Lady Pixie’s War Ch. 05: War

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Big Tits

The splendid beginning to 1939 was, as it transpired, nothing but a candle in the wind.

In retrospect, as I explained to the young historian who interviews me on Wednesday mornings, it is easy to assume that the gathering storm dominated our lives, but nothing could be further from the truth. For most people, it was “peace in our time” after Munich.

For the political classes, all eyes were on the date of the election. So many constituencies would make their choice of candidate in March that we assumed that the election would be in May. For those like Churchill and Duff Cooper (who was my MP) the question was whether they would be deselected and replaced by a Chamberlainite, and those of us opposed to appeasement braced ourselves for what we thought was coming.

For the general public, life went on as usual. Indeed, even for myself and Archie, everyday life unfolded naturally. We had decided, on my urging, that we should consolidate our assets. The death of the Duke in the autumn had not only given us the house in Sussex, which allowed us to sell the Hampshire place, but it had given us the chance to think about our London base. The lease on Eaton Square would soon fall due, and as the Curzons wanted to shift their house in Carlton House Terrace, which was freehold, I suggested to Archie that whilst it was more compact, it would do us nicely. He could stroll to the Foreign Office and the Lords, and I could do the same. Just off Pall Mall, it was more central than Eaton Square. We moved there at the beginning of February. As Archie only had to cross the road to get to his Club, the Travellers, and I only had to walk a few hundred yards to the Saff, it suited us to perfection. Neither of could have imagine the impact that the place was about to have on our lives.

Once Archie’s brother, Bertie, succeeded to the Dukedom, Lady Cecily moved into the Dower House, but whenever she came up to town, she would stay with us. Carlton House Terrace suited her to perfection too. With Beccy and Jack only a short cab ride away, we were able to keep up our affair discreetly enough not to alert anyone.

This was made all the easier by the fact that after Christmas Jack seemed to vanish. Beccy said that he was on active duty, but would, or could not say where. Thanks to my contacts with Military Intelligence, I learned that he was in Paris talking with the Reynaud Government. I could guess why.

But I only learned the truth when we held the housewarming for 8 Carlton House Terrace at the beginning of March. Naturally Beccy and Jack were invited, and it was a delight to see Jack there. He cornered me late in the evening.

“Can we have a word, Lady Pixie?”

My first thought, which was that it was about Beccy and myself, dismissed itself by the tone in his voice.

“Is it about Paris?”

“You know?”

“I can guess. What are you being told?”

He explained that he was acting as liaison officer to French Intelligence and was hearing that a German invasion of Czechoslovakia was imminent.

“And what will the French do?” I asked, recalling that the French actually had a treaty with the Czechs to defend them.

“Fuck all! Pardon my French! They will hide behind out lack of willingness to do anything.”

“Desolé!” I muttered. “Merde!”

“Can you get up a debate in the Lords? Put down a motion for mid-March. I think it is coming about 15th or 18th, it’s not clear. But if you can put something on the order paper for 15th, I think that will do it.”

“I shall Jack, but what the devil are we going to do?”

“Run away!”

“So, having made the Munich agreement, Hitler is going to break it?”

“Seems that way.”

And so it proved.

I put down a motion to discuss foreign affairs for the evening of 15 March. That same day, Hitler invaded Czechoslovakia. I excoriated the Government for its gullibility in believing Hitler and demanded action; others joined me. The Government benches, in the form of my darling husband sat there glum.

In the Commons the pressure mounted, and the Press, which had been so supportive of Chamberlain, turned on him. He was to discover that when the herd turns, it turns hard.

I received a note from Edward Halifax, Archie’s boss, and met him for tea in his office in the Lords.

“Lady Pixie, first, thank you for seeing me. As you might imagine, I want to discuss where we should go next. As you know, I have had my doubts about Herr Hitler; I have them no longer.”

“Doubts? I asked, taken aback.

“The ideal solution in foreign affairs is seldom possible. I have preferred to assume that whilst a violet and nasty man, Hitler nonetheless had objectives for which he might be prepared to settle. Avoiding a war was, I fear, in my book, worth throwing a few foreigners under the bus. I no longer think that way. We need to draw a line in the sand. If Herr Hitler crosses it, it will show that war was inevitable. çankaya escort What I want to ask you is that if I assure you we shall draw such a line, you will withdraw your motion of no confidence. You know you won’t win, but you may inflict enough damage to make Neville double down!”

Edward was not known as “Holy Fox” for nothing. A devout Anglo-Catholic, so of my own persuasion, he was also a man of Byzantine political skills. I wanted him to be straight with me.

“Let me be clear Edward. If I press my motion, the Prime Minister will, in that stubborn way of his, be less inclined to draw a line in the sand as he will think that would be to show weakness. But if I do withdraw it, I have your word as a Christian and a gentleman you will draw said line?”

He looked directly into my eyes. He meant it.

“Precisely. Entre nous, we are going to give guarantees to Poland, Rumania, and Greece. If any of them are attacked by Her Hitler or Signor Mussolini, the French and ourselves will go to their aid. On that you have my solemn word!”

I withdrew my motion, and he was as good as his word. By the end of the month the guarantees had been given. In April the Military Training Act was passed which provided for single men between the ages of 20 and 22 to be called up for training.

One result of the turmoil was that Churchill, Duff Cooper and others all found themselves reselected by their local constituency parties; no more was heard of the famous early General Election.

The crisis brought Jack Carrington and I closer together. Edward Halifax, who seemed to have seconded him from Military Intelligence, was more than happy to use him to keep me sweet. It was in conversation with him that I first heard the name Charles de Gaulle.

Lacking their own country house, Jack and Beccy were more than welcome at ours in Sussex, and most weekends, especially if Jack was away, Beccy would join us. She got to know our neighbours and, as ever, became a firm favourite, even with those gentlemen whose favours she rejected. There was something life-affirming about her which made even those disappointed in lust, like her.

Jack was back for the Easter weekend, and we chatted after lunch on the Friday.

Beccy had, as ever, provided useful information from her Papa’s circle, from which it was clear that in the event of a war, there would be a significant fifth column in England.

“What worries me,” Jack said, “is that this war may not, as the Top Brass think, be a repeat of 1914-1918, with us in the nice warm Maginot line whilst ‘Jerry’ sits outside trying to get in.” This was so much the orthodoxy that I was puzzled.

“There’s a French Colonel I know, Charles de Gaulle, close to Reynaud, he is a great advocate of the tank, and he thinks the next war will be won or lost by those who know how to use them best. I say, Lady P, look, I have an invite to his country place, Colombey les deux Églises, if you could come next week that would be grand. De Gaulle is keen to meet English politicians and try to get the word out!”

And that was how I came to find myself in the Haute-Marne department in north-eastern France at the Boisserie, the country home of Charles de Gaulle.

My first impression was one everyone had of him, but in my case magnified by my lack of height. He was so tall that I almost got a crick in my neck. He was also the perfect French gentleman, kissing my hand and bidding me welcome to his humble abode.

And, by English standards, it was small. But I liked it. He and Mme de Gaulle had bought it a few years earlier and were still doing it up. I liked Mme de Gaulle, Yvonne, as she insisted I call her. She was the perfect hostess. But the greatest and unexpected joy was their youngest daughter, Anne.

So many parents hid away daughters who were not “normal.” Anne had Downs syndrome, but de Gaulle, far from hiding her, was her constant companion. To see the stern, formal Colonel with his “petite” was to see another side of him altogether. As we chatted, she would sit on his knee, and he would play with her. She too to me at once.

“Elle est si petite papa, comme un petit lutin!”

“Bien sûr ma petite, et son nom est lady pixie!”

“Oh Papa, sera-t-elle ma petite amie?”

Kneeling next to them, I took her hand, which she gave happily, and said I would be delighted to be her little friend. De Gaulle smiled benignly. By the end of our chat, Anne was sitting with me, weaving daisy chains. I sat with her while dinner was being prepared, and only left her when it was time to change. But once changed, I went with her and read to her before I tucked her in bed.

Yvonne thanked me, whilst de Gaulle himself simply said:

“She likes you, my lady. Thank you for taking care of her.”

“It is a pleasure, Colonel.”

And so it was.

Anne and I got on splendidly.

The cebeci escort visit was a fruitful one in other ways. De Gaulle himself was an immensely impressive man. To see him in the family pew at the Church on Sunday was to see a man of deep faith. To see him with his two older children, Philippe, and Elizabeth, was to see the French paterfamilias at his very best. With his wife he was the very image of the head of the household. But with Anne, ah, with Anne, there one saw the man in the raw, and as he liked me because Anne liked me, I perhaps saw more of that side of him than anyone save Yvonne.

“You know,” Yvonne said to me, “they wanted us to put her away in an asylum, and I have never seen Charles so angry. He told the Superintendent of the hospital that he would burn hell before he did such a terrible thing. Anne drew from her beloved papa an affectionate love which nothing and no one else could.

If I grew close to the de Gaulles, I also learned much from him. He was convinced that unless the French and British changed their strategy they would lose. The Germans were, he said, planning a “blitzkrieg.” It was the first, but not the last time that I heard the word.

As we made our way back, Jack asked what I had thought, adding that:

“The Colonel was impressed by you Lady P.”

I told him my thoughts, which made him smile.

“I saw the same with you and little Anne, my lady. You were so playful with her – that is a wonderful side of you. I think my Beccy brings it out in you too – or am I incorrect? Do tell me to shut up if that is out of order?”

So, I thought, he DID know! I had imagined he might, but the customary aristocratic attitude to such things was discretion and “don’t ask, don’t tell.” He had not quite done either, but as we were driving back to Calais, there was no way of avoiding the issue.

“She does, Jack. You must know I am very fond of her.”

“As she is of you Lady P. Indeed, we both are.”

Was I imagining it, or had his hand just fluttered across my knee?

“I am flattered Jack.”

“Well, should you and the dear girl ever want to widen your play, be assured I should be the one to be flattered.”

I felt myself blushing. This was the first time I had ever been propositioned by a man, and I was a little unsure what to do. I had no desire, quite the opposite, to hurt Jack’s feelings, but my sexual desires were in a different direction.

“That, dear Jack, is extremely sweet of you, but to quote Dowson, when it comes to Beccy I want to be able to say that ‘I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.'”

Jack’s laugh shook the car.

“My Lady, how very you! I shall have to investigate Dowson! But rest ever assured that I remain sensible of your feelings and would hope that what I have just said does not in any way lessen our mutual affection. But there I go, assuming it is mutual!”

It was my turn to laugh.

“Oh Jack, of course, how could it ever be otherwise? I was delighted that Beccy’s affections were set upon you, and I could want no better man for her. But when it comes to love and acting upon it, I am a one-woman woman!”

“Well, my Lady, the more credit to you!”

With that, he leant over to kiss my cheek.

We did not often speak of that moment, but we knew in our hearts that it marked something special. I was delighted that he was comfortable with myself and Beccy, and relieved that our friendship was not imperilled by the prospect of his wanting more of me than I could give.

Jack had to return to Paris the following week, which left Beccy and I the chance to talk.

After supper at Carlton House Terrace, we retired to my room to chat. I told her what had occurred between myself and Jack.

“Oh Mama Pix, how yummy! You know I’d be fine if you ever wanted to?”

She never ceased to amaze me.

“My darling, I am faithful to you in my fashion, and delighted as I am that Jack is comfortable with you and I, I have no desire to come between you.”

Beccy giggled, almost choking.

“Oh Mama, I just had this image of my little Mama between Jack and myself! I do love you Pix.”

She leant in to kiss me.

“I told him Mama, I knew he would be okay with it. He said he didn’t regard my going to bed with you in the same way he would adultery!”

Kissing her back, I said that I appreciated such a fine distinction.

“I take it you did not mention Lady C?”

“Oh no, Mama, that would hardly be fair to her!”

I adored Beccy’s personal moral code. It made perfect sense, after a fashion, and was based on the simple rule that Jack should be kept happy and that their marriage should not be threatened.

“Anyway, Mama, I too, am faithful, in my own fashion!”

As we disrobed each other, I marvelled, again, that this beautiful woman loved me. In what seemed to me an era of gathering gloom, çukurambar escort her love was life affirming. As always with me, the sex, while it mattered, was not what “it” was about.

Naturally, being but (very) human, I could be, and had been, tempted, but for more than a passing fancy, I needed to feel a connection. I had with Annie and with Bella, and I missed them both more than I cared to admit, even to myself. Beccy was of that genre, but different. With Annie and Bella I had felt submissive and yielded to the need to please them with immense satisfaction. But with Beccy, well, something significant had shifted, as Lady Cecil had realised.

“Will you get me my harness, my darling girl?” I said as we lay in each other’s arms naked.

“You just want to watch my naked bum, Mama!”

“Oh,” I joked, spanking her playfully, “I want to do that, but oh so much more!”

Mind you, the sight of that beautiful backside as it walked to the drawers where the harness was kept, would have aroused passion in anything with life force, and I felt myself grow damper and tingly. She did it for me every time.

With that instinct which made her the woman she was, Beccy knelt in front of me, holding the strap-on and the harness.

“Would Mama Pixie permit her girl to equip her for the lesson?”

How anyone in that position, stark naked, her nipples hard, her breasts moving as her breath got faster, her thighs open, could manage to look so innocent was part of the wonder of Beccy. And that wink, almost imperceptible when I said she could, well, that showed the volcano beneath the mantle.

She caressed my legs and thighs as she pulled the harness up, and when she got behind me to tie it, she took the opportunity to kiss my tight derrière, making me moan.

“How does Mama want me?”

“Urgently,” I said, “but I want to know what mood my girl is in?”

“Oh Mama, I am almost too embarrassed to say.”

“Almost means not quite, yes?”

“Oh yes, Mama. Well, sometimes when I feel slutty I love to be on my hands and knees being taken like a bitch in heat. But tonight, well,” and then after that she actually managed to blush, “I want to be loved and taken deep while I can kiss and caress you, Mama.”

The drew from me a deep sigh. She was exquisite. Sexual and loving, sensuous, and shameless, she was the woman I wanted, and she had my mood right too. Much as I loved to command her, tonight I wanted to make love to her.

She lay back on my bed, legs apart.

“Take your girl, Mama, take me!”

Kneeling on the bed between her thighs, I came in close and kissed her, letting my nipples touch hers, making us both moan a little as the shivers of excitement shot through us.

“I need to touch my pussy Mama, may I, please, pretty please?”

“You may, my darling, you touch your bud while I do this.”

“This” was to tease the entrance to her wetness with the head of the girl-cock, letting it just press, parting her lips, but not actually entering her. I guided it, teasing her, while she played with her clitoris.

“Jack likes me doing this, Mama, it’s just he gets impatient sometimes!”

Said with the innocence of a young woman when she looked like the sexiest courtesan in Paris, I had to say to myself that I had every sympathy with Jack. But she was not getting penetration that swiftly.

I leant in to kiss and then suck her nipples, allowing the girl-cock just a little bit of penetration, but as she tried to press herself onto it, I pulled back. I felt pulled forward, the minx had grabbed it and, gripping my backside, tried to impale herself.

“Mama, I need it. Oh, I need a good hard fuck Mama, take your girl, taken me hard!”

It would have taken either a saint, or a woman determined to teach her girl a lesson to resist; I resisted, and I am no saint.

“Oh Mama, Mama Pixie, please!”

“Give me those fingers, precious!”

Smiling, she did just as she was told. She tasted tangy and slightly sharp. I looked into her eyes the whole time I sucked, before pulling away and commenting:

“You taste so delicious my pet.”

“Can I please have my fucking now Mama?”

I looked at her and smiled, adjusting my position as I did so, and then, of a sudden, I pushed right in. She gripped me, grabbing my bottom, and pressing me deep into her.

Rolling my hips and thrusting, I could hear her wetness yield to my girl-cock.

Using my knees, and stabilising myself on her hips, I began to plunder her pussy, pressing in, adjusting my angle, and driving in deep.

Our nipples pressed against each other, we kissed. Jutting into her as we kissed, I felt her melt, Her hands gripped my bottom tightly and we moved rhythmically together, with her breaking the kiss to moan loudly that she loved me.

“I love you too, darling Beccy. Do you need to touch?”

“No, no Mama, fuck me hard, ram against me, I can feel it there!”

The angle must have been just right to stimulate her, and as I pulled back and rammed in hard, she came, long, deep, and hard – rather like me inside her. As I felt her body spasm and her hands gripped me, I knew that amidst the gathering gloom there was one incandescent bright spark.

As it transpired, it was much needed.

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