The Jinx

This story is best described as a romance, and it is set before and during the Second World War. Some tragedy also happens. It is the nature of the story that some unpleasant events are described.

I have attempted to be as historically accurate as possible, and I have tried to use language appropriate to the time, but I apologise in advance for any anachronistic mistakes that I may have made.

. Although I have tried to ensure the historical background to this story is accurate, none of the characters depicted are real and any similarity to real people living or dead is purely coincidental.

As always, any errors, factual or grammatical, are mine alone. They are inevitable. I do not aspire to write for a living, only for fun.

I make the usual plea. Please score and comment. Constructive comments are valuable and encouraging and help authors to both write better and write more.

I have included endnotes to clarify some of the background to the story. If you do not care to read them..... don't. Some folks like them and some hate them but criticising their inclusion is a pointless exercise.

The Jinx

Helen

Helen sat at the wooden table in the corner of her room. On the table were several sheets of paper and a bottle of ink, and in her right hand was her fountain pen. She had been writing for hours and was tired, but she continued to fill sheet after sheet of writing paper with her bold cursive script. Her fatigue didn't bother her. She planned to sleep when she had finished. On the bedside table in the corner sat a full bottle of scotch and a small brown bottle of barbiturates. Between them, they would ensure that she never woke up again.

Helen had started work early the previous evening and she had worked through the night. Although it was still half-dark when she finished writing, the rain lashing against the window had now stopped, and the birds had started to sing to one another in the predawn light.

She placed the cap on the pen and put it down, then carefully made sure the lid to the ink bottle was screwed tightly on before shuffling the papers of her manuscript together and putting them in a neat pile in the centre of the table.

Only then, did she turn to her rickety metal-framed bed where she lay on her back and looked at the ceiling. For some time, she lay motionless then she turned and took a long look out of the window before turning once more and reaching for the bottle of whisky and her pills.

On the table, her story, yet unread, waited.

***

September 5 ^th, 1942

When you read this please do not think badly of me. I know it is considered poor form to speak ill of the dead so thinking it must be just as bad, mustn't it? And let's face it, there has been so much death in the last few years what difference will mine make? I am now alone in the world and will pass unnoticed and unmourned by everyone except Beth.

It wasn't always like this. It isn't easy to believe that my life was so different a mere three years ago. That was before this damn war when I still had a mother and father, a brother, and a future. Now I have none of these and there seems little point in carrying on. Tomorrow is my twenty-third birthday, but I will not live to see it. I am so very tired....

I leave all my worldly goods to my landlady Mrs Elizabeth Farrow. This is my story. This is why I am now dead.

Helen Morgan

***

I was born in Coventry in 1919, the year after my father returned from the war. He was a doctor and held the rank of captain. Apart from that, I knew nothing of his experiences in the trenches since he refused to talk about any of it. I was raised in the shadow of the "Great War" or "The war to end all wars." How false that turned out to be.

I had a happy childhood. On his return to England, my father set up practice as a family doctor in Coventry. He worked hard, was skilled and popular, and soon had a thriving practice. A few years after my birth he could purchase a large house on the city's outskirts. In the spring of 1922, my brother David was born. My earliest memories are of playing in the garden on a warm summer afternoon or my mother pushing me on a swing while my brother slept in his pram. The swing was a simple thing made of a short plank of wood attached to the bough of an old oak tree by four lengths of rope.... and I loved it.

My mother doted on me and David. She was a pretty, blond Irish woman whose father had moved to Coventry from Cork. She was a wonderful homekeeper and cook, and our family was her universe. She was a devout Catholic, ensuring that my brother and I attended Sunday School and church weekly. Despite her deep belief, my father did not regularly attend church with us. I now realise that he must have lost his faith somewhere in the carnage of the trenches.

The only time I recollect him coming to church was for my first communion, and I remember how handsome he looked as he sat with my mother and watched me take a step in my path toward adulthood and independence.

Before she met my father, my mother was a schoolteacher but gave this up to look after her family. It was my mother who taught me to read and write, and who introduced me to the classics. She also taught me my sums and multiplication tables. I was an excellent student, and it was natural that I did not leave school until I was eighteen years old with a Higher School Certificate with distinction in all eight of my subjects. The subject in which I truly excelled was mathematics and my teacher, Dr Simms, went so far as to suggest that I should consider studying for a university degree in this. My parents would not countenance it because they did not see what use this would be to me later in life and saw it as an expensive folly.

I still remember wishing I were a boy. David had been sent to a private school at considerable expense and I was sure he could have gone to university if he weren't planning to attend Sandhurst and become an officer in the army. Only later did I discover many young boys would soon be dead in the meat grinder of war. I was better off being a girl.

So, instead of attending university, on leaving school I went to work in the local library. It was a job to which I was well suited. My mother had instilled a love of books in me.- both their contents and the look and feel of the paper as I turned the pages. I enjoyed the cataloguing of each work and had an unlimited supply of reading material at my fingertips.

***

It was around this time I discovered boys. I had attended an all-girls school, and the only contact I had with the opposite sex was with my brother and his friends. He was born two years after me, and they, being teenage boys, were still children while I was a serious young woman. What this meant was that my knowledge of the male sex was negligible.

What I did know was gleaned from conversations with my girlfriends and from a book I found in the restricted library section called, "The Way Life Begins ¹."

There was a girl in class at school, who suddenly disappeared during my final year at school. The rumour was that she had gone away to have a baby although our class teacher did her best to stop any gossip. My best friend Jean told me it happened because she had let a boy put his "thing inside her." When I mentioned it to my mother she muttered something about the pregnant girl being a shameless slut and told me not to speak of her again. I recollect how surprised I was at my mother's vitriol, since she was normally so kind and gentle.

This episode had one lasting effect on me. I was determined I would not become pregnant outside of wedlock.

Unsurprisingly, my catholic mother provided me with no sex education other than to warn me before my "monthlies" started when I was twelve, and much later instructed me not to let a man put his hands on me before my wedding night.

It was against this background that I met George. In December 1938, I was still living at home with my parents when Mr James, the bank manager, came to dinner accompanied by his wife and son. I cannot remember the occasion but expected my father was trying to butter him up for a loan. I do remember meeting George that first time, and I was smitten. He was several years older than me and tall with fair hair, blue eyes, and chiselled good looks. I learned he was in his final year of a language degree at Oxford University and was home for the Christmas Holidays.

It was obvious that George liked what he saw since he spent the entire evening trying to impress me - and he succeeded. He was not just good-looking, he was charming, educated, and intelligent. He told me of his life at Oxford and his hope to join the Foreign Office and become a diplomat. He had visited Germany the previous summer and travelled to Munich and Berlin by train. He spoke admiringly of the hard-working and organised nature of the people and the economic miracle that Hitler had worked. Nonetheless, he was not blinded by what he had seen.

"I fear that Hitler will start a war," he said. "That might get in the way of my plans."

His father must have overheard our conversation because he interjected.

"You have been listening to Winston ² too much, George."

"Maybe, Father. But everywhere I went there were soldiers and Germany is arming itself for a reason."

"Nobody wants another war," said my father.

George politely deferred to his elders and said no more.

"Christmas is coming and it's the season of goodwill to all men," my mother said." Please can we have no more talk of war?"

With that, the topic was closed.

***

Just after Christmas, George came calling, and I was pleased but not surprised when he asked me to accompany him to the New Hippodrome to see, "Robinson Crusoe," a pantomime starring Jimmy James ³. He had, of course, already asked my father's permission, who, after speaking to my mother, had given his blessing. My parents approved of George and thought he would make a fine husband although my motive for seeing him was more short-term. I wanted some fun.

The next few weeks were wonderful. During the weekends, we went for walks when the weather allowed, or sat in a tearoom and talked. Although I was working, I sometimes found time to go to the flicks with him. Coventry had several cinemas including the Rex, which had recently opened. It was a grand stately building, but like George is now gone; destroyed in this bloody war.

George was a perfect gentleman. When my parents were not looking we held hands, but otherwise our relationship was chaste. Only when he was about to return to Oxford, did he kiss me briefly on the lips.

I did not see George again until the Easter break when he returned to Coventry. I had missed him while he had been away, and it was obvious he had missed me too. It was the Saturday after Easter that it happened. It was a crisp spring day, and we had gone for a drive in his father's Austin Goodwood Saloon. We had visited a village pub and I had drunk a couple of large gins which may explain my behaviour that afternoon. I did not usually drink hard liquor, but that was the least of my sins that afternoon. On the way home, George drove to the top of a hill to "show me the view." I am not sure where we were, but in retrospect, George had it all planned, although I think he got more than he expected.

The spot that he had chosen was completely deserted. The countryside was spread out in front of us while the hill sloped gently away behind us. We were completely alone and would be able to see anybody approaching long before they reached us.

***

We sat silently together in the car and looked out across the countryside. I sensed that George was plucking up the courage to kiss me properly and waited impatiently for him to make a move. As he fidgeted, I encouraged him, turned to face him, and raised my lips to his. Our first kiss was brief and hesitant but soon open-mouthed, tongues flickering we devoured one another. As we kissed I felt him place his hand on my woollen top and squeeze my breast gently. It felt so nice that I did not move his hand away and we continued to kiss until I felt his fingers creep under my blouse and slide upwards under my bra.

"Stop," I whispered.

He pulled his hand away.

"I'm sorry," he said." I thought you liked it."

"I do. I do. I'll make it easier for you."

And I reached behind my back and unclipped my bra before pulling my jumper and blouse up to let my breasts swing free.

I have large round breasts and have always been very self-conscious about them. I am sure that if I hadn't been both squiffy ⁴ and excited I would never have done what I did. I needn't have worried. His eyes grew wide as he got his first view of my milk-white tits.

"You are so beautiful. May I touch them?"

"Be gentle. They are very sensitive."

Then, as we kissed, I felt his hand squeeze each of my breasts in turn before he cautiously took my nipples between his fingers, and they hardened under his touch.

I could take no more.

"Please kiss them."

As he took each of my nipples, in turn, between his lips I experienced sexual arousal for the first time. My thighs grew damp, and I ached for I knew not what. I was in heaven. Just then he stopped and looked up at me. His face was flushed, his lips moist, and his eyes wide and pleading.

"Will you touch me?" he pleaded.

I wasn't sure what he wanted but I nodded.

"I don't want to get pregnant," I said.

"You won't."

He looked down at his lap and I saw that his trousers were now bulging. He reached down, unfastened his belt, and unbuttoned his flies before he took my right hand in his, and guided it inside his trousers and underpants until I felt his penis. a hard cylinder of warm flesh. I was completely unsure of what was expected of me but then I felt the shaft of his John Thomas start to pulse and George stiffened and groaned. I pulled my hand away in alarm.

"Did I hurt you?" I exclaimed.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was overexcited. I've come in my pants. I'm sorry."

It was only then that I started to understand what had happened.

"Don't be sorry," I said. "There's no need. Kiss me again."

So, for the next few minutes, George returned his attention to my breasts.

"George," I whispered." I want to see what you hide in your pants. Please pull them down and show me."

He stopped what he was doing, looked at me, and smiled. Then, he reached down, grasped the waistband of his trousers and pants in each hand, and wriggling, pulled them down to his knees. For the first time in my life, I saw a cock. It was flaccid and the foreskin covered the head. The evidence of his premature orgasm still glistened on the tip.

I was fascinated, and reached down and gently took it between my fingers, and as I did it stirred slightly in my hand.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"Hold the foreskin between your fingers and pull it gently backward and forward."

I took a deep breath and cautiously did as he asked. As I pulled the skin back, I saw his pink round head appear, still sticky with his cum. I slid the skin back over the tip and repeated the process and his flesh began to swell and harden. Soon I held six inches of erect cock straining in my tiny hand, and as George sucked my nipples I slowly moved my hand up and down.

It is almost impossible for me to describe my feelings as I worked his penis. I had been taught that what we were doing was wrong and while I knew I should feel some shame, I felt none. Instead, I felt empowered.

George had stopped sucking my breasts and was sitting with his hands by his sides gripping the seat tightly. Intermittently he told me how good it felt, sighing, and imploring me not to stop or to go faster.

I neither stopped nor moved faster but slowly stroked him. I wanted to be in control. I loved how his penis head appeared and disappeared with each stroke and, under my touch, transformed from a flaccid pink thing to a swollen dark purple mushroom. That afternoon my love of stroking cock was born. My love of the variants, when I use my mouth or titties, came a little later.

When he spoke, George was straining for release, his abdominal muscles tight.

"Use a handkerchief. I don't want to dirty my trousers or the car."

With my right hand still slowly rubbing I fumbled in my handbag with my left and found a pink embroidered square of cloth. I was just in time. I heard him speak.

"Ohhhhh! I'm going to come. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

As he spoke his shaft appeared to swell and pulse in my hand and I held the hanky tight against the tip as his cock continued to jerk.

Eventually, he sat still, and I leaned across and kissed him.

***

Nobody spoke as he drove back down the hill. Eventually, George broke the silence.

"That was my first time."

"Me too."

He paused briefly.

"Are you upset with me?"

"Why on earth would I be upset with you? You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to, and I enjoyed doing you."

I laughed nervously.

"Not as much as you did, I'm sure."

I looked across at him and he had the good grace to blush.

"I'll do an even better job next time," I promised.

***

That night I lay in bed and replayed things in my mind. As I did, I once again started to feel moistness between my legs and the itch that I had felt earlier. I was wearing a long flannel nightgown and pulled it up to expose my sex - and started to rub. Soon I found my clitoris, and my pleasure grew... and grew... and grew.

As my fingers moved, I imagined I had George's nob in my hand, and he was rubbing me. It was too much, and within minutes I came. My first orgasm was long and shuddering and left me breathless, happy, and confused. I understood that I had discovered something about myself that I was not supposed to know and had done something that I was not supposed to do. I didn't understand why these things were considered wrong, and I had nobody to ask.

On Monday, once again, I visited the restricted section of the library and slipped a book into my bag. Its title was," Ideal Marriage: Its Physiology and Technique. ⁵ " It would tell me everything that I wanted to know.

***

I read the book from cover to cover over the next week before returning it, unmissed, to the library. I had promised George a "next time," but we had no chance to be alone again. Then, the following week, a few days before George was due to return to Oxford and his final exams, fate took a hand.

Early on Friday morning, my mother received a telephone call. Her elder unmarried sister in Liverpool was seriously ill with some unknown ailment and she needed to travel to be with her. My father offered to drive her there (and give his opinion, I suspect) and she was happy with this arrangement. He arranged for a colleague to cover his absence, and after lunch, they set out on the long journey to Liverpool. A little before seven o'clock, I received a brief call from my mother to say that after a five-hour drive, they had arrived.

My brother was not at home that weekend. Even though it was the school holidays he was away playing at soldiers with the school cadets. There was nobody in the house but me.

My parents had slight misgivings about leaving me alone, but I had reassured them that I was almost twenty years old and could look after myself for a day or two until they returned. They would have been shocked if they knew what their innocent young daughter was planning. I didn't care. My need was too great.... and I didn't plan to get caught anyway. The coast was clear.