Post by Evangeline on Sept 28, 2008 23:06:00 GMT -5
This is a little look-see into the relationship between Otto Dessauer and Michelle Glaser from the "Wingin' It" RP. It's about as steamy as it gets for my fiction, which still IMO still wouldn't shock your maiden great aunt. ;D
"Don't worry Otto, nobody sticks their noses out when it's this bad."
That was all she said.
It was not Michelle's way to muse out loud on whether
"What they say" about Messerschmidts was true.
The earth-covered storm shelter had room enough for the two of us,
but only just.
The prisoner of war, and the air warden.
Bf 109 and Mustang, wing over wing and breathing each other's musk,
Somewhere out in the woods of Arkansas, where they'd had me spraying
with just enough fuel to do the job
and big orange circles on my sides.
It started to hail just as I landed, and the hailstones were like
people imagine bullets to be,
If they had never been shot at in their lives.
I knew the difference, but it was still painful.
I was to stay there, until a guard came for me.
It could have been any one of them, but they sent Michelle,
the sweet dappled Mustang who had dared to return my smile on the guards' flight line not a month before.
Natural, frosty dapples on a dark base, light hazel eyes, slender form, smoothly purring engine.
Thinking of that forbidden fruit made for rather uncomfortable nights, so I had tried not to,
Not that fantasies about the better-looking women guards were anything novel to us prisoners.
But Michelle was the most beautiful.
I heard her land quickly, in a splash of mud on the dirt strip, and she hurried inside.
Just room for two of us.
Two of us. Alone.
Our higher brains worked assidiously to maintain the boundaries,
But my Luftwaffe colors were gone,
And hers were minimal, on account of wartime economies.
That shouldn't have had any relevance, but try telling that to one's hormones.
Our minds didn't want to succumb, but our bodies had other ideas
as they closed the distance and jockeyed and shifted to get what they wanted.
And if Michelle had been wondering about what they said about Messerschmidts,
the next fifteen minutes removed all doubts.
She was a little earthquake; I felt very faint and unsteady
afterwards.
We separated as the sun peeked through the clouds, putting
ourselves back together as best we could.
We tried to forget about it, but when next we found ourselves
alone and unseen, there were more earthquakes.
Michelle and I became very good at hiding our liasons, no one at
the camp found out as long as both of us were there.
Then I was moved northwest, and another year passed before
someone slipped a letter to me.
And I learned that I had a son, that I would never see and that his
mother could never keep.
But I sent them what I could anyway.
Years later, Michelle became an airport constable,
the first fatality of the Malton riots in 1959.
But our son had been adopted out long before then.
I don't know what he looked like, but he and his beautiful angel
mother still keep me awake at nights.
And I still wish her "Good Morning" every sunrise.
"Don't worry Otto, nobody sticks their noses out when it's this bad."
That was all she said.
It was not Michelle's way to muse out loud on whether
"What they say" about Messerschmidts was true.
The earth-covered storm shelter had room enough for the two of us,
but only just.
The prisoner of war, and the air warden.
Bf 109 and Mustang, wing over wing and breathing each other's musk,
Somewhere out in the woods of Arkansas, where they'd had me spraying
with just enough fuel to do the job
and big orange circles on my sides.
It started to hail just as I landed, and the hailstones were like
people imagine bullets to be,
If they had never been shot at in their lives.
I knew the difference, but it was still painful.
I was to stay there, until a guard came for me.
It could have been any one of them, but they sent Michelle,
the sweet dappled Mustang who had dared to return my smile on the guards' flight line not a month before.
Natural, frosty dapples on a dark base, light hazel eyes, slender form, smoothly purring engine.
Thinking of that forbidden fruit made for rather uncomfortable nights, so I had tried not to,
Not that fantasies about the better-looking women guards were anything novel to us prisoners.
But Michelle was the most beautiful.
I heard her land quickly, in a splash of mud on the dirt strip, and she hurried inside.
Just room for two of us.
Two of us. Alone.
Our higher brains worked assidiously to maintain the boundaries,
But my Luftwaffe colors were gone,
And hers were minimal, on account of wartime economies.
That shouldn't have had any relevance, but try telling that to one's hormones.
Our minds didn't want to succumb, but our bodies had other ideas
as they closed the distance and jockeyed and shifted to get what they wanted.
And if Michelle had been wondering about what they said about Messerschmidts,
the next fifteen minutes removed all doubts.
She was a little earthquake; I felt very faint and unsteady
afterwards.
We separated as the sun peeked through the clouds, putting
ourselves back together as best we could.
We tried to forget about it, but when next we found ourselves
alone and unseen, there were more earthquakes.
Michelle and I became very good at hiding our liasons, no one at
the camp found out as long as both of us were there.
Then I was moved northwest, and another year passed before
someone slipped a letter to me.
And I learned that I had a son, that I would never see and that his
mother could never keep.
But I sent them what I could anyway.
Years later, Michelle became an airport constable,
the first fatality of the Malton riots in 1959.
But our son had been adopted out long before then.
I don't know what he looked like, but he and his beautiful angel
mother still keep me awake at nights.
And I still wish her "Good Morning" every sunrise.
