Preface

Martha Bell was the name, cute her game; or so it was said by those that accompanied her early years. Others had alternative words and different notions. Some spat with envy or jealousy; others sighed desire or hissed loathing. But every lad noticed her. And every girl hankered for that je ne sais quoi she bore so naturally.

Martha was cute, of that there could be no debate. Coy? That would have reasoned intent. A tease? Never. Precocious? Only in the sense she liked the attention. Sexually promiscuous? Martha kept her skirts long and her legs together. Sensual? Plainly, yes. Provocative? In a sexy way, definitely.

Strangely, many girls liked her too. They didn’t see what the boys drooled over. They were oblivious in those days to what screwed a boy’s spotty, sweaty, lumbering post pubescence. They were ignorant of how those bits in his pants tortured his psyche, confused his expectations, and played havoc with the direct path to juvenile simplicity. For boys were as girls, torn between games and ‘games’. Urges both thrilled and disgusted. Thoughts wandered impolitely through a tangled forest of innocence. Delirious fancies danced provocative, enticing, beckoning at the hot, and sometimes too close to the perimeters of passion. They neither understood nor could be proved guilty of their sins. But sin they did.

The corps of ever glum, dowdy, corpulent and aggressive wolves hung there in the wings ever ready to pounce. Young, middle aged and even elderly succumbed to her sweet fragrance and her casual innocence, she never seemingly conscious of her allure.

So that was life, her life where Martha played it straight, where she bewitched all, where she flaunted her natural charisma in a manner that no male could ignore. In fact as she closed on her eighteenth, and thought about the world before war, it wasn’t only the chaps that hung on her allure.

And through that minefield of early life, Martha bowed to desires beyond that in biology books. How her mind conjured weird and rather wonderful sensations. How it ignited the chimera of dreams, dastardly devils playing dreadful acts with half clothed and naked bodies. Vile merchants from over the water, marching through that façade of innocence, firing her groin, lancing her crotch; luring intimate fingers there to play.

Sudden visualisations appertaining to implements and susceptible bottoms did little to assuage her suspicions. Other’s bottoms feeling the vicious cut of weapon held a fascination for Martha too. She began to realise that life’s passage might involve a bit more than the missionary position. She also understood that other monsters still lurked in the catacombs of her libido, that she could only guess at. But there in those nightly excursions of the mind, they hovered, suggested, begged recognition.

Martha managed eighteen with neither mark nor exposure, or boy’s hand in her knickers, or excessively squeezed bra. She ventured forth blissfully uncertain of her true persuasion. She had dodged and avoided the consequences of her natural sexuality. So many hands had worked the sweating hard length of shaft, thinking on her. Fingers dipped moist slit with her on their minds. So much slimy ooze had wet bedding and palms alike, soothing that which they didn’t really comprehend, easing the pressure, lightening the balls. So many hearts ached, their loins in turmoil. So what did Martha Bell possess? Witchcraft? The body of a siren? The looks of a Hollywood actress? No. Back in those days of imminent war, the rank and file of life were too poor to concern themselves with enhancements and body gripping attire. The likes of Martha donned a cheap cotton summer dress, ankle socks and boots. She tied her hair in a tail, and left her hazel eyed, high-cheek, lean looks scrubbed, and unadorned by tacky mischief.

Martha was liked by all, the bright bushy tailed teenager always happy to help, always willing to work, always there with her voluptuous tail stretching the very fabric of anything she wore. Magnetic, her butt was simply entrancing, naturally moulded to the most seductive shape and poise. They fascinated with a plump consistency that neither squealed fat nor large. Those oh so feminine cheeks, danced and thrilled a town all on their own.