Armistice Day


I wanted to share this post again that I wrote back in 2009 for Armistice Day known now as Veteran’s Day in the United States.

On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 1918 World War I came to an end with an armistice involving nearly all the warring parties. For Mrs. Jensen she felt the deadly chill thawing when she began to hope she’d see her husband again. For two long years she’d lived in dread of the Western Union boy. Refusing to read the papers or the periodicals, she’d even walked out of the cinema to avoid the patriotic newsreels.

Three weeks later, a letter from the Army, her husband had been discharged and would be home in two weeks. For her sanity, Mrs. Jenson did nothing different, not even mark the calendar. She honestly couldn’t remember the feel of his arms around her or even the deep penetration when they made love. The other things, those she recalled with clarity.

The chuff-chuff of the special troop train gradually quieted only to be replaced by loud cheers and the local brass band playing triumphant airs. The orderly crowd quickly broke into a frenzy of yells, tears and ecstatic families finally reunited. Craning her neck, Mrs. Jenson thought she saw her husband, but waited patiently away from the maddened crush. Then, he was holding her, his lips trembling as she wept happy tears of relief.

After dinner, a repast he likened to the finest ambrosia, he took her hand and led her to their bedroom. He poured out two years of horror, despair and brutality on her acquiescent body. She found, to her surprise, responding enthusiastically to his advances. Even trying things she’d refused to do before the war as being unladylike. There was one thing she needed however.

Before they slept from passion temporarily satiated, she retrieved his leather strop, hanging where he had left it and oiled regularly by Mrs. Jenson in his absence. She removed her nightgown, another first, and eagerly bent over the bolsters. Rising once more, her husband took her again as she moaned wantonly. There was no armistice in the Jenson household. The strop rose and fell harshly on her bottom, steadily turning two years of neglect into a flaming red rear.

When he finished, she was so aroused. Needing another go, she dropped to her knees. Only on her wedding night had she allowed him to put his male part in her mouth, but Mrs. Jenson was so hot, so aflame with lust, she had to succor him: taste her essence and draw him close, draining all his nightmares while awake. When he plunged back in, close to spending, she begged for him to use her mouth when he was ready. The cold they both had lived for two years was now hot as the viscous fluid pouring down her throat.

4 Comments

  1. LS, such a life affirming way to celebrate this special day.
    Nice one, the strop is a really good touch, very ouchie.
    Warm hugs,
    Paul.

    Like

    • The *strop* sounds so old-fashioned when men were men and women were happy. Mostly.

      LS

      Like

  2. Ouch! Hot and ouch.

    Like


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