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All Sexual Activity In This Story Is Between Characters Who Are 18+ Years Old.
The sun was nearly straight overhead when the Saturday morning barge was fully offloaded and its goods were stored in Acme Distributors’ warehouse. “Looks like the gang won’t get their half-day off, after all,” Jock McGuinness mused, wiping his sweaty face and chest with his balled-up work shirt. “But they still may be able to shave a couple of hours if they hustle loading the trucks.” Pulling his shirt on, and buttoning it as he walked, he left the men to their lunchboxes and afternoon routine.
Across the yard, Jock passed through the dock gate, onto Bridges Avenue, and headed for Doherty’s Shillelagh, a half-block away. The bar catered to workers in the industrial area but Saturday trade was light until late afternoon. When Jock entered, the place was empty, except for two men playing cribbage at a table under the front window.
“Hey ho, Jocko!” Brian Doherty boomed from the bar at his longtime friend. He asked with a laugh, “Double gin fizz? You look hot and bothered.”
Jock sauntered to the bar and replied, “Cold root beer will do just fine, Brian, thanks.”
Doherty pulled an iced Hires from a chest, opened it and set it down, with a frosted mug, in front of McGuinness. “Prohibition ended six years ago… When you going to loosen up?” He chuckled. “You’re lucky I’m your friend. ME? I lose ten cents every time you spend a nickel!”
Jock laughed with him. “Balls! I buy lunch here three, four times a week, don’t I? Speaking of, am I too early for corned beef and cabbage?”
Brian looked at the bar clock. “Yeah, another half-hour on that.” He pushed a jar to his friend and said, “Here, have a pickled egg on me while you wait.” Just then a tall young woman stepped into view from the back area. “Say, you haven’t met my new girl.” Doherty leaned across the counter and whispered, “Refugee from Holland. Just started Thursday.” Straightening up, he called, “Rosie! Come over here a moment, will you?”
Jock swiveled on his stool and was stunned. Her hair was the yellowest he had ever seen, like lemons dipped in sunshine. Braided into two long thick ropes, it fell over her full bust. The Kelly green end-ties lay like tassels, upon and perfectly aligned with, where he imagined her nipples must be under her bright white, scoop-necked peasant’s blouse.
The barmaid’s forest green cotton jumper was cinched from her breasts to her hips with an overlaid laced black velvet corset. The dress belled out from her waist to her knees, where half-an-inch of white petticoat ruffles were displayed. Her long bare legs tapered into sturdy comfortable flat-soled black shoes. As she passed by Jock, and stepped around the bar to stand beside her employer, an unusual fresh floral scent wafted past his nose. He inhaled and held his breath.
Brian smiled and curled his left arm loosely around the girl’s waist, resting his hand lightly on her hip. “Jock, this is Greta Van Der Molen. Rosie, this is my best buddy, Jock McGuinness. He keeps me out of Dutch.” Brian dropped his left hand below the bar and squeezed Greta’s butt through her dirndl and petticoat. “Unless, of course, I WANT to be ‘IN’ Dutch.”
He chuckled at his joke while Greta turned her head and smiled sweetly at him.
Making no effort to dislodge her boss’ hand, Greta greeted Jock, “Top o’ the mornin’ to you!” The words of the Irish greeting, cloaked in her heavy Dutch accent, sounded weird to Jock’s ears, but her broad dimpled smile quickly erased the dissonance. He was captivated by her rosy cheeks, brilliant blue eyes and slightly cleft chin.
Swallowing hard, Jock mumbled, “Nice to meet you, too.” He took a swig of root beer, straight from the bottle while his empty mug dripped condensation onto the plank countertop. As the soda flowed down his throat, he imagined his lips closing around any part of Greta’s shapely body. His cock had more specific ambitions.
Brian applied pressure and slowly rubbed Greta’s ruffles across her ass. Looking around the room, he reassured himself his other customers were intent on their cards. Leaning forward again, he lowered his voice and said, “Her name’s ‘Greta’, but I call her ‘Rosie,’… can you guess why?” While he asked his question, Brian’s hand pushed down the back of Greta’s leg and returned under the hem to cover her left cheek. His splayed fingers lightly crawled over the smooth rayon surface of her panty briefs.
Jock coughed and suggested, “Her cheeks have nice color.” Greta wiggled her bottom and effectively pushed her pussy against Brian’s extended pinky.
While he tickled her developing camel-toe, Brian turned his face to the barmaid and said softly, “Go ahead, Rosie… show Jock why I call you that. He’s a nice man.” Wordlessly, Greta hooked her left thumb in her blouse’s neckline and stretched it downward. As her nail traced the top of her right breast, it picked up her bra’s upper seam. When her hand reached the edge of her corset, her plaster white breast, istanbul escort with its oversized coral areola and taut pink nipple, was completely exposed.
“Pretty ‘ROSIE,’ wouldn’t you say, Jocko?” Brian laughed, patted Greta’s dampening cunt with all his fingers and said to her, “OK, put it away now, Rosie. Go tell Cookie I’ll want a couple of plates of corned beef at… oh, one-thirty.” He looked at Jock and winked. “Then, ask HIM to mind the store, and YOU come down to the basement. OK?”
“Ja, meteen, mijnheer,” Greta said, deepening her dimples. She popped her tit behind her brassiere, juggled it, then slowly drug her hand over Brian’s left cheek as she turned for the kitchen. “Ik kom binnenkort.”
Brian looked at his friend’s questioning face. “I have NO idea what she just said, except for ‘yes.’ Her English is excellent, apart from her accent, but I think she KNOWS what her Dutch does to me… I’m as hard a rock right now!”
“Yeah? Me, too, pal o’ mine. Me, TOO,” Jock confided.
“Great! Let’s go to the old speakeasy,” Brian said, clearing away the mug and half-empty root beer bottle. Coming out from behind the bar, he led McGuinness past the snooker table to a door at the back of the big room. At the foot of a flight of wooden stairs, they crossed the storage room to another door. Large empty hinges to the left of its frame was the only remaining evidence of a massive swing-away pantry cabinet which had been used to conceal the once-secret portal.
Brian opened the second door and pushed a wall switch. The ceiling light showed a large round table, with four chairs, positioned in front of a small plumbed wet bar with an ornate gilded mirror mounted behind. In the far corner stood a fifth chair. A pair of shaded lamps behind the bar lit that smaller area, including a cherry wood china hutch, which had long ago been converted to show off the bar’s stock.
Jock whistled. “Wow. I never knew about this,” he said, in a low complimentary tone.
“Right,” agreed Doherty, “And why SHOULD you have? Been a teetotaler for as long as I’ve known you.” He stood, facing his friend, between the table and a floor-to-ceiling, deep burgundy, heavy velvet drapery hanging on brass rings from a gleaming steel rod. “That’s why these little joints were called ‘speakeasies’: Folks who knew said little.” He chuckled. “Anyway, since The Repeal, I’ve kept the room set up for… OTHER uses. Mostly private poker games, but I’ve been, er, FLEXIBLE a time or two.”
Doherty pulled back the velvet curtain and revealed an alcove, fully taken over by a huge brass four-poster bed, with a small table and lamp between its big pillows and the wall on its left side. There was just enough room between the walls and the mattress for a person to sidle by, either to get in the bed, or to make it up.
“From 1921 to 1934, this alcove had two more tables,” explained Brian. “On a busy night, we’d have upwards of fifteen people in here partying… MORE, if you count the bartender and the flappers on the customers’ laps!”
Just then the door opened and Greta joined the men in the hide-out. She wasted no time giving Jock a hero’s welcome. Closing the door behind her, she moved up beside him and kissed his wrinkled right cheek before sliding her lips more fully onto his. Her left arm held his back firmly in place, although he made no effort to resist, while her right hand pressed flat and pushed across his barrel chest.
“Ja,” Greta buzzed huskily. “You are a nice looking man. Ik hou van de geur van je shirt.” Demonstrating the proof of her statement, she swiftly unbuttoned Jock’s shirt to his belt and buried her nose in the sweaty cotton.
Brian stepped around the table and stood close, sandwiching the girl. He breathed into the back of her neck, “Rosie, take off your shoes and give us a little dance, why don’t you?”
“Okey-dokey, give me a help up to the table, ja?” She side-stepped from between the men and bent at her waist to pull away her shoes. Jock got another glimpse of her big breasts, barely cradled behind her blouse, before Brian took her hand, and held her ass, as she stepped onto a chair and then up to the table top. “Now, then, you fellas just sit, ja?” I show you something FUN!”
Humming quietly as the men settled into chairs and stared up at her, Greta began gyrating slowly. Adding a rasp to her soft voice, she sang, first in Dutch and then in English,
“Ik heb gisteravond een man ontmoet, mensen
He was just my size, Ja, he was just my size”
Both men recognized the Lillie Mae Kirkman blues song, though they did not know it well enough to guess the translations or anticipate the verses. Nor did they care to think on it. As Greta progressed through the rest of the tune in her native language, she pirouetted and swayed, dipped and bent, and flashed her skirts. Her audience stopped short of drooling as they studied her every move and shifted in their seats around their cement cocks.
By the time the avcılar escort song and dance were done, Greta stood nude, arms akimbo. Looking past her outthrust dandelion yellow muff at Brian’s and Jock’s rapt faces, she grinned and predicted, “I think you fellas are BOTH my size. You take me to that bed. We find out, ja?” She held out her arms and, as the men stood, she hopped, without warning, into the air between them. Surprised as they were, Jock and Brian still caught her safely.
Greta giggled, threw her arms around their necks and exclaimed, “Ik wist dat je zou!” While they carried her to the alcove, she peppered their cheeks with small quick kisses. Their groins hurt more than if they had been kicked. With a gentle swing, they tossed her over the end of the bed. Laughing, Greta bounced on the thick mattress, then watched with interest as the men raced out of their clothes and joined her.
Alternately turning from Jock, on her right, to Brian, on her left, Greta stroked and kissed their bent heads as each man, in his own style, suckled her bright pink tits. Jock wrapped both hands around the right breast’s mass and squeezed it up. He latched onto and drew its entire coral crown into his mouth. Brian spiraled his left index finger around the fat broad areola, down to the base of her left boob while he teased its stout nipple with rapid butterfly-light flicks, interspersed with random nips and tugs.
Greta moaned with ecstasy as her furnace fired up from their attention. She stopped rubbing and pushed their faces down onto her aching bosom, arching her back to increase the pressured contact. The men growled and groaned as they sucked, occasionally bumping their foreheads on one another, but not enough to break their efforts.
Suddenly, Greta screamed, “Ja, door GOD, ik ben klaar! Take Me! NEUK ME!” She rolled, like a log in a pond, onto Jock and impaled herself on his standing spike in an instant. Slapping her ass with her right hand, she yelled, “Hier! HIER! Direct, OOM!” Greta lurched forward, sliding up, but not off, McGuinness’ dick. She widened her knees and settled back down, sway-backed, while she separated her butt cheeks and showed her rosy iris an inch-and-a-half above her occupied trench.
Doherty swung left and straddled her and Jock’s shins. Pointing his proud prick at the pink target, he pressed the entrance until his plump head penetrated the rim. Greta grunted and exclaimed, “Ja! JA! That is IT! PUSH!” Helping him out, she rocked back and down, swallowing half of the swollen staffs and stabbing her tongue into Jock’s mouth.
“Uhhnnn!” Brian huffed and pushed further. She took him in completely.
“AAAhhh!” Jock aspirated and lunged his hips upward, meeting Brian somewhere in the middle as he boned Greta’s tight pussy.
“‘Just my size,'” warbled Greta. She wiggled her wobbling rear end forward, back, up and down, while the men drove their double-stuffed dicks rhythmically in their respective channels.
Yowling in Dutch and English, Greta thrashed and came. “Mijn GOD ik kom eraan … nu meteen! YES! YES! YES!”
Jock blew his nut next, but Brian quickly followed. He held Greta’s hips in a vice-grip, buried his cock balls-deep in her ass and roared, “GO, Rosie, GO! Here comes my TRAIN!”
Meanwhile, Jock bounced his ass off the bedsprings and plunged upward into the slick stationary sleeve. He panted, while he focused on staying inside, and shot his load vertically into Greta’s canal. His hands held her ribs, as much to stabilize himself as anything else.
Even when the men were through, however, Greta was not. Contracting her cunt and sphincter, she crunched her gut and pinched both pricks while secondary orgasmic paroxysms surged powerfully through her. At last, though, even she was wasted. She collapsed and fell forward onto Jock’s chest, pulling away from both men’s shrinking penises. Brian dropped away to her right, gasping. Jock closed his eyes and hissed, “Jeeezzzuussss!”
“Dank u, dank u beiden,” wheezed Greta. She kissed Jock sweetly and then turned to Brian and kissed him, longer and more warmly yet. “And especially, thank YOU, Uncle Brian… I LIKE your friend. And I LOVE YOU!” She rolled left and stood against the wall. Her juices ran in rivulets down her thighs as the men’s cum began turtling out of her holes.
Brian rolled over to his left and grabbed the box of Kleenex from the nearby end-table. Handing it to Greta, he said, “Your welcome, Rosie. ANY time… Now, wipe up and go tell Cookie we’re ready for our corned-beef. There’s a good girl.”
When the door closed behind Greta, Jock looked at Brian as both men rose from the bed and donned their doffed duds. “‘UNCLE Brian’?” His eyes conveyed his incredulity.
Doherty answered, “Yeah. She’s a sweet kid, really… besides being a fun fuck, I mean.” He pulled on his boots and stomped his heels into them. “Anyway, you probably remember when my kid sister, Susan, eloped to Holland in ’13 with a merchant seaman… That was Jan Van Der şirinevler escort Molen. They tried twice to have kids and something bad happened with both pregnancies, but, in ’20, along comes Rosie.”
Jock arched his eyebrows. “So, what’s she doing here and where’s Susan?”
“It’s like I said, she’s a refugee,” Brian repeated. “Her dad went down with all hands, on a freighter torpedoed by a U-boat, and Susan wanted her safe from the war. So, she booked her passage on a ship from Rotterdam to New York, the last week in April.” He chuckled, “Rosie showed up here Wednesday, just three days after Susan’s letter asking Elizabeth and me to take her in.”
Doherty winked, waved his hand across the brass bed and added, “Before you ask… NO. I DON’T touch her at home. Why SHOULD I when I have THIS sweet little nest?” Laughing, as he pulled up his suspenders, Brian concluded, “Remember, what I said about being ‘flexible’?”
Jock nodded sagely, and asked, “But what about Susan? Did SHE get out in time? The Dutch surrendered on the 14th and the Nazis invaded Belgium yesterday on route to France.”
Brian shook his head. “She’s still there, as far as I know. She’s a lifelong Socialist and active in the Resistance. Maybe that’s why Rosie is so carefree. It’s got to be hell living in those conditions.” He saw the doorknob turn and said, “Sshh… Leave off all that Europe stuff.” As the door opened and Greta brought their plates to the table, Brian said, “Thanks, Rosie, now go tend to the tables. The dockers could be breaking down the doors any minute and Cookie will have a heart attack!”
“Alright, Uncle, I will,” Greta answered. Blowing Jock a kiss, she said, “Nogmaals bedankt aardige man.” Then addressing both men, she giggled, “I was right… you both are just my size!” With a whirl of her dress she was gone, leaving only her special floral perfume to compete with the corned beef and cabbage.
At 12:15 p.m., as he had done on every fair Saturday for twenty years, Henry Campbell walked up to a granite table, in a cul-de-sac off the main path through Riverside Park. Sitting down, he pulled a folded board and a leather pouch of carved wooden chess men from his satchel. After setting up the game, he stared over the water.
The boats on the river, and recent world events, took his mind back nine months to August, 1939, when chess players of the world converged on Buenos Aires to vie for the Hamilton-Russell Cup. None of the German team, after sailing safely away from Europe on the Belgian steamer, ‘Piriapolis,’ had chosen, at the tournament’s end, to return to Nazi Germany. Henry wondered to himself, “Who, besides Hitler, could BLAME them?” He shook his head sadly and considered, irrationally but seriously, “Maybe that’s even a reason why he hates the Belgians so much.”
With a sigh, Henry forced his mind off current news and concentrated on his game plan for today’s challenge. Could he make this be one of the rare times that his friend and nemesis, Eli Farragut, would be forced to turn over his king and concede defeat? At length, Henry decided, if he drew black, he would attempt to deploy the King’s Indian Defense, whereas, if white, he would substitute the Orangutan Opening for his usual Scotch Opening.
“Perhaps THAT will throw the old fart off,” Henry mulled. Looking at his Longines wristwatch, he suddenly realized it was nearly one o’clock and Farragut had not yet arrived. Henry asked himself, “Did Eli forget entirely, or maybe go to the White Star, thinking it would rain?” Looking up at the sky, he frowned, rejected both possibilities and mumbled, “He’ll be along shortly, I expect.” Idly moving his white pawn to queen’s knight four, he returned his thoughts to chess strategy.
While Henry Campbell mused about refugee chess players, Ted Trotter opened his eyes at 639 Locust Avenue. Momentarily disoriented, he smiled into the sleeping face of Arlene Hart as his mental haze cleared. When he heard the kitchen clock strike once, however, he remained confused as to the time, and asked himself, “Is that one o’clock, or half-past some other hour? How long have we napped?”
Spooned warmly against his back, Cynthia Hart shifted, inhaled deeply and sighed audibly, without waking. Her hot breath on Trotter’s neck teamed up with her sliding breasts, against his scapulae as she settled, and inspired his prick. As the stiffening member stretched out, it closed the gap between Ted’s and Arlene’s hips. Its plump purple bulb nosed naturally into her soft thick tufted hair. She made a small noise deep in her throat while her pelvis canted closer and her pussy lips kissed the exploring cock.
Trotter scooted nearer to Arlene and slid his right hand, under the covers, over her left haunch to her grotto. Pushing his prick, along with his fingers, between her separating labia, he remarked silently, “However long we slept, she’s STILL plenty wet and loose.”
Arlene opened her cunt before him as she lifted her left leg over Ted’s thigh. Her eyelids fluttered and she craned her neck just enough to deliver a light welcoming kiss to his mouth. He returned the favor by thrusting his tongue and his erect joint into her waiting cavities. “Mmmm, hello handsome,” Arlene murmured quietly, pulling back her face while pressing forward her pussy and filling herself with him. “You ARE a go-er, AREN’T you!”
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