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Authors: Justine Saracen
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After all, in a few hours, her life would be on the line. At least that had been Dora’s argument as she’d slipped into bed with Antonia the night before. Dora herself was scheduled to be shipped out the same evening as Antonia, somewhere into France.
“This could be our last night alive. Don’t you want to make it a sweet one?” she’d cajoled, sliding a warm hand inside Antonia’s pajama pants.
The insinuating touch was like a charge of electricity that spread immediately upward to her sex. She would never have considered Dora or anyone at the school as a lover, but that night, the chasm of uncertainty that lay before both of them and Dora’s warm lips on her throat made an irresistible argument.
Dora was certainly skillful. Or perhaps, after the long dry spell since Dunkirk, Antonia was just unusually receptive. Whatever the reason, she returned Dora’s kisses ardently as the delinquent hand moved quickly from caresses to invasion. After the first shock of penetration, Antonia had been awash in simple lust. Within moments, she climaxed, and before the heat of orgasm had subsided, she slid halfway over Dora and returned the favor.
Afterward, they had both simply said “Good night,” and Dora had returned to her bed. Curiously, or perhaps obviously, Antonia had fallen asleep immediately, quietly resigned to her fate, whatever it was.
But now sleep was nowhere near. She did a rundown of what she needed to know to stay alive and undetected after leaving the plane: how to maneuver the chute to avoid treetops or water, how to tuck and roll upon landing, and how to bury her chute and overalls.
Under the roar of the airplane engine she detected a softer sound, and she smiled. Lew was snoring as if by a cozy winter fire. The big lug. She was confident that if they were captured, he’d hold out against the enemy and would be an inspiration.
She wiggled her fingers, practicing the codes for the reports she would be sending back. Her code name, Sophie Lajeune, was amusing, and gave no information about her except that she liked the opera Rosenkavalier .
A soft tap on her shoulder startled her. It was the dispatcher with a tin cup of tea.
She took off her gloves, warming her hands on the cup while she sipped, and tasted a good shot of rum in the tea. Rum that had been calming British sailors since the days of the tall ships comforted her now.
Lew was awake too, and when they handed back their mugs to the dispatcher, he signaled that they were almost at the drop zone. Slated to jump first, she checked all the buckles on her chute, tightened the strap on her jump helmet, and clambered toward the open hatch.
Her chute-release cord slid along the pipe over her head, and she stood with legs wide apart over the hatch opening, watching with dread as the dull-gray patches of ground slid by. The dispatcher tapped her again on the shoulder, pointing to the rip cord attached to the static line, reassuring her that all was well. She turned her attention to the signal box, waiting for the red light to turn green.
Tiny white lights sparkled on the ground below; a fraction of a second later she heard the detonation. Flak cannons. Her heart thudded with fear. They’d been spotted. In that instant the light turned green and the dispatcher shoved her out of the plane.
Scarcely two seconds after she plunged into darkness, the rip cord yanked her to a virtual standstill, and she began floating downward with a wild lateral sway. She tried to tilt her head upward and search the sky for Lew’s parachute, but the wind whipped her around and she had to look down to prepare for the landing.
As she struck ground and rolled over on her back, she saw one of the flak shells strike the fuselage. It belched out a spray of fire from its engine, then spiraled downward with a metallic scream and crashed into a distant field.
Dear God. Five men dead in an instant. Or had any gotten out? She saw no other chutes, only the distant red glow of
“This could be our last night alive. Don’t you want to make it a sweet one?” she’d cajoled, sliding a warm hand inside Antonia’s pajama pants.
The insinuating touch was like a charge of electricity that spread immediately upward to her sex. She would never have considered Dora or anyone at the school as a lover, but that night, the chasm of uncertainty that lay before both of them and Dora’s warm lips on her throat made an irresistible argument.
Dora was certainly skillful. Or perhaps, after the long dry spell since Dunkirk, Antonia was just unusually receptive. Whatever the reason, she returned Dora’s kisses ardently as the delinquent hand moved quickly from caresses to invasion. After the first shock of penetration, Antonia had been awash in simple lust. Within moments, she climaxed, and before the heat of orgasm had subsided, she slid halfway over Dora and returned the favor.
Afterward, they had both simply said “Good night,” and Dora had returned to her bed. Curiously, or perhaps obviously, Antonia had fallen asleep immediately, quietly resigned to her fate, whatever it was.
But now sleep was nowhere near. She did a rundown of what she needed to know to stay alive and undetected after leaving the plane: how to maneuver the chute to avoid treetops or water, how to tuck and roll upon landing, and how to bury her chute and overalls.
Under the roar of the airplane engine she detected a softer sound, and she smiled. Lew was snoring as if by a cozy winter fire. The big lug. She was confident that if they were captured, he’d hold out against the enemy and would be an inspiration.
She wiggled her fingers, practicing the codes for the reports she would be sending back. Her code name, Sophie Lajeune, was amusing, and gave no information about her except that she liked the opera Rosenkavalier .
A soft tap on her shoulder startled her. It was the dispatcher with a tin cup of tea.
She took off her gloves, warming her hands on the cup while she sipped, and tasted a good shot of rum in the tea. Rum that had been calming British sailors since the days of the tall ships comforted her now.
Lew was awake too, and when they handed back their mugs to the dispatcher, he signaled that they were almost at the drop zone. Slated to jump first, she checked all the buckles on her chute, tightened the strap on her jump helmet, and clambered toward the open hatch.
Her chute-release cord slid along the pipe over her head, and she stood with legs wide apart over the hatch opening, watching with dread as the dull-gray patches of ground slid by. The dispatcher tapped her again on the shoulder, pointing to the rip cord attached to the static line, reassuring her that all was well. She turned her attention to the signal box, waiting for the red light to turn green.
Tiny white lights sparkled on the ground below; a fraction of a second later she heard the detonation. Flak cannons. Her heart thudded with fear. They’d been spotted. In that instant the light turned green and the dispatcher shoved her out of the plane.
Scarcely two seconds after she plunged into darkness, the rip cord yanked her to a virtual standstill, and she began floating downward with a wild lateral sway. She tried to tilt her head upward and search the sky for Lew’s parachute, but the wind whipped her around and she had to look down to prepare for the landing.
As she struck ground and rolled over on her back, she saw one of the flak shells strike the fuselage. It belched out a spray of fire from its engine, then spiraled downward with a metallic scream and crashed into a distant field.
Dear God. Five men dead in an instant. Or had any gotten out? She saw no other chutes, only the distant red glow of
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