was liked by all, the bright bushy tailed teenager always happy to help, always willing to work, always there with her voluptuous tail stretching the very fabric of anything she wore. Magnetic, her butt was simply entrancing, naturally moulded to the most seductive shape and poise. They fascinated with a plump consistency that neither squealed fat nor large. Those oh so feminine cheeks, danced and thrilled a town all on their own.

Chapter One

 

Nineteen thirty nine was a year for holding the breath. It was a time of edginess, tension and bravado. How mouths worked in thoughtless unison, shouting what should, must, and could be done. How mouthpieces engineered their own deaths and those of others, then dug the mass graves of bravado. The world would go mad, and sexuality would cast its quirky shadow over a planet, where opportunity for man's strange thirsts could be satiated.

September brought the news everyone anticipated, that the insane hoped for and the rational dreaded. Britain would sort the Boche out. Les Anglais would kick the German butt out of Poland - well eventually.

The French bolstered themselves for the inevitable, the last fiasco still fresh in their minds, and the humiliation of the Franco-Prussian debacle still not forgot. In that uncertain environment Martha cast her net. At eighteen years old she felt ready for anything, prepared to take on the world, if not the German army.

Lingerie called her. Women's flighty night wear and titillating underwear, caught her imagination. Silks and lace sang her future, cottons and flannel discarded, thrown to the winds of misfortune and vapidity.

She appeared one morning at nine, stood in the open doorway to Fred McCall's office all legs and curves. He looked up smiled politely and asked as you do, temperature rising. "Can I help you?"

Scrubbed, hair flame red, make-up minimal and dressed in a cheap cotton dress she replied. "I'd like a job please."

Already taken by her femininity and in no rush to usher her away he parlayed. "That's a good place to start. What do you want to do?"

"Design your lingerie."

"And you are presumably qualified?"

"No. But if I work for you, you can train me." She smiled and seized his heart, as well as another organ. "You can do that? Can't you?"

"I could indeed. But you would have to show me ability in art and design first."

"I have my School Certificate and Higher School Certificate with distinction. My artistic ability is excellent."

"Have you those certificates today?"

She reached into the bust line of her dress and pulled two pieces of folded paper from her bra cup and handed the warm documents to McCall.

He read them. "Yes. Good. What else can you do for me, besides design."

"I can make tea and coffee and sit on your lap when you want me to."

Fred nearly choked. "Quite. Admirable. Loyal. I mean can you use a sowing machine?"

"I can stitch by hand."

"I will have to think about it, what is your name?"

"Martha Bell sir. I also speak four languages fluently."

"Do you by God. Now that could be useful. Not just pretty eh, but bright with it."

"Pretty? Really?" She questioned surprised as she exhibited the curves of Aphrodite, her face a steal from Vanity Fair.

"Now I have something in mind, so if you could divulge your vital statistics?"

"Not sure sir. Perhaps you might measure me?"

A slick sprang to life, damping his palms.

Tape removed from a desk he said. "I can get one of the ladies to do this if you'd rather."

"Nope," she said adamant. "I can see you are a gentleman."

Trembling slightly he began at her bust. She raised her arms, boobs lifting too. The dress lay open to the breasts giving Fred a view of her squeezed cleavage, the division enticing, the bosom creamy smooth. He leant around her, her cheap scent a touch overwhelming. Tape against her back he drew the ends together at the junction of cleavage. "Thirty eight," he decided. "And we will have to do something about that perfume my dear."

The waist proved easier though Fred was on his knees by then, staring at the shadow of what he knew to be her pubic mound. "Twenty three." He coughed.

"Thirty seven," he decided having run his hands over her rump to settle the tape, the woman not seeming to mind one bit.

"I don't wear knickers," Martha informed him.

"Any particular reason?" Fred asked out of politeness.

"Can't afford any," she replied with unexpected honesty.

"What colour would you like Martha?"

Surprised she replied. "It would just be nice to have some."

He opened the door and shouted. "Lily. Bring me half dozen pairs of pastel knickers. The briefs I think. Medium probably. Oh and two teas on a tray."

"What colour?" echoed back.

"What comes to hand woman. Mix them up eh?"

Martha sat and drank the tea and talked about her life. Six pairs of pants sat on Fred's desk.

"No parents then?"

She shook her head and lied. "Orphan. But some very nice people brought me up. Then when I was sixteen I went to college. Lucky I was. I come from there to see if you could give me a job."

"Why Laurens?"

She smiled again, totally disarming him. "Why not?"

"Can I put a pair of those pants on now Mister McCall? Only it's a bit drafty down below."

"Of course. They are yours now."

Without a care she grabbed the top pair, placed her feet through the holes and hoisted them in front of Fred, the man treated to exquisite svelte thighs.

She turned held her skirt up and stated. "Perfect fit aren't they?" Fred presented with the knickers seemingly moulded to her hips.

"Oh," she announced settling the hem. "That's a bit of quality there. My bits feel nice and comfy now."

Laurens Adaptations Limited, employed her, her multi-lingual tongue, her uncanny ability to quickly adapt to just about any global language impressing them beyond words. On joining, she already spoke fluent French, German, Italian and Dutch. One look at her budding figure hiding beneath the drab veil of poverty had clinched it, convinced Fred McCall that she was her man, or woman. Yes very much woman. From there on the smooth glide of lustrous underwear courted her skin, her intimacy, delved and toyed with a rapidly maturing need.

"Paris," McCall suggested some months later, or rather commanded. "I want you in Paris, Martha." And he meant exactly what he said.

Fred had primitive notions on how to court a lady, and Martha was no lady anyway. She was a naïve waif, who had been promoted to the lofty heights of model and sales executive. She was his protégé, his nurturing, his perfect arse, his nubile youth to shag. Or so he hoped.

Martha met him with a wonderful innocence, bright hazel eyes, lashes licked by mascara, smiled a consummate decency. She promoted her I have never been touched, never even fondled, never felt a man's shaft heavy between her legs, expression. How Fred loved her. How Fred wanted to defend her virtue, steal her affinity, hold her close, and fuck the delicious arse off her. Fred was a man of honour. Honour to his bank balance, and his prick, and all for forgetting his wife. And he did manage to forget her, when he was with Martha.

The man, stretched a pin-striped suit, waistcoat drawn over a pot belly, trousers tight to roly-poly thighs and a rotund behind, gazed at his aide de camp with sheer lust. The girl he would dash to the French capital, sat legs crossed before him, expensive dress embracing thighs, waist, and bust. The neckline remained polite, buttoned to the throat, Fred only able to ponder on the succulent cleavage that he knew lie within.

"Paris will fall to German hands surely?" she stated, rather than asked. "Won't we be a bit out on a limb over there?"

"Never!" pomposity assured her. "The Maginot Line will stop those blockheads in their tracks. Oh, our French friends have learned their lesson as far as the square heads are concerned. Let me assure you."

"They'll be in Warsaw by Christmas," she argued. "Where then?"

Fred chuckled, his mirth frivolous, keen, demeaning. "Let the man worry about the enemy," he said condescendingly, although he didn't mean to. "And the woman concern herself with the finer garments in life. Namely our market in the pretentious quarter of Paree." He sounded Paris as a Frenchman might, complete with nasal inflection.

"I don't fancy a bayonet up the arse," she stabbed, surprising him with the vulgarity.

"It's not a bayonet I had in mind," he muttered, the papers in shaking hands shuffled noisily.

Martha smiled that disarming smile, that probing I have just read your filthy mind, knowing smile. "Sorry. Was I a little crude for you?" Her London accent, not quite cockney, but close, tugged at his lust strings as it always did. He often imagined her whispering sweet nothings in his ear, her language filthy, her voice earthy lust itself.

He smiled, hoping to disarm her. He failed. Martha could pin his guilt to the notice board any day of the week, including the Sunday service announcement. She knew just how to drag the blush to his culpable cheeks, giving him away.

"I thought it apt considering the situation," she ventured further. "You know, men in uniform, trenches, trying to kill each other."

"Your turn of phrase was of no importance, with respect to the manner it was said, of course." Fred fidgeted. "But even if the Boche does manage to overrun the Maginot Line, the whole French army, all eight hundred thousand of them; and launch its bully boy tactics on Paris, then I vow to protect your arse, Martha."

"How sweet," she replied, quite taken. "You will fight the whole German army for me?"

The man grinned. "Not exactly. Not that you are unworthy of such gallantry. Oh that I were a knight in shining armour. But alas, I am a trifle over the hero hill for that." Fred strolled to the large office window. He gazed out on the London street. "I only meant that I will ensure a rapid retreat, should such an unlikely event take place."

"In such an event, I should imagine there will be a lot of people making a rapid retreat, Mr McCall."

"You won't go?" he inquired a little aggrieved.

"I never said that." Martha stood, her five feet nine inches at full effect, heels adding another inch and a half. "I think the trip would be quite an adventure."

Smug, Fred concurred. "My thoughts exactly. Quite breath taking."

"Breath taking," he repeated, drooling over the roll of those delectable haunches as she made for the exit.

"Best suite, in the best hotel," he promised.

"Best make it adjoining rooms," She suggested, Fred inhaling sharply. "If they have such things in France. I have no wish to be alone in a foreign country, with the Wehrmacht kicking in the door at any moment." Pausing she added with barely concealed fervour. "What a thought."

Martha gazed at the floor, before long lashes lifted meaningfully. She met his anticipation with. "Breath taking."

Fred rubbed moist hands together. "Quite."

"To know you are close by, when I take a bath," she added, the tease deliberate.

His heart thumped with possibility. "Yes," he agreed. "Of course."

"You do understand," she continued, hammering home nails of expectation. "I don't wish to push myself upon you. And I certainly don't want to compromise your position. But you hear of goings on in foreign countries. I have no longing to end up a white slave in Arabia. Chained and abused."

Hot beneath the collar, he smiled at her naiveté. "You have no worries there, my dear. I'm sure the Foreign Legion would rush all available troops from Marseilles to your rescue."

She smiled, and feeling a little warm herself, said. "I know I am yet unfledged by your standards, but please understand, I have fears like any woman. I would be happier if suitable arrangements could be agreed."

Fred swallowed, his gaze on her bosom, the unhurried rise and fall mesmerising. "I wouldn't call you unfledged by anyone's standards," he said finally. "I would describe you as appropriately developed in every way. Outstanding in some."

She smiled and whispered purposefully. "Breath taking?"